In 1979 or '80, Lynford French
played Moving Target as we cried,
"The revolution will not be televised."
Yesterday, Gil Scott Heron died.

The man talked and made you nod
along in agreement, for what he just
said had just been born, and could
never be taken away, by the most

willful act of forgetting, on the part
of my generation. How can I stop
complaining, when all my heart
sees barefaced wrong, parade up

our street as right, surrounded
by the city's might, while ordinary
folk struggle? This may come across
too raw for my clipped dictionary,

as I try to sound like him, with
the same race-wound, held open
to white light scrutiny, which
he held his whole life, for black men.

Yesterday, Gil Scott Heron died.

Called himself a blues maestro,
rejected "godfather of rap,"
as with all labels, he sent it back;
he could easily have sung calypso.

In which case we'd call him what
we liked, because it fitted best,
nothing to do with what he wanted,
for instance, Complainer, voices

things high society must address,
or face the music of poor choices;
his high-stakes chant of redress.

Yesterday, Gil Scott Heron died.