Grand Jury Original Indictment
Counts one thru sixty-one:
Violations of Title 21 United States Code Sections 846 848 (a) (b) and (c).
Violations of Title 18 United States Code Sections 1962 (d) 2 3 and 111.
Violations of District of Columbia Code Sections
2401 3202 502 2901 501 and 502.
The court continued on and on and on and on like
Arab-generated slavery in the Sudan currently continues.
It would have been shorter to read into the record
the solution to a fractal mathematics equation.
If there was a crime they weren't charged with it was only because
the prosecutor got writer's block.
Michael Jefferson you were born with better chances than I had.
Funny? Is it truly that important to have a conscious Dad?
Judge Harris and Judge Sporkin looked on you with disdain
they look at me not knowing we are one - the same.
I read the indictment when it came in chambers:
"It was the primary goal of the conspiracy that [in order] to obtain
as much money [and contraband] as possible [by acquiring] cocaine
and cocaine base which they distributed in D.C. Maryland
and elsewhere[.]"
Where else didn't really matter unless you were a rival
"Felony-murder" "murder of a suspected police informant"
From 1988 to 1994 Michael you were raw untouchable.
While Jordan was coonin' making Reinsdorf rich
you were using twelve-year olds to maneuver packages.
"racketeering" "operating a continuing criminal enterprise"
"murder" "murder" "kidnapping" "assault with intent to kill while armed"
I could not look our family in the eye.
Joy - your sister wasn't anymore - and part of her never will be again.
Grandma cries at night when she thinks nobody is listening.
At the sentencing I though the judge wanted cinnamon breakfast cereal
because he kept saying "life" "life" "life"
then he said "life plus sixty-five years" and you lost your appetite for life.
Sorta presumptuous for a judge to think he after imprisoning your body
could sentence your soul to sixty-five years as if he were God.
Guess the Last Poets were correct about the white man's God complex.
One of your boys started shedding tears yelling that
he didn't shoot nobody in the back of the head at point blank range.
Strange -- because on the street he accepted the accolades.
I ain't mad at ‘cha Tupac wanted to be you but didn't live long enough.
You never wanted to be Larry Hoover but look where you've ended up.
The incident wasn't like Mutulu Shakur or Kimba Smith
but then again maybe it was politics
because now you're a criminal justice statistic.
Paul Butler argues about you for jury nullification
and you would nullify the jury
for a lifestyle that would afford you a butler.
Sometimes I sit around with policy makers law manipulators statute
creators rainmakers and powerplayers in Washington but not of D.C.
They honestly believe that they are different from you.
That they could never do what you do.
Under scrutiny their belief decomposes like the concaine powder you sold
in a white junky's nose.
I do not know what justice is - but I know what it ain't.
When I have a son and he is old enough to read
I am going to let him read this poem.
You will still be in jail or dead like the Black people you murdered.
The third-world country will still be shipping to a European supplier
who will be shipping to a another supplier who supplied the supplier
to your crew.
The money you made made you and now your life is spent.
It's the rule of illicit economics
theorem on manipulating and disemboweling you from every red cent.
Too bad you couldn't transform your criminal empire like the Kennedys
and become President.
Bankers brokers barristers
policymakers politicians prosecutors and policemen
will still be the ones that get new homes indirectly from your profit
directly at your expense.
I still won't know what justice is - but I'll know what it ain't.
And I hope my son never gets -- a Grand Jury Original Indictment.
By Kemit Mawakana (aka The Seven-Foot Poet)
Peace (when appropriate) War (when necessary)
Copyright 1998.
Kemit Mawakana (aka "The Seven-Foot Poet") is a highly acclaimed spoken-word artist, and has published two books A . . . Z . . . Infinity and Crucifixion of My Soul. The collective body of his works presented weekly in BAR are in tribute to Listervelt Middleton, Dr. John Henrik Clarke, and "For The People". Currently, he is a facilitator at AYA Educational Institute (www.ayaed.com) and can be reached at sevenfootpoet@gmail.com.
Far from being an enemy, Russia assisted the U.S. and its coalition in their fight against the Taliban.
Ann Garrison responds to a critic of neocolonial nature “conservation” in Africa, and discusses US-backed threats to national sovereignty and all forms of life in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
If independent media want to be a real counterweight to establishment media, they must challenge the status quo in its entirety.
Much of the nation may be repudiating white supremacy, but not Montgomery County, Maryland, which is paving over sacred Black ground in an attempt to bury its own racist history.
Who tolt us ‘bout an unknown 19th of June— who the TikTok teens cast as buffoon? Who? Who say Douglass alive and doin’ good work— who turn the War House into a grifter perk? Who?
