[Click to listen to a poem Malik has been working on]
Assata said, “I’m tired of bulletins. I want bullets.” Assata said, “Tears fallen and bodies dropped, blood shed. Fuck the high road. When they go low, instead, knee ’em in the face, sprawl lower. Take their back, wrap the neck, fuck a tap out, listen for the snap. Put your ballot in the barrel of the gun, overnight express, direct action shipping. Paint the city streets with the bodies of little piggies, spelling, ‘I can’t breathe’ and say, ‘Look, see, told you stop resisting. Didn’t listen, your body’s glistening, lilac over your velvet blues, families, confused, thinking, ‘why him?’ like they’re better than you. Well, better them than you.’ Let a piggy disrespect, and I’ll gladly shoot. Fascist ain’t bulletproof. To protect and serve ’em up, like fried bacon, crispy.” None for me, though, that swine’s haram. Burnt piggies only entice me when I light a message in a bottle and make ’em catch it like a hollow, burning through like zombie tips. Painting, blue pigs, orange and red, like the sweetest sunset, the best the man can get, close to what the Creator projects at dawn. Back to where I begun. Where it all came from. I’m tired of running from bullets and later posting bulletins, like Assata said, “I want — “