person Asante Keron Hamid, three poems

Asante Keron Hamid is a poet, writer, and music enthusiast born and raised in Brooklyn, NY.


No Life.

No life
in a tight-lipped studio
apartment. No life
in a soul crooning for
excitement. No sunshine
where the moon is the alpha
of the two, and the mood of
the city is the blue that you
give into.

                                                                There’s no room here.

                                  There’s no love allowed.

                                                                I’m too East Coast.

                                  I’m too proud to be warm.

No life
where the nothing come to dine. Crabs
in a bucket bloody each other
for inches. Inches that may never
see themselves grow into miles.
News crews won’t capture the glow
this side of town. Turn that frown
upside-down? We’re too brown.
We rarely quell
the turbulence of longing, extending
the short end of the stick
into a pole. Now choose your weapon.

                  We still choose the gun.

                                    We’re yet to love ourselves.

                                                    We’re mirrors in unlit bathrooms.

We’re men of color in cells.



Is it the holy ghost

or a plot hole in the
story of a Bible-thumping
slave forced to shout
the wicked names of his

Did you hear that?

Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps it’s
just the post-trauma peeking
up from below. Perhaps we
went from churning out soul
to turning aloud the pages

of what they whipped us with
to get us over here on boats.



How does rain sound in the fire? A round of
applause, bouncing about from ear-to-ear.
Machine gun firing a round into the brown-
tinted ash of a body

down —

Is that the new sound of rainfall?


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