A Poem for George Floyd

A poem I wrote about the murder of George Floyd, dedicated to my cousin Christopher who died during the COVID-19 lockdown in the US. The poem is inspired by Whitey’s on the Moon:

George Floyd died under a policemans’ boot

And whitey’s on the space station 

We got so angry our pain drove us to loot

And whitey’s on the space station 

We held raised hands and screamed “Please Don’t Shoot”

And whitey’s on the space station 

We realized it’s time to pull Racism out at its Roots

And whitey’s on the space station 

We hit the streets to heal our wounds

with clinched fists 

And whitey’s on the space station 

We knew in our hearts 

We must Resist 

And whitey’s on the space station 

Resist the Hate

To The Void

This is the first poem from a chapbook of poetry I put out years ago entitled Adaptations in Void:

To The Void

Fearless, speechless, know-nothing

Teenage cries for anthems,

Cigarettes, the quick fix,

Endless conversation.

TV vomit,

Youth magnet.

Teach, compel, bestow fallacy.

Atomic babies.

Plastered data,

E-mail eyes.

Indigenous types.

Smoke sours, voices cry.

Techno vacuum

Written By:

Michael Mercer 8, October, 1991

Meandering Thoughts. Money and Ego

Fighting Egos wrapped in Financial Success

while I fight to hold on to Integrity

and Broke.

Sometimes my Soul feels Empty

while Im surrounded by the best

people I find, and I Know, and

Love.

Many of them Struggle too,

and perhaps All of them,

but some struggles never seem to End,

Money

That's a Constant Struggle

in Our house.

and hearing Good Guys always finish Last

Never helps

and it's Not True.

Not All the time.

Some of us taste superficial Freedom,

that comes by way of money and job security,

long hours working,

partying.

(when you work for it you deserve it)

Then Life throws a mound of Shit Your way,

instead of stepping out of the way

you walk Right Into it.

Then, those motherfuckers who held onto financial,

superficial Success through Treachery and Deceit-

I look up to them for a second.

Then I realize, They're Not surrounded by the Best

people they know, that love Them.

That's Wealth.

Chasing Elliott Smith

Elliott Smith was morose

and Beautiful.

His voice,

sounds of a Generation

falling in Love,

finding despair,

trying to see the Beauty

in Everything

while Searching for Something,

Something Real.

Like getting Stabbed in the Fuckin'

Chest and hearing the police say you

killed yourself

when you merely Tried.

Tried to break apart the hurt

and scream melodies with

pain just as deep.

We're looking for our Souls

in thin computers and machinery

that's designed by us, but isn't

the Answer to why We're Here.

Embracing Every distraction,

yet we cry for more understanding

and sincere connections to other people.

Both have a price:

Do Too Much

and you may fall to pieces

Trust Too Much

and you may lose all your pieces

Wishing for a moment of Glory

during the biggest Fight in Life

But we are not Alone.

Sometimes that's all that can save me

from sinking

into Smith's Despair.