that’s when eye looked closely at the sizzling oil,

  eye thought of people being shoveled into

  garbage disposals chewing up everything there

  TRUMP’S RESPONSE ON HEARING THE NEWS OF COVID-19

  when he first received the news

  trump hesitated, then said

  “why don’t we just let this wash

  all over the country,” then

  see what happens after that

  TRUMP IS AMERICA’S WATERLOO

  the reason America got

  Trump as president

  is because they wanted

  a white man there

  in that office, no matter what,

  how stupid, corrupt he was,

  they yearned for a mirror

  pale reflection of themselves

  after the 8 year reign

  of a brilliant black president,

  Barack Hussein Obama,

  so many white folks needed

  to see a two watt on a dimmer

  switch—someone uniformed,

  without a hint of what

  the country actually was—as they

  were, most people in the world

  knew they were clueless—

  in a multicultural world

  all around their self-imposed

  isolation, an act of selfish

  hubris and racism here,

  coming due as eye write

  this poem with no solution

  TRUMP’S LEGACY TO BLACK AMERICANS

  first of all he lied about how rich he was,

  lied about his fake teeth, fake hair,

  lied about how great a job he was doing

  lied about almost everything, yet many people

  refused to believe he was lying when he was

  lying on camera in front of their eyes,

  in the recording booth of their ears

  and videos of their camera eyes, yet many

  still believed him, no matter what proof

  truth was told them, shown them, that

  he is a cockwomble—a Scottish noun meaning

  a “male, prone to making outrageously stupid

  statements and/or inappropriate behavior

  while generally having a very high opinion

  of their own wisdom and importance”

  with being a fact then the question is why

  did so many fall so completely for the con job

  he was selling, when all proof ruled against

  believing his duplicitous fabrications?—

  plus this fake man is totally insecure?

  was it because millions of white folks wanted

  a white man—no matter how avarice, corrupt—

  to replace Barack Obama in the White House—

  a Black man—as President in this yet to be united

  states of America? is it because he was a mack man

  pimping racism so deep here white folks could

  settle—and they did—for incompetence,

  stupidity over the history of a smart Black

  man—and woman—who did the job with elan,

  creative elegance, fairness without scandal?

  what do Black people have to do to prove

  their beauty, worth, contributions to this nation?

  THERE IS ALWAYS SOME THING

  there is always some thing we need to know now,

  some thing beyond fear of anything, even death,

  something human, perhaps, a gesture, like love

  extended to a homeless dog swarming with vermin,

  a homeless shadow of a man lying there now

  mirroring someone’s former self,

  lying there now in a pile of garbage, in front of you,

  dead to the world with hunger for what they used to be,

  back when a fading photograph they carry tucked away

  in a wallet, in a torn pants pocket, fraying, around edges,

  was proof then reflecting brighter, better days ahead

  opposed to this moment this man faces now

  a sneering Doberman Pincer flashing fangs at the end

  of a lease, taunting in hands of contemptuous policemen,

  armed to the teeth, eyes cold with official arrogance,

  reminding of modern day Hitlerian storm troopers

  so what is it some Americans refuse to believe

  when they see, boot stomping red-capped fascists

  spreading like wild-fires sweeping across the nation

  their faces lit up with generational hatred,

  marching, chanting, their voices distorted carry,

  like coiled cobra snakes, reciting verses

  from the King James Bible, denying climate change

  spit out venous streams of poison, hissing

  “Jews will not replace us, Jews will not replace us.”

  THIS ONE IS FOR THE BLACK MAMBA

  for Kobe Bryant—1978 to 2020

  1.

  quiet as it’s kept, Kobe, you were a once in a lifetime shake

  & bake round ball phenom way back in high school,

  you could do anything with a basketball in your hands,

  so fierce you were, driven to the point where many loved,

  hated you in almost equal measure, but that was small stuff,

  none of it fazed you, Kobe, because you never cared what others

  thought of you, you already knew who you were, and

  where you were going, like the lyrics in U2’s song, “Lights of Home,”

  when Bono sings “Hey, now, do you know my name . . . Hey, now

  do you know where I’m going? . . . I can see the lights

  in front of me,” and you saw “the lights in front of” you, Kobe,

  and you knew exactly where you were going and how and

  what you had to do each & every moment of your life to get there,

  when you planted your spirit, feet firmly down on the court,

  so focused you were on being the very best out there, Kobe

  nothing else mattered but playing the game hard to win,

  to do whatever possible to outshine all others who stood there

  in front of you, was your hold card, your go-to position

  from jump, to take no prisoners, so intense, relentlessly fierce

  Kobe, you were totally locked in, even way back then, when

  you were in high school, you bit all opponents in their jugular veins,

  flicked off all foes like they were bothersome flies or mosquitos,

  gnats buzzing around in your space, annoying you—even

  spectators could tell this by the exasperated, concentrated

  death stare screwed into your intensely, focused face

  whenever anyone got close—so you beat them down, you know,

  like stomping worrisome roaches trying to escape

  your size thirteen basketball tennis shoes encasing your feet

  and you left their corpses mangled there on the floor

  2.

  but now in order to go forward with this poem

  eye have to turn back the clock, Kobe, spin

  the clock’s hands back towards Italy, when you were different

  though a curious kind of cat, a curious innocent young boy

  growing into yourself, before you became

  the deadly basketball hitman, an assassin-in-waiting,

  intensity deep down inside your ruthless self,

  then the baby tree limbs sprouted up in height—

  living with your father, Joe “Jellybean” Bryant,

  a 6 feet 9 inch basketball star himself, balling overseas

  for AMG Sebastiani, the Italian pro team based in Rieti,

  Italy—reached out, stretching to feel the sun and rain

  nourishing your baby limbs suddenly grown into branches

  sprouting into your new, deadly self, now you begin

  to know yourself better—no toady now—Kobe,

  you learn to speak Italian, obsessed with the game—

  European style—study it like a mad scientist watching

  your father and others—six years later, in 1990, when

  you were 12 years old, started playing for a youth team,

  also in Reggio Emilia, then in 1991, when you were 13,

  your father moved back to the United States

  to Lower Marion, Pennsylvania, the place of your birth—

  a suburb outside of Philadelphia, where soon—rapidly—

  you grew into your insanely competitive self

  your dominating game in high school escalated when

  you started incorporating things you picked up from pros

  like the wizard, Earl “The Pearl” Monroe, a friend of your father’s,

  who taught you a few basketball tricks—sleight of hand moves,

  slick fakes, wicked crossover dribbles, innovative,

  cold-blooded jazz solo licks, quick, black cunning Philadelphia

  playground moves, deceptive trick-nology, infused with deep,

  slick, breathtaking wah-wah Jimi Hendrix guitar blues

  flourishes you began loading all this up into your hoodoo,

  Houdini mack, and rap, hip hop linguistic game phrasing

  your evolving, magical switcheroo, shape-shifting spin

  around screen and pick blow past game, then you stole

  some old changes laid down from the “Big O”—Oscar Robertson’s

  deft pump and fake, then shoot off the dribble with a quick

  Jerry West release, then slide off another screen and drain a jump shot,

  you took Elgin Baylor’s footwork and uploaded it into your Dr. J-like arsenal

  though you couldn’t quite lock down Michael Jordan’s fade away

  jumper that caused many round ball players deep blues back in the day—

  though that too would come your way after you mastered it later

  over time, with a whole lot of practice—you soon became

  a bigger version of Allen Iverson’s wicked stop, then go,

  hesitation moves, with all “The Answer’s” slick deceptions, you

  locked that too into your game, leading Lower Marion to a 1996

  Pennsylvania State championship and became a high school

  All-American superstar, averaging 30.8 points per game

  3.

  from jump street you had this deep need to play against

  the best who happened to land there in front of you,

  because you always saw yourself apart from the rest, always the best

  that’s just how you were wired, who you were, totally deadly, so

  you turned down Duke, Kobe, after they offered a full ride,

  because you saw them as less than what your ambition needed,

  so instead, supremely confident as you were—bad ass, cocky even—

  you took your game with its god-given otherworldly talent

  to the pros, where you became the youngest ever

  to compete up there against those bad-ass “big boys”

  in that elite group of ego-driven ballers, Kobe, like you, but

  some toadies too—though not as gifted, cocky as you

  4.

  your single-minded, steely desire to conquer whoever was there

  in front of you with a basketball in their hands, was a challenge

  for you, caused you to fiercely catapult your body quickly up in the air

  as if it were a rocket lifting off into space, to zoom up, throw down

  thunderous, rim shaking slamming dunks, body twisting, mind-blowing

   layups with either hand, now you score almost at will, drop, draining

  30 foot rainbowing or clotheslining game-winning jump shots,

  defenders waving hands futilely in your face, hanging on your arms,

  you stare them all down, killing them with your lethal game, Kobe,

  earning you the nickname “Black Mamba,” because your scoring binges

  were so deadly, on the spot, so true to your attitude, character,

  the way you played the game out there on the court you were there

  to destroy anyone you played against, to kill all comers,

  you were, your gangly limbs, legs gyrating, long arms waving

  ever-which-away—a gigantic black widow spider about to attack

  a helpless prey in its web, futilely trying to find a way to escape

  your furious fight to the death onslaught, because as soon

  as they came out there on the court they were your mortal enemies,

  Kobe, so you quickly turned into a lethal, venous mamba snake,

  attacked all comers as if there were never a tomorrow,

  housed the same character as the venomous bite of that legendary

  Black African serpent, so you sneered at those you defeated,

  laughed in their faces, savaged their spirits, ripped their hearts

  from their chests, left gaping bleeding holes in their confidence,

  Kobe, that was not enough for you because then you stepped back,

  figuratively threw their beating hearts down on the floor,

  then stomped them as you kept on steppin,’ thrusting your middle finger

  like a dagger up into the air as if you were stabbing that enemy to death

  the invisible one you always kept deep in your mind

  5.

  then, in 1996 the Charlotte Hornets drafted you straight

  from Lower Marion High with the 13th pick and traded you

  to the Los Angeles Lakers for Vlade Divac—a huge mistake for Charlotte,

  one of the biggest in pro basketball history but a great gift for the Lakers—

  now, out in LA, you find yourself living in the fast lane

  in the “City of Lights,” find yourself with all the “tinsel town” denizens,

  Hollywood movie stars, and you fast becoming the brightest bona fide

  superstar in that glittering city of fast cars and even faster lives

  you take the young Black pop singing star, Brandy, to your 1998 prom,

  then in August, 1999, you meet Vanessa Laine, a knock down beautiful,

  17-year-old Mexican-American model, dancer and cheerleader—you are

  21 years old now and a rising megastar in the NBA—and Vanessa

  knocks you completely off your feet—and you marry her in April 2001,

  causing an earthquake split between you and your parents, which grows

  wider & wider into a chasm over the years—but your basketball career

  and exploits only explode as your skills grow into championships

  and the rest, as they say, will go down in basketball history

  though there are rough patches along the way, like in your

  first game, coming off the bench you didn’t score one point after

  taking one single shot in the six minutes they gave you, but

  in your second season, in 1998, things turn around when

  you are selected to play in the NBA All-Star game, where you score

  17 points, then Shaquille O’ Neal joins you and together, in 2000

  you win your first of three straight NBA championships, but in 2003

  in Vail, Colorado, recuperating from knee surgery, a young

  white woman accuses you of rape, which you deny, and in fall 2004

  the civil suit is dropped, in 2005 you settle with your accuser

  out of court, around this time, you begin calling yourself

  “the Black Mamba” after the assassin in the movie “Kill Bill”

  Kobe, you always lived your life dangerously close to the edge,

  always took chances in the way you played the game of life,

  the way you played the game of basketball was no different, because

  in both you were always in the attack mode—even in practice

  with teammates, you never took your foot off the gas pedal,

  you hit them with elbows because you were always about winning,

  you once called yourself “a little psychopath . . . a scary type”

  because you were always about dominating, just like “MJ”

  in all you will win five rings, two without “Big Shaq”

  who was traded to the Miami Heat in 2004, now you are crowned

  “The King of LA,” with your last title being in 2010 with a rematch

  seven-game win over your archrival Boston Celtics, you collect

  your second straight finals MVP award, cementing your legend

  as one of the very best to ever play the game of basketball,

  but that wasn’t the end because in 2012 you would lead Team

  USA to the gold medal—your second—with a win over Spain

  6.

  Kobe, you Xeroxed your game after Michael Jordan

  your childhood idol, though you evolved your own warrior game

  as an assassin, created your own brutal, take-no-prisoner style,

  because in your mind you were no copycat

  like Miles Davis in the end wasn’t Dizzy Gillespie, though

  the “Prince of Darkness” borrowed some of Dizzy’s licks,

  altered a few solos played by the slanted-up trumpet king

  wearing a tam on his head, cocked ace deuce,

  hailing from South Carolina—Miles was from East Saint Louis,

  Illinois, when he played hard bebop uptown Harlem

  with “Bird” jammin’ at Minton’s on 118th Street, like Miles, you

  quickly became your own spirit force pursuing perfection, you

  won five NBA championship rings, (but fell short of the sixth

  won by your mentor, “Air Jordan,” whose game and attitude you

  Xeroxed as if it were the poem you read every night before you

  went to sleep), you won a scoring title, appeared in your 18th straight

  All-Star game, scored 81 points in a single game, second only to Wilt’s

  100 point game—he was also from Philadelphia—and eye will always

  remember that photo image of you, snapped by Andrew D. Bernstein—

  flying, both legs and feet tucked up under the purple, white and gold

  Laker uniform, your arms straight out, both hands cupping the ball,

  in front of your coiled body, head turned to the right, eyes on the rim,

  mouth open, before you tomahawk a slam-dunk that must have

  shaken the rim, left the packed crowd screaming at The Great Western

  Forum in awe, now that move reminds me of your friend Michael