Here We Go Again
Earl Stewart, Jr.
The Lord be praised,
For here we go again.
Oh, how I dare to praise and glorify His name.
Yes, here we go again.
Trying desperately, defensively to escape
The horror that shadows bring.
To motion the clouds away . . . to live and not die . . .
To thrive . . . to stay.
For just one more day, but a moment
Among the handiwork of the Master.
The barrel stares at me—follows me as a walk quickly down my street.
How it does swallow me up in victory—gone too soon.
Yet I keep too busy serving my Jesus,
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Ain’t got time to sit down.
Ain’t got time to saunter in this world,
So I run.
Surely, it’s no fun,
But I don’t want none.
But how else can Moorish skins stay free
Of being tainted a reddish hue, lest I
Bow down before him,
And humble myself to be exalted?
For if I make just one step, one very bad step in any inadvertent direction,
Laughing out loud . . . my heart be halted.
Slowly moving as aging molasses being spread thickly upon my Mama’s cornbread,
My change gonna come. I believe that—the substance of things not seen.
“SMH . . .,” my sister texts me.
I dare not trust the sweetest flame.
How can one but lean on the Savior’s name,
As I dare to be seen for more in this world that just
My permanent overcoat.
My epidermis is but a tainted hue,
Yet the spirit that lies within, quite frankly, my brothers and sisters,
Looks just like you!
So, leave me alone.
Just let me be my Black self with a capital “B,” all by myself.
May I pose a quite rudimentary inquiry to you, dear friend in the Spirit,
“Why do you always want to shoot me?”
Not only with the bullet, but with your looks, your ill-defined history,
Your words like bullets?
Tell the truth. It’s time for all this bullshit of the sitting bull to end.
The excrement of war flows in a quite diarrheal manner, so I come in peace.
Grandmama gone home to be with the Lord, but, like she would say,
“If it ain’t one thing . . . it’s two.”
I simply take a stand in saying that I’ll be damned if I’m just going to stand and take it.
All I desire is not some ill begotten fame.
All I want is to be your friend.
If the shoe fits, then I loudly speak your name.
The blossoms in the cemeteries are tired of whispering to each other . . . “Here we go again.”