Urban Guerrillas

Brooklyn, NY, circa 1990

My inspiration for this poem were the many African- and Caribbean-American youth I observed/knew in Brooklyn, New York, who sold weed/ganga (now legal in many states) because they could not find work or did not want to work at minimum wage jobs.

Mercenaries in blue stalk your streets.

Your crude weapons: anger and arrogance.

Your tactics: nonexistent.

Your comrades—few and nameless.

Steely muscles flex with impatience for some action, somewhere to go,

Somewhere to be recognized.

Elders scold; while others call you, “thugs,” “animals,” “hoods,” and “savages.”

Some say you are lazy because you refuse to wash dishes, deliver messages, or slap burgers for

Minimum, marginal wages.

Better to risk the streets, you say. Risk jail. Be free. Be independent. Be a street entrepreneur.

Politicians and citizens hate you for “destroying” the community

With your drugs and don’t-give-a-shit attitude.

But, quiet as it’s kept, (and it’s kept very quiet),

Somewhere in the deepness of your hearts, you do care.

About your Mama, your best friend, your brothers and sisters,

Your girl, and your community.

You care about folks who care about you. If they don’t; you don’t.

So you go underground.

Into the blackness of your communities,

Where “they” can never see you. It’s a game of hide and seek.

No one can touch you. You are King of the Streets.

You know that to act like a king is to be a king, if only in your dreams.

Coldly you snipe at America’s pretensions, ambush its misbegotten wealth,

And instill fear into its hardened heart.

You probably won’t win, urban guerillas, but you are getting bolder.

Maybe someday soon, a Black Man will emerge from the night to teach and lead you.

Show you how to turn hot anger into action and pointless arrogance into pride.

 © 2021 wistajohnson.com (Reprint by permission only.)