Trials and Tribulations of a Fried Bologna Sandwich

By Dee Brown

Trials and Tribulations of a Fried Bologna Sandwich: These compilations of poetry mirror the images and outlines urban portraits in voice. Each piece echoes an experience,
occurrence, development, story, or triumph that rises from concrete gardens, throughout urban America. Trials and Tribulations of a Fried Bologna Sandwich illustrates spectrums of the black community that spells the good, the bad, and the ugly.presented in the complete beauty of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 24, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462822263

Dee Brown

Dorris Alexander “Dee” Brown (1908–2002) was a celebrated author of both fiction and nonfiction, whose classic study Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is widely credited with exposing the systematic destruction of American Indian tribes to a world audience. Brown was born in Louisiana and grew up in Arkansas. He worked as a reporter and a printer before enrolling at Arkansas State Teachers College, where he met his future wife, Sally Stroud. He later earned two degrees in library science, and worked as a librarian while beginning his career as a writer. He went on to research and write more than thirty books, often centered on frontier history or overlooked moments of the Civil War. Brown continued writing until his death in 2002.      

Book preview

Trials and Tribulations

of a Fried Bologna

Sandwich

A selection of poems written by:

dee brown

Copyright © 2003 by dee brown.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

let the ignorance tell it!

am i

tomorrow

the piano cries

bitch please!

this black city

time

the revolution will not be e-mailed

anticipations of half moons

choices

like that

quick ends

ebony male

one poem

pusher man

ain’t about no violence

loved when we’re ignorant . . . .

hated when we’re militant

miss hattie may

oh, my people

straight talk

our faith

once upon a rhyme

phat finances

footprints

land of first impressions

sandman

a grandma’s love

papa’s apology

fabulously you

you & i

words

urban scarecrow

in regards to my hood

bussed

miracles

arises

a corner’s song

lullaby my child

eyes up

shut the fuck up

concrete garden

fried fish & bread

a hello would be nice

thoughts

first eighties rap

flat-top vs. the jerry curl

first glance

who’s company

death & dishonorable conduct

new one

black like me

tickled pink

the block

scarred

i write, therefore word is

contradictory

tainted souls

chocolate covered snowflakes

boy

little black lies

a soldier’s prayer

naive gratefulness

am i (the remix)

my father

to my peopl

First and foremost, I’d like to thank God, whom without I

wouldn’t be able to do what I do. To my family, my mother

Carol Brown, my father Thurman Brown, my second mother,

Jeannie Marshall, and Marian. To my grandparents, all my

aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brothers and sister, cousins . . .

one love. To my peoples, my partner in crime/dogg/brother

Demetri Myers, R.T. Neal, Marcus McCall, Geoff Marshall,

Charlie Whitehead, Matt Herron, Garrett, D.J. Chill Neal,

Katrina, Kaprece, Migdalia, Tim Bryant, Tim Ward,

[ Mark, Eric, Gregg] Ebun, Brooke, Doralyn, Tameka.

(Maya Angelou and Saul Williams) . . .

Thank You.

The plight of our struggle remains unmatched

in the face of unforeseen promises

let the ignorance tell it!

my two african-american brothers,

walking side by side.

what’s up my nigger?,

rolled from one’s tongue,

full of assurance and pride.

NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER!

it’s marketable so they sell it.

a calling card for negroes of today.

let the ignorance tell it!

ignore the whips and chains,

tall, dark, and handsome hanging off a tree.

ignore the years of pain,

water hoses and dogs for black faces like me.

be—cause—i—love my niggers,

considered being hard so they yell it.

if that’s where we are from 439 years,

then let the ignorance tell it!

all white racists grin ear to ear,

for a race that fails to realize.

one word, causes us to wear the robes,

because niggers are we, in their eyes.

let the ignorance tell it,

the degrading of our own kind,

let the ignorance tell it,

expressing the practice of weaker minds.

trading intelligent dialect for,

where my real niggers at?

it was the real brothers and sisters as slaves,

that bared tree-shaped whelps on their back.

where the hell do you come off?

do you stop just to consider?

how is it that i’m to be black and proud,

and at the same time be your nigger?

referring to ourselves from their original term,

like ignorant dumb ass fools!

yet in other surroundings in the public eye,

speaking like little angels in Sunday school.

NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER, NIGGER!

mere black slang that sees’ no rest.

but let the word roll from a white’s tongue,

ya’ll ready to have a black protest.

just merely a term of endearment.

but only if they say it,

and refer it only to us.

definitely a term of hatred.

but only if they say it,

and refer it only to us.

a logical sense of explanations?

let the ignorance tell it.

am i

sometimes i dwell within the being of self,

crossed over back and forth between what can be touched

and a figment of one’s imagination.

the eyes of a blank stare attempting to pierce through

a brick wall in direct conflict with the mind attempting

to view an ocean of possibilities that far surpasses

the limitations of not witnessing a vast ocean

because . . . . my sight is blocked by bricks.

does my eyes deceive my inexperience,

the naïve acceptance of my proposed being coming to a halt,

the naïve acceptance of shattered dreams crashing into a brick wall.

does my mind complement expectations of a sea of dreams,

sea of dreams interwoven into currents of promise?

with each day lies the infinite query of self versus your propaganda,

with each day lies the infinite query of existence versus your

propaganda,

with each day lies the infinite query of my soul versus your

propaganda,

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i that outcast, that member of the opposition that overcame

and now

overlooked by members of the larger part . . . . the glass ceiling

could use a little

windex due to the smudging left from many black hands . . . .

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i that sturdy buffalo soldier that is loved for my physical attributes,

run brother run, jump brother jump, knock it out the park, shoot

the rock,

run the rock . . . . they say that i’m a shining star with a ball in my

hands?

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i that burly intimidating specimen causing you to lock your

doors,

clutch your purses, gasping for air alone on a dark street at first glance.

they say that i’m a menace to society with a gun in my hands?

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i . . . .

am i that righteous brother that considers another brother not too

heavy

to lift with the ability to triumph any obstacle because here i stand,

overcoming