Crownless Queens

I count 68 people in this waiting room, not including the impatient toddlers and fussing babies. 98% are women; 95% are under 30; 90% are black women. 100% are Queens, each one of them disempowered and crownless.

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Frustrated, angry, over-sexed, lost queens. Few are smiling, most with deepened worry lines too old for their young perspectives and fresh faces. Literature is sparse. One reading the Bible, lost in the verses of Job. A few reading trashy magazines that flaunt deep-skinned beauties smiling slutty in shallow, blinged-out frocks. The majority pass the time hypnotized by their cell phones, with Facebook-addicted thumbs they escape the destitute of reality to get quick fixes of quasi-celebrity status among their 'friends'. 

Fertile hair, hips, thighs, fuck-me heels, sweatpant-wearing queens. Too young babes toting two young babies.  Infants either perfect princesses adorned with vibrantly colored plastic braided locks, or a testament of tragic serftitude with dingy clothes, dirty-sticky butts, and defeated lines creasing their highly fructosed smiles, as greasy Happy Mealed fingers play with broken pieces of uneducated toys. 

Hoop earrings, too-tight T-shirts, my-ass-and-hips-are-beautiful jeans wearing queens. Cheap stylish trends hide the reality of the wealth inside. Bodily adornments, meant-to-be-sexy tattoos begging for love and attention from those few eligible unemployed kings in the room. Lacy bras supporting over-mothered breasts. I'm-still-hot, midnight make-up, wrong colored hair with unnatural textures, pitching lust and longing for a respect-me-for-me domesticated life.

Proud shoulders, mouths pursed, lips puckered, flinging naughty words of expectation and entitlement towards a system that fed them, raised them, and failed them since birth queens. Begging for a few dollars from richly corrupt systems to fuel their lives with a lifeline and help them see a better way.  Simple paths on fast, I'll-probably- never-see- college tracks. Lied to, laid-hands-on, lousy fathered, loose lipped fast queens...

I want to scream! 'Where are your crowns?!" Why don't you wear your crowns?!

Can't you see them? They are not in magazines, or in the crotch of a man. You will not find your crowns in the colors that you paint your body, face, or nails with. You will not find your crowns in the consumption of genetically, politically, and nihilistically altered food, books, and men.  Your crowns are not in the acceptance of a system, or its acceptance of you. 

Are you even looking?! Set your sights to your heart, to your baby's spirited gaze, your mother's hopeful dreams. There you will find your crown. One jewel at a time you will build your kingdom. Make it yours! Every sultry angle and beautiful tone. You are the universal force. Walk with proud, empowered, I am worthy, swishing hips and an I-rule-the-world gaze. Because you do. 

You've each been crowned Divine Queens yet you allow yourselves to live as flies on dung. Where are the strong women at? The ones who made it? The self-assured, R-E-S-P-E-C-T sisters?  (Aretha, I'm talking to you.) The I came from the ghetto and made a buck but hide in the burbs women? The Audi driving, silver spooned, doctor marrying, freshly manicured, picture perfect babies, racing for a cure women ? The college educated, I know wrong from right, bury my redemption in fake spiritual paths women? 

My sweet mothers Divine, I wish I had a hand for each of you beauties to take...

   I would lift you to your throne and show you how to rule the world.

A Timely Friend - Detroit, Michigan

On his corner he wears see-through clothes, thousand-mile shoes and a sun-stained hat. What’s got ya so down dere, missus? Life ain’t all dat bad. He scoffs at my ineffective smile. You wanna share my last smoke? My heavy mood exhales the stale tobacco. A foul scent, heavy with feces and whiskey overwhelms my system. I stand anxious for the cab to come.

On his block he mumbles that he lives a life of gratitude, and I a life of indignation. I’s thankful fer e’ry minute cuz out here its da truth dat any minute could be yer last. I fumble to pull a donation from my wallet. I’s don’t want nutin from you, missus. But it looks like you’s could do wit a lesson from me. His sunken black cheeks and rotten gums chatter their story. I look at my watch.

On his street he walks a half-forgotten path, on an avenue where only wild things grow and once mansions battle their inevitable descent to the earth. You think you’s seen things, missus? I’s got more miles in these toes then you’s got strands in yer hair. I lean against the wall.  I knows what yer after. You’s after peace. Well, you’s lookin in da wrong place, missus. I’s can tell you dat fer a fact!  His cracked ashy skin peeks through torn jeans. I can see that his underwear are soiled.

In his neighborhood he lives things other people choose to forget. Dat house over dere was burned down by a battered woman, wit ‘er chil’n and husban in it. A crooked arthritic finger points to an overgrown lot of emptiness. And o’er dere’s where da young mothers get paid for dere sweetness on da regular. You wudn’t neva do dat, wud ya, missus? His hot butter teeth click to form a half-sleazy smile. I sit on the curb.

In his city he knows the truth of difference, the reality of faith and the anguish of exploitation. Dis city is just like a woman. It wants ta be loved Right. His calloused fist beats his exposed chest. Love er right and she’ll blow ya til ya moan. Love er wrong and she’ll beat ya ta yer knees. His hurled rock misses a pregnant dog. I’s can tell you’s a good woman. You’s brought a good man ta ‘is knees, ain’t ya missus? I shrug with a twinkle in my smile.  I just noticed he’s missing two fingers.

In his place his soul knows of a greatness beyond and the shallows of now. An alcoholic prophet with a nicotine fetish, slurring his prophecies at anyone with an ear to listen.  How ‘bout a smile, missus? Ain’t yer next breath worth a smile? His Holy eyes guide his royal stride on a street unseen by the masses. I smile. Ohh wee! He hits his scarred thigh. Look at dat light! I’s never forget dat light. I close the door of the cab. You’s gonna find yer peace, missus. Jus keep on smilin’. A godly promise in his wink. Hey cabby, you gotta smoke? He huffs something about Armageddon starting on Mt. Elliott and Gratiot as he strikes a match. I nestle into the smelly back seat and drive away. Smiling.