(On the Occasion of Nipsey Hussle’s Murder)
The blood of Jesus that
saved souls in Southern California ghettos
was then poured into
soil outside the Slauson & Crenshaw
plaza, mixed in with the
remnants of what they left of us.
March 31st was never the same
in Los Angeles, where fire demolished
272 buildings in 1965, affirming a
Watts War Zone and its Black
burnt before the Lord—charcoal
sacrifices.
Where April 28th 1992 preached a
sermon on a sick six day assault
as LAPD beat beat beat Rodney King
to a Nigerian folk song and the
people used incense to let it
burn again.
We repeated rosaries for every
wound, bandage, grave
dug beneath Inglewood Cemetery,
where Sugar Ray Robinson attempted
heavyweight rest, and
Ella Fitzgerald’s whimper remained.
And now,
we prepare the embalming salve,
the tomb for us because
we will revolt once again
if we must
as we die in front of our own stores.
We will set Los Angeles afire if
they won’t name a building for us,
where we handed harmony on blue platters
declaring bullets ain’t got no name
bullets ain’t got no name,
no name no name bullets ain’t got
no name.
No loyalty No righteousness No home No amity
No name.
Accordingly, we all became one
from Watts to King to Jesus and Nipsey.
None of us have a name.
There has only always ever been
the blood
shed on Calvary or
Slauson & Crenshaw
and we
do this in remembrance of him.
