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It could have easily been me hanging strangely, limbs swaying from that tree. Silenced, reflecting the facial gestures of others, eyes clear like the sky…bright, magnifying an unseen hope in the night.
It could have easily been me deep in the trenches fighting to be free, covered in condiments with elbows rested on countertops not meant for me; filled with humility contemplating backlash. It could have been me.
American trees bear a strange fruit. They’ve got blood on this land and blood on the youth. Black bodies swinging in that western breeze, strange fruit still growing on all these damn trees.
"— me, 2004…I guess I used to be a poet. I still like remixing Black culture.
