Um and it's a photo from his collection to disappear away, which is the photo.

Syriza takes a close look at the effects of gentrification on poor black and brown neighborhoods.

I have three poems for you guys and that kind of about that too.

The 1st 1 is called Ah, place maker.

A missionary, a conqueror.

Forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.

Forgive them, father, for they know not what they do.

The place maker in the missionary have tea in my kitchen.

They sit this tea from my cups from my cupboards in my kitchen.

In my house I am in the kitchen, but I am not at the table.

They speak, but not with me.

The place maker in the missionary discussed creation and creators God and places room to deny the existence of both, I suppose room to build one or the other if you think the world void of it.

The place maker in the missionary discuss but God in the building, the whites in the carpets, her the good and the intentions, needless to say, and they think themselves good and intense.

The Conqueror was disinvited to t the place maker and the missionaries say See, we're progressive but conqueror was this invited?

We are not like the conqueror we do not take without asking.

Sure, we give we give without asking what is needed.

But we have read all about you in your house, in your kitchen, in your cups and your cupboards in your tea and know just what you need.

There is no knock at the door.

The conqueror lets himself in, comes to tea anyway takes long sips between words takes They all use the same cologne in the same aftershave, the same toothbrush.

So what was scraped from the place maker and the missionaries teeth in the morning is still kicked under the tongue Conquer both boats and denies bad breath.

And so they talk about breath and breathing.

And whether or not I need those things in my neighborhood and what may benefit me more, they built it in the center of my lung.

For what reason?

What?

I need to breathe deeply.

No, What I need is a thorn in my side to remind me of how much space I am taking up in any given moment.

They all remind me that the process is necessary all in the same voice at the same time.

In my house, in my kitchen, me in my place is room to deny the existence of both.

I suppose room to break one down.

If it be in the way of you revitalizing the other, the place maker says, Wouldn't you like to have a place to stand and listen?

We'll build it here.

The conqueror or the missionary says, wouldn't I liketo have a place to kneel and pray will build it here The conqueror between the long sips he takes and takes you say you ain't got no kitchen no more.

So that was the 1st 1 thank you, Thank you.

So while that one addressed issues around losing or space physical space being taken this next one the dress is more abstract.

Ideas related to identity being borrowed, so to speak.

You are the brown boy for killing and for kissing the brown girl for spreading and making small.

You want Mammy's titty for your babies, but our babies can't play with your babies and you want I shape of the holy our beauty supply and switched When we walk our stories I heard you want I angry but you don't want us angry You want us make you a plate Once high should do your hair like hers when I Fleek laid and jungle boogie on while sleeping without a shiver of limbs or lingering fear of everything that wants you sacrificial Once you bled out all over Star Spangled Banner, could you survive this kind of summer, let alone make it to cracks in your lips?

Winter Is the skin on your back thick enough?

Could you handle birthing the casket along with the baby?

Give them a name that memorializes They're dead cousin's.

How do you reconcile taking our all and throwing the carcass off black toe wayside?

Even our skins folded between handkerchief and kept a souvenir the borrowed you keep in your left breast pocket.

Um, I just have one more One more poll for you guys.

And while the 1st 2 focused more on things stolen, things taken.

This one is very much about all the things that cannot be taken from us.

How are you for my people, for baby girls in beaded braids and bird chested pop.

Really baby boys, who we sing in by their pinkies and the bones and falling asleep in service and sticking their tongues to the gaps.

And 19 but Kool Aid Red mounds and Hot Cheeto fingers and places to go, and new words to learn and best friends to make it so they ain't got no time for dying.

This be for the sometimes when they do just that to for my people, for the fan waving, always hot on sees always holler and aunties who make heart you soft from where these one from friend who'll be praying and praying and asking and hoping and hoping to big boy cousins.

Protecting cousins always outside up to no good wish and *** would cousins who make leave money in the mail box or a cereal box or a shoebox or box spring for their mothers to find for groceries, for rents, for bail, for my people, for my dreamy eyes, dreaming their dreams and making their R and moving in and moving out and being broke and hungry but ready and restless for the tired eyes too young to be this tired eyes and FedEx hubs and Nike factories who still be dreaming, but only when they sleep for the blush.

Black in the bruise, black in the high yellow, black and the black There's too ashamed to say it's black and the black, unashamed and loud All my People is loud and hush mouthed and ah, hum in a choir of bug mouths and immortal and impossibly angry and a stretch skin bursting black jubilee, an earthbound and sky pone and sharp darkness and brilliant light and baby girls in beating brains and bird chested, potbellied baby boys who deserved and deserve and to serve for my people.

My skin folk breathe better here, Sleep better at night, better in waking as we move towards this new world where the sun shines black.

Thank you.