– a poem by Mr. R Preston Clark
Turned on the TV
only to see a parade of black women
that looked nothing like the ones I knew.
They wore their starvation on their sleeves
salivating at the thought of 15 minutes of fame
they tore their roots out of the ground
placed them on the graves of their great-grandmothers
to turn centuries of dignity into 30-minute rendezvous of shame.
Reality shows, ironic indeed
the only reality shown is the insecurities of talent-less hacks
taking advantage of an audience willing to engage them in
their public destruction of a foundation built by women
with last names like
Truth, Bethune, Parks, Tubman, King
Tyson, Rashad, Ross, Kitt, Dandridge & Dee.
The fowl scent of trees dyed in greed engulfs their nostrils
breathing out the only remaining pieces of their history
inner thighs used as a means to rise up business models
their sex proving to be the true Bank of America.
Sleeping with routing numbers
tell her she needs to sit down
with her legs crossed
across from a collage of the young women you’ve influenced
misconstruing their precious gift within their hips
as the location of life
turns into scenes of lives torn to pieces ‘on location’.
Sleeping your way to fame is not a vocation
it is an embarrassment of riches
disrespectful to the women who spent their time
developing crafts that could be respected by the masses.
That ringing sound you hear is not the growth of your back account
but the laughter of those of us in your audience that will not give you ratings
we will follow Twitter and Facebook statuses
accidentally learning the details of your faulty existences
all the while questioning
why in God’s name do we know who you are in the first place…