Forest Whitaker


And I tell you
Why I’m a black man from the south.

I see the eye of hate
What takes little rednecks with an amber beard
To bring me down, the sturdy ebony wood.
I don’t have a lazy eye, what science calls Amblyopia
Like Forrest Whittaker
But I have my charm for a big guy
With bigger shoes to fill.

I think of how excited Forest can
Be in seeing a girl, a Portuguese girl
Who has only one tongue, one presence
How her corolla lights up Forest.
I can read the Portuguese dictionary and not understand a word
And still know that one kiss
Is enough for a transposition of one feeling.

I cannot think of too many Forest Whitaker movies
But I am him. The man who is not blessed with good-looks
Or riches, or the panache of a martini glass
Just a little black olive
That will be bitten by one woman’s lips
For a true eternity.

And I will showcase my crab poetry
With my nib and write and write,
For my emancipation. The cotton pods
That will burst open like the cracks
In my heart, hemorrhaging my dirty black blood
And a man, who like Forest Whitaker
Never sold the skin deep and aged
An ore very few have.

How black ink still flows in punity;
Awaiting the fruits of my mutiny.

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