A mic for the brown

What if there was a mic for the brown?
Would it have saved the life of Mike brown?
Could this mic chord lead to 5.1 global Dolby surround sound & project
loud enough to drown out preconceived notions? A sponge soaking up
oceans of prejudice squeezed out as sober sentiments, moments of
remembrance tempered with hopeful projections into a harmonious future in
place of a space to reminisce cuz the good old days didn’t ever exist.
Would it allow the voiceless a chance to coordinate a chorus of chords to
bounce off the anti-social edifice?
A glass house filled with high-powered military grade slingshots held by fully-grown
Dennis the menaces
with barely a window left in it,
sure to be shattered by the shrill cries of mothers shuddering into a Shure
brand electrified sound stick sending ripples of tear jerking tones of fathers
and sisters and brothers missing their friends, cousins, fathers, big and little
An extendable arm on this mic stand
Volume equalizer reaching equally higher and lower from the equator
Along All latitudes browns loudened
All longitudinal degrees from the prime meridian reached by this mic
designated for those identified as obsidian. Onyx, black.
Supersonic stereo signals sent to satellites in the blackest sky.
From this Brown mic like brown skin somehow named black by a
constructed concept named race.
Not black as a black bean closer to coffee or cocoa bean or even mocha
Milk chocolate to dark bars made by mars
no matter how dark the bark still not black but brown, chocolate brown
still somehow not the sound projected through the mic of the reigning
champion sound system.
Still the word black is heard.
Which is why we need a
mike for the browns.
So the next Darren Wilson or
George Zimmerman driving around town can have their fear of a black
attack drowned out by a simple leave me alone.
I’m scared too.
I’m unarmed.
This is a toy gun.
I’m reaching for my wallet.
My hands are up don’t shoot.
I’m tired of this.
Please leave me alone.
Why are you touching me?
What did I do, Officer?
I didn’t do anything wrong.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I’m only 24, I’m only 17, I’m only 12.
I’m wholly human.

I’m not wholly my hue man.
Hold your fire you’re about to put holes in a human.
Who can say this brown mic would ever be able to project the inner
monologues and mental meanderings of marginalized men of melanin
above a well of fear swelling in from the sight of someone conditioned to
feel some slight sense of un-right in the un-white.
Not lily or bright as a light’s glow or even white as the snow in
Just as white as is convenient to a colonists sense of conquest as served by
color based concepts.
Whitewashed down white Zinfandel by the white wife of a white collar who
watches Wall Street, his conglomerate considered a white knight crossing
companies off of a white list. While White Russians and white lightning
lushes are lumped in as the sole proprietors of white supremacy.
Will the white noise keep drowning out the brown sound for fear of
indigestion when disproportionate portions are put into question.

What worth would this mic for the brown serve if the response garnered is I
can’t breathe from Eric garner and after his last words are uttered the
commissioner of the gang that killed him says, “well if you can talk you can
Read: if you’re talking too much we’ll squeeze…


Mars Jupiter’s latest release is “MMM (MissouriMiseryMystery),” available on Bandcamp.