Black Icarus

Many a black youth plunges like Icarus
from the realm of heavenly dreams,
kerplunk upon the pavement, spilling fluids, blood red.

Down, down they fall
when the gun fires
and the red hot missiles
break though their flesh

or kills a passer-byer.

But little changes once the mourning's done.
Perhaps revenge or instant flight!
Perhaps a pay-off or respite before the trial
or rituals for burying the dead!

Will the "suicides" never end?
Will the genocide ever end,
ever end, ever end
snatching seconds or thirds

for two minutes of the evening news,
the daily blues that files them away?

So many joys eludes us,
seeing ourselves, negative,

through dead, satan-eyes.