Makings of a Black Man

What is a Black man?
Is he the flavor in his color?
Is it the way he is both demanded and devoured;
how his blood, sweat and tears stimulate
the appetites of others’ successes; 
How his proximity to whiteness is applauded;
How he’s best enjoyed when he’s watered down and lightened up
Because what is a Black man
If he’s not just a metaphor for America’s favorite beverage:
Loved only when his mannerism are ground to dust; 
only when his voice and his being are filtered to match the way 
some enjoy their coffee: 
dark but not too Black;
Strong but not too bitter;
Not anything that makes him hard to swallow 
or difficult to fit into the cup-size vacuum 
that will hold all of their tokenized adoration
But what gives a Black man his flavor?
Is it the sweetness in his soul;
The brown sugar in his smile;
The molasses in the cadence of his voice.
Is it the way his walk resembles the sugar canes in a field;
How he always sways with their rhythm,
flaunting his soul’s ability to bend
that is juxtaposed by its unwillingness to break-
A duality that echoes the strength of his heart.
But what makes a Black man so strong?
is it his double consciousness;
Is it this veil through which he constantly becomes and unbecomes himself 
for the sake of survival,
Often at the expense 
of knowing who he really is 
until he writes poems in an attempt to decipher himself.
Because what is a Black man 
if he’s not confused;
If he doesn’t measure his worth by his accomplishments;
If he doesn’t work twice as hard to achieve them because 
he’s terrified to imagine his dreams deferred.
But what is a Black man;
If he doesn’t pretend to be not be afraid;
If his insecurities don’t convince him to disavow his emotions;
If he doesn’t cry anonymous tears in moonlight hours
and then try to rediscover his fragile masculinity 
under the bodies of the women that he will lay at the altar of his ego.
Because what is a Black man
 if he’s not worshipped for his sexuality;
If he can’t deliver that great package 
that he’s been so rumored to generously possess;
If he doesn’t pretend to not be interested in love-
That which he is ashamed to admit 
that he doesn’t even understand.
Because what is Black man if he isn’t afraid to open up;
If he can’t even talk to God because they haven’t spoken in so long;
If his agnosticism isn’t simply an intellectual disguise 
for his fear of confronting himself,
And facing the sins 
of his past, his present and his future.
But what is Black man 
if he doesn’t feel trapped in time?
If he’s not constantly trying to escape 
the ethereal weight of his Blackness-
This shadow that attempts to makes his life the object
Of every conceivable imagination other than his own;
All their fantasies and fears manifesting 
all the pain and pleasure of his existence-
That which, although mysterious, 
is never mythological;
And although misunderstood, is never meaningless
But ever maneuvering, 
Ever melanated,
and always, and forever
man.