Ecce Homo


I’m pretty sure I’m psycho
The world’s a game like Tyco
Everybody playin
But we lackin sight tho’
All I do is stay still
Wait on the divine will
Patience is the right skill
Sight coming like the light bill
But maybe I’m just psycho
If I’m not, I might go
I ask the Lord for peace, but I’m down to fight tho’
I’m takin life in slow-mo
With my major Domo
Beholding all the beauty of the Son—
It’s Ecce Homo.

(Dwayne Polk)

Coffee is black


Black men enter, white people get fearful;
911 call – now more mothers get tearful.
Want me to be quiet? Hell naw, here’s an earful
Spillin’ thoughts over the top like I got my beer full.

Shout out my brothers and sisters, watchin the PoPo,
Predators roamin’ the streets like they hobo
Against people of color; it’s a war on the low-low
While the indifferent sip latte in Starbucks up in SoHo.

How many more brothers gotta give up they rights
Just to make sure that they live till the end of the night?
How many more sisters should we allow you to kill?
Maybe if we put the heat to you, that’ll allow you to chill?

Naw. But tensions continue to rise,
Anger is seethin’, we so damn tired of the lies;
I know the system, not the victims, is the thing I despise,
But sometimes the vision gets blurry from the tears in my eyes.

(Dwayne Polk)

Plato’s Cave


Straight from the straight-jacket, it’s the Clown Prince,
Fool for the Holy, making the whole town wince;
Betta know, baby, I am God’s Joker,
Watch ya facial expression, like it’s a game of poker.

I bring the laughter along with the mayhem,
Distribute theories of games and let you play them;
Escaped from Plato’s Cave and became super-sane,
But considered a waste of education, a super-lame.

But my smile is unchangeable, like divine nature,
Beautiful works of destruction, sublime glaciers;
Ridin with the Spirit, like I ride with Harley,
So death is absent its sting, no Fields of Barley.

I see the World as it is in its nothingness,
As I laugh that so-called Civilization be trustin this;
Call me mad, I see the Matrix like a CAT scan,
Why so serious? If you scared, call the Batman.

(Dwayne Polk)

Trap theology


I am not into mythology,
My interest is trap theology,
Educate with some frivolity,
In the struggle for equality.

And I keep walkin’ the walk, clear as a
Bell when I talk, even when they balk,
I cannot stop while they stalk,
Shoot first, they dont wanna talk;
They line ‘em in chalk.

Nihilism prone, Hopeless in the zone,
Dealin’ from the phone, just to feed the home;
Here and then they gone, Mama all alone,
Homies pour Patron with an inner groan.

God sees the pain and he wants
People that’re called by his name
To stand in the gap of the trap and proclaim
That there is Son in the midst of the rain.

(Dwayne Polk)

Skeet shoot


Emperor Trump’s treating the nation like a bully,
Wolf in sheep’s clothing, but the outfit ain’t too woolly, no more.
Yeah, his stark nakedness is a shame,
But American white supremacy just lets him play the game.
Meanwhile, coppers pull on a black man and aim like a skeet shoot,
For the melanin, they swoop like pelicans, that’s how they treat you.
Rough you up, engulf you up, cuff you up, and then seat you.
Later, you try to get justice, and they use the Law to defeat you?
That’ll make a sane people crazy, instant pathology,
And then you’ll have a real Clash of the Titans, instant mythology.
We will only take a foot on the neck for so long;
We wanna do right, but don’t push us, cuz things might go so wrong.
When you chose the Infamous Leader, you showed your true colors;
So don’t come to us actin like we all sisters and brothers;
Yeah, we love you, but it happens at a distance,
Because of persistent ignorance at your insistence.

(Dwayne Polk)

We ain’t playin’ that


“Godforsakenness” is fiction like Puff the Magic Dragon,
and we slayin’ that —
Mental games from theodicy frames,
and we aint playin’ that —
God dudn’t forsake his children;
Quote us cuz we sayin’ that —
Lord, open our eyes and mesmerize — we prayin’ that.

(Dwayne Polk)

Just another nigga


My skin is black, got melanin of cocoa,
Preservin’ my consciousness in the Land of the Loco;
Smarter than the average, but my life doesn’t matter,
Scared cop, mistaken identity, and my blood will still splatter –

Cuz of a fear of a black planet and a hoodie that I rock,
Just another nigga dead, yeah, there may be some shock;
And some of my friends would defend the officer in the face of my death,
Yet they smilin’ in my face now while I’m still drawin’ breath.

But that’s OK. I forgive ya. It is what it is.
But if I die, could you at least make it better for my kids?
Don’t let them fear for their lives cuz of their original beauty,
I’ll charge you from the grave, do your original duty!

Mourn for me or don’t, just think about the future;
Stitch together this wound in justice like a suture;
Give me my flowers while I yet live and fight the Power.
Don’t just stand with me when it’s come my final hour.

(Dwayne Polk)

My main squeeze


I can’t lie, the Holy Spirit is my Main Squeeze,
I run after Her, like I’m late when the train leaves,
Breath colder than an Arctic breeze, I got a brain freeze
Spirit has no gender, when I say “Her” just don’t complain, please. (Please…)

Comfort, unbelievable. Passion, inconceivable,
She gives Herself and I’m the office of Accounts Receivable.
She is ever perceivable, when looking though the Mind’s Eye
Seeing Divine Hiddeness for what it is, like the Divine’s shy…

But I give myself to Her and She throw it right back to me
Her Love got me addicted, like its sugar or its crack to me
Tweakin – and I’m seeking, forever peaking
Freakin, I never weaken, forever leaking…

…Living Waters of the Living One from the One
All Glory to the Father, Spirit and unto the Son,
Intimacy unparalleled, Perichoretic Carousel,
The Spirit is the Weight of Glory, I just hope to bear Her well.

(Dwayne Polk)

Cowper’s “Truth”

400b243d3301f6278b47302bf954df6cI love the poetry of William Cowper (d. 1800). He struggled with doubt, dealt with bouts of depression, and was even institutionalized (in the pictured asylum of St. Alban’s). His poetry is honest, insightful, and full of desire and longing for God. But he can be confrontational and prophetic as well. I’ve shared his poem about his mother. Here I’d like to share portions of his poem “Truth,” a lengthy but wonderful meditation that I come back to now and then. Portions memorized years ago remain clear in my mind today. Here are the opening and closing stanzas. Enjoy!

Man, on the dubious waves of error toss’d,
His ship half founder’d, and his compass lost,
Sees, far as human optics may command,
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land;
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies;
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies!
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams;
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.
Hard lot of man—to toil for the reward
Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard?—
He that would win the race must guide his horse
Obedient to the customs of the course;
Else, though unequall’d to the goal he flies,
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.
Grace leads the right way: if you choose the wrong,
Take it and perish; but restrain your tongue;
Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,
Your willful suicide on God’s decree.


Hark! Universal nature shook and groan’d,
‘Twas the last trumpet—see the Judge enthroned:
Rouse all your courage at your utmost need,
Now summon every virtue, stand and plead.
What! Silent? Is your boasting heard no more?
That self-renouncing wisdom, learn’d before,
Had shed immortal glories on your brow,
That all your virtues cannot purchase now.
All joy to the believer! He can speak—
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.
Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,
And cut up all my follies by the root,
I never trusted in an arm but thine,
Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine:
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child;
Howe’er perform’d, it was their brightest part,
That they proceeded from a grateful heart:
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,
Forgive their evil and accept their good:
I cast them at thy feet—my only plea
Is what it was, dependence upon thee:
While struggling in the vale of tears below,
That never fail’d, nor shall it fail me now.

Angelic gratulations rend the skies,
Pride fall unpitied, never more to rise,
Humility is crown’d, and Faith receives the prize.

To my right and to my left


I’m walkin’ in the parking lot and I got my hood up.
Feelin’ like a lottery winner, got that good luck;
Smiling as I stroll, a King in the Pride Lands,
But then I catch some side-eye contact in a wide glance.
The lady looked at me, then she locked all her doors;
Nervous smile, passing me with fear comin’ out her pores.
Maybe it’s the good, maybe it’s the melanin,
Passing me, still rubber-neckin’ like a pelican.
Stuff like that use to tend to enrage me,
But now they have my pity, afraid to engage me,
Trapped by unchecked notions they proceed to preconceive,
Unaware of the lies they proceed to believe.
So I bless the poor woman under my breath
And people who may be like her, to my right and my left.
Why? Because I see Jesus in their faces,
Seeing God in each puts all things in their places.

(Dwayne Polk)