Pirates of Dark Water

I am a wordsmith.
With a pen filled with Black ink,
I navigate the Black Waters of
thought against the current of images of an old Black woman on her project rooftop,
Watching her town drown in Black Water, as Air Force One flies overhead en route,
to discussions about, drilling holes in Arabic sand for Black Water;
The profits from which pay off Blackwater for shooting holes in Arabic Man.
I fight back with a cylinder of plastic filled with Black Water,
For you see, I am a wordsmith.
But I've seen warrior children practice activism by throwing Black rocks at tanks,
Taking shots and bleeding Black Water on the streets where they say Jesus walked on top
of Black Water saying, "Peace, be still."
No justice, no peace still,
So instead of busting blue steel, we still dip Black felt tips into Black Water and write
" We shall overcome" on oak tags and throw-up bombs and dope tags
born in the belly of aerosol cans and pressurized Black Water.
Beneath the waves of the Atlantic where the green water turns blue then turns Black,
Lies the bones of Africans chained together by fate, and by chains –
Who threw themselves into the forgiving arms of Black Water, rather than die like dogs.
I, am a lowly wordsmith, but I offer dire warning:
90% of every Human body is made up of water,
70% of all those bodies are people of color,
And two-thirds of this planet is made of deep…dark…angry…Black, water.