This is not a universal poem about dandelions.
It's not about two college kids plucking dandelions
right by a faculty parking lot, under a sunny,
first Saturday afternoon in May.
It's not about a pink girl and a brown boy
braiding these yellow weeds together to
make a pair of crowns.
This is not a universal poem.
It's not about the openly-gay Shakespeare professor
reminding them of the '60s before
smiling off in his Saturn.
These words don't resonate throughout the Milky Way.
This poem is not about a hippie and a hip-hopper
having the freedom to unbuckle their politics
under the gray moon.
This poem is not for everyone.
Not about still wearing a loose necklace of dandelions
after walking her home and tightly hugging good bye
innocently before sunset.
This poem is not about her.
It's not about returning to your dorm room
and being surprise by the mark of the beast
left outside your door.
So stop trying to consume this poem.
Give it up. Stop.
In this new millennium,
it's not at all about you.
This poem is about me taping dandelions
outside my door
to underline:
BLACK NIG--R