Prison Radio
Mumia Abu-Jamal

I am one of those revolutionary poets. Hmm. Wield similes as shields, conceal steel in mixed metaphors. I am so fly. The consummate that will consonant whore, I love the pounds and praise when I use sounds like raised to pray for raised truth, open doors of closed minds. Poetry I find fits sweet in the paradigm of the conscious performer. I a young sage on a stage to say to wage war love the nucleus until POW! Fountains of bloodstained sidewalks while mind walks floods of memory time warps the psyches of daughters and sisters and widows and mothers and fathers who have outlived their sons and sons who will never know where their old man was coming from because another man was like PLOW! With his gun, your life’s undone. PLOW! Penetrating flesh, bullets blessed by serve and protect slogan. I react lyrical Shogun unsheathe polysyllabic sword I be Lord of the fly and I the fly, fly words to the sky with precision passion, the poet imprisoned by his own cries and his own why, why and by and by light of poetic prism grows fainter and fainter sound drowned like sand under full blue moon midnight high tides and symphonies. And PLOW! Striking down man on urban tracks course, I react with the fly form, take the fly photo, drive solo to the spot, give a finger to the cop, make the fly songs, do the fly dances, with the fly jawns until flat footed trying for deep strike Diablo dead in NYC streets and my ass is in here. Freein’ Mumia to the beat, and just freein’ Mumia to the beat. I be trapped like spirits of selves who left middle passage hell and held breath until death was upon them. Like their souls I am in between once clean conscious now tainted blood, red the blood of dead men murdered by police commission to preserve the peace whose peace requires the elimination of men like me. Freein’ Mumia to the beat of despair driven culture songs I with the gift to manipulate words move the crowd up lift right wrongs sound giving voice to pencil painted thoughts but see me now wrought, ragged like wing clipped Texan bird dragging through the dirt and nickels of NO! And hurt coming through yet my Muse bid me speak words but my eyes telling me release blurs of blue steel. BLOW! Another brother down his mother’s anguished cries the soundtrack now as I write right on right on, I pray somebody’s listening see me spoken word preening freeing Mumia to the beat. I am committed to the struggle but am I dedicated to winning it? I the fly so fly I sometimes get by with winging it diagnose poetic schizophrenic lyrics or clips Pat got to use gifts. PLOW! Another brother down his mother’s anguish cries a soundtrack that was right right on right on I pray somebody’s listening. I’m stuck I need wisdom should I shut up and succumb to the system? Do I hop off the fence? Do my words make sense? Would my slugs make more? I am so fly the consummate that will consonant whore. I love the pounds and praise when I use sounds like raise like amazing grace emerging from graveyards where brothers on fast track finally get to rest a bit of poet black and bid him speak Freein’ Mumia to the beat and I wonder if that brother has enough to eat and Diablo dead on NYC streets and I got metaphors and similes in my poetry piece. What I really need is slugs in my poetry piece because I can write my ass off but I just cannot sleep because all I hear is gunshots. All I hear is gunshots, all I hear is gunshots, all I hear is gunshots, all I hear is gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots gunshots.