The Hidden Bruise of Forbidden Fruits

There was a poetitorial written a few months back that addressed the impassive glances of Dick Cheney and John Edwards when they overlooked the impact of AIDS on African-American women. And yet, while this inactive stance deserved to be called out, a few of the more astute AllHipHop patrons noticed another blatant discrepancy: the poem failed to place any accountability in the hands of the Black community.

There exists within the Black community, a vow of silence that aids and abets the AIDS threat with deafening volume. It is a silence of shame that has haunted our people through several generations. It’s hard to explain, but when it comes to imperfections within our families, it seems that the quicker and stronger reflex is to cover up and deny before we address and admit to them.

OUR sons can’t have AIDS because OUR sons can’t be gay. That’s why we’d rather traipse halfway around the world to address AIDS in the open terrains of Africa rather than confront it in our own backyard. Not to say that the epidemic in Africa is trivial, but how can we fix a problem in another country while our people are dying here – in our displaced, yet native land?

Much the way some true Africans will space themselves from their American counterparts, we’ve created a distance large enough to disassociate ourselves from this disease because of how it behaves and the blemish it places on whomever’s connected to it. If our women have AIDS, it’s because they’re either sleeping with men in lapsed or disregarded judgment or because the men have forced themselves deep into the closet for fear of being disowned. It’s a sickled cycle full of skeletons that we need to deal with – lest these ‘dead men walking’ turn our dying livelihood into a thriving necropolis.

“Undercover Brother Lovers”

Undercover brothers these days

Are ripping sons from mothers

with diseases like AIDS.

It’s no longer a theme plague for

gays, hypes, fiends and addicts.

Undercover brothers these days

Make suckers for love deeply afraid

As poisonous covers smother

comfort with H-IVy league status.

You know the adage

that catches ladies up:

On average, there’s a

famine for lady luck –

To safely pluck good men

to love is a number’s game.

Numb from the vain

attempts of layin’ up

With these lame exempts

from player’s clubs,

Their faith’s been slung

through the sewers of lovers’ lane.

These lovers lay in the

bane of awkward spaces

From lookin’ for love in

all the wrong places.

They’ve all but wasted

their grown-up intuition.

Glued to dudes with

something to hide

‘Til they come up with

bruises and HIVes…

They willingly brood with

wool over their eyes

to soak up suspicions.

With broken senses enhanced,

A provoked vixen begets

conviction for her man.

Though wincin’, she knows her stance –

her man is straight!

So though crooked as Nixon’s scams

And riddled with nicks and scabs,

She’ll piddle with this prick

and advance her damage rate.

Though B-littled A little by

his sexual deviance,

She’ll O-mit his sexual malfeasance.

She won’t test him even –

not with those ABs of steel!

Besides, it was only a compliment

When those lonely women accosted him…

Why admonish him if

young blood’s got whip appeal?!!

Hidden and concealed beneath

such fabric cloaks,

Undercover brothers

perform magic shows.

DL cats are a tragic joke –

forget Hughley and Eddie Griffin.

These dudes are deadly weapons

That are fooled by a deadly obsession…

As daily suppression’s

fueled hugely by petty traditions.

As forbidden fruity pebbles

make waves in the pond

And shoes get unsettled from

the grains they lodge,

Society aims at it hard to get it

beneath and beyond its insole’s keep.

That’s why these cats toss

red herrings and cover-ups

Like fat capitalist,

red-wearing Republicans

Making public runs and fronts

that stun like Mark Foley.

Incensed men with a bone to pick

Are the wrong victims to

get screwed over with.

If bent over in the pen –

what man admits to it openly?!!

Whether raped or the

acting cock provocateur,

They lack the prophylactics

to block the worm…

Talk to the wardens –

no condoms transmit like an open feed.

This transcends hopes and dreams –

if not stockin’ rubbers

means no sex is happenin’,

Then a lot of pregnant teens

have conceived immaculate.

That policy’s hardly accurate –

‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ don’t work.

Providing jimmies doesn’t

advocate sex in jail,

But denial’s a river that

saturates death in cells

That’s swept females into

vast swells below the earth.

What’s their soul worth if none

address this disastrous pandemic?

Why travel the whole earth

to dress Africa’s appendage?

We’ve got a Diaspora of women

dying in states of united medleys.

Why don’t our reverends preach

it to choirs and converts?

Why is there hesitance in

leaders of tireless concerts?…

Why’d they retire like codgers

releasin’ silence so deadly?!!

Why is it Reggie? – ‘cause we’re all

appalled and speechless

To find out OUR sons

juggle balls and peaches.

That’s the image we all speak in –

deacons and deviates alike.

Judgmental and homophobic,

We hush and fuss fickle over the notion…

With explosive emotions,

blinded bigots can’t see the light.

We concede to fright – once tempers flare

with night-vision gay-dar equipped,

The vision impaired turn blind eyes

to distance gays at arms length.

Bright as day, such ‘logic’ robs our sensibility.

Even those spiritually enlightened

Seem empirically frightened…

Chastisin’ gay specs with beams in their eyelids

that can’t be sensed visibly.

Don’t get tense with me –

you know our community.

We always bomb with scrutiny.

Like Islamic mobs of mutiny –

our resolve is dutifully rigid.

But when I see unlawful unities,

Though my remarks disregard its impunity,

I can’t launch darts immutably

dipped in lunacy’s liquid.

Hidden beneath such memorial quilts,

These ‘menstresses’ sneak with deplorable skill.

They share agendas in horrible guilds

of unscreened actors.

As unseen factors torridly build

From unclean match-ups of immoral guilt

Mashed up passion fruit spoils and spills

into jars of pristine stature.

I don’t mean to be

the bastard who generalizes,

But polarized views create static

on the wool of general eyelids –

Pulled to hide genital hybrids,

visual blindness is society’s solution.

So as the wool cover-up

becomes spools of fine yarn

That binds a dis-comforter

over the whole nine yards…

We can’t cry: ‘Not in my backyard!’

and jackoff ‘til our eyes

lose their prime usage.

© 2006 Reggie Legend

Steel Waters, Inc.

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