World Poetry Day

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart / I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars / I am the red man driven from the land, / I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek – / And finding only the same old stupid plan / Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak
‘Let America Be America Again’, Langston Hughes


There comes a time in all of our lives when we find ourselves in the midst of a great moral struggle, and that feeling is very evident this election season. Last week I released my own “literary protest” of sorts to the hatred and bigotry many people want us to believe makes America “great.” As promised, here are the words to the poem. Be sure to comment, share and subscribe. Happy World Poetry Day everyone! May our words inspire, inform, and heal.

Dear Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump. America loves you.

They love you like they revere the rotten parts of the confederacy,

relishing in your bigotry and the callous language

this country knows all too well.

Congratulations. On your thousands of followers,

and poll numbers ignorantly trumping the competition better

than your skyscrapers do the Manhattan skyline.

Oh, the beauty of being rich.


Dear Mr. Trump. When you promise to make America great AGAIN,

which America do you mean?

The one where interned Japanese are forced into camps?

The America where Blacks are hung, burned and dismembered

in front of cheering crowds?

The America where women’s opinions are silenced behind

Foolish land-owning stipulations?

The America where the stock market crashes into thousands

of empty stomachs lining barren city streets?

The America where women must suffer infection and disease because there is no place

to protect their bodies?

The America where protest has always and will always

be the strongest force of change?

The America where the disabled are mocked and degraded

in the public square?

The America where freedom of speech and the Second Amendment

are only defendable in the hands of a white male?

The America where Natives were annihilated

by petrified, vicious settlers we call heroes?

The America where white-washed narratives and pale blue-eyed beauty

spread the despicable poison of supremacy and colorism

throughout every corner of this planet?

What about the America where lynch mobs and segregation

was legal, commendable, encouraged?


Which America are you talking about Mr. Trump?


The America you’ve imagined, where yellow badged Muslims

are denied freedom, but white mobs at your rallies are just

speaking their minds?

The America that refuses to embrace teenagers traveling 2,000 miles

through utter hell to avoid being murdered in their own country?

The America where 78 pages of paperwork is not enough

to keep the Trojans of Syria from invading your peace of mind?

The America where self-righteous blue uniforms send blacks shaking

in their Jordans because this beautiful sun-kissed skin we cannot disavow

is just so daggone suspicious—to you?


Dear Mr. Trump, I realize that since you turned your tassel,

the world has been a million dollar uphill battle

you have learned to divide and conquer along the way,

and how dare a half African become more powerful—

in this great land of opportunity—than you.

I see your white privileged dilemma Mr. Trump.

Our colors after all are








Dear Mr. Trump. There’s nothing real about this purified estate

you’re building, tryna redevelop the White House

after that Negro stayed 8 years too long where he didn’t belong.

Say it ain’t so.

Life is not made up of winners and losers, Mr. Trump.

It’s made of battered war veterans and underpaid teachers

and pre-existing conditions and college grads with HUGE debt

and adult children caring for their elderly parents

and poor families quarantined to every east and south side of town

and grieving mothers hung over the donated caskets of their babies

and Ahmed trying to build a clock

and brown business owners gaining citizenship

and suburban families who no longer have to wait for the school bus

to let off the child they lost in the last mass shooting

yet we are the terrorists infecting your white-robed, cone-headed

fantasy, who refuse to fly under the safety of the right wing on your

private jet. Or have you never heard of these dukes before?


I know you believe the art of dealing is second in command

but you are no Son of God so why don’t you and Wallace

keep your popular legacy

and we’ll rescue our over-heated, crumbling Earth in need of saving.

you will not apprentice this country to poverty in 1 or 2 terms

1 or 2 spurs? left or right? too bad you were too deformed to wear our uniform.

you cannot serve 319 million when you are being served

by your second imported supermodel 58 ceilings above Main Street, USA,

bullying your way in musth through a GOP you flip-flopped into

like a fish out of water.

Better wear a bullet-proof behind your blood-thirsty PD Mr. Trump—

wouldn’t want to be Lincoln, Kennedy, Garfield, McKinley.

Fire. Even your boy Reagan knew we’d be a nation

gone under

if you were ever hired.


Thank you Mr. Trump. For reminding us in 2016

that America is no better than 1846,

than racists terrorizing black churches and taunting Latino workers

and white officers killing youth

and men sexualizing women’s character

and bombing the haystack to look for the needle

and delivering degrading speil to rioters

and angry mobs suckerpunching anyone who doesn’t look like them,

thank you Mr. Trump. For reminding us that America’s greatness

lies in raised hands shouting vows to bombastic speech,

that justice for all referred to everyone signing the Declaration

(which was one heck of a pale party),

that our allies slide further away each time voters circle Trump

on their ballots, knowing in their hearts he’s right.

It’s a shame we overestimated our intelligence,

don’t realize if we don’t love we’ll die.

God shed Your grace on us while selfishness stains us,

because a nation that’s a melting pot will always be boiling over.