When the Buddha became sick
He asked his disciples to make for him
a cushion within the bushes where he could simply lie down.
He had the luxury of waiting for death’s ride
–who knows the state of traffic death had to traverse that day.
2500 years later, the world is now seeded with bronze statues
of the reclining Buddha. Drowsy, but listening. At one with everything
that chooses not to move; sick pigeon, or depressed dog perhaps.
In Michaelangelo’s Creation of Adam, ya boy barely has the effort
to shake God’s hand, much less Get Up. I know he’s supposed to be
charged with spiritual electricity upon receiving God’s touch–
but lightning neglects to complete the circuit. Adam lays down useless
until the very last minute. This is the origin of privilege.
No one ever talks of black boy privilege, assuming he has none
missing even the privilege of walking to the store alone for candy…
History has denied the black boy reason to lie down,
unless he’s a victim. On the news, black boys don’t get to be victims,
They get to be statistics. That’s why black boys don’t watch the news.
What is the number of black boys reclining right now?
on the sidelines, on a lawn, on a beach or poolside
unbothered even by the voice of their momma’s who, unlike God,
would close the circuit between herself and her son with a belt,
no miracle. Just a backside enlightened and sore.
The reclining negro then, waits. Anticipates. Learns to breathe
meditate on his potential. Posing as a slab of marble poses,
he awaits to be enlightened by a nap. A mattress of flowers hold him,
their tiny hands patient with sugar and warm from the sun. The black boy waits
to be seen and converted into art. He awaits God to dap him up.
C’mon, God. Let’s go
The Dirty Rat 