Po' Poets Project/Poetas POBRES Proyecto

Po' Poets Project

Jovenes, Adultos, Ancianos, luchando para sobrevivir y prosperar apesar de la opression racista y economica, usando nuestras voces, nuestra poesia, nuestros cuentos, nuestra arte para crear cambio localmente y atravez del mundo.

Youth, Adults, Elders struggling to stay alive and thrive through race and class oppression using our voices, our poetry, our stories, our art, to create change for poor folks locally and globally.

Pectoral Politricks/Notes from the Inside

Mr. Charles Chatman is a Plantation Prison Correspondent for POOR Magazine/Prensa POBRE. 

Editor's Note: As currently and formerly incarcerated poor and indigenous peoples in struggle and resistance with all plantation systems in Amerikkka, POOR Magazine stands in solidarity with all folks on the other side of the razor wire plantation.  For more information about Mr. Chatman’s organizations, please write to him at


P.O. Box 4490

Lancaster, CA 93539



Lady P


One Woman’s Hell… a gentrifier's lament

wrinkles and cellulite
rats and roaches
a boring Saturday night

Whole Fools—White Foods?

One Wednesday

I was walking home from a 

Rehearsal with Vukani, at First Congo—

Or was it Capt. Crossman’s for John Brown’s Truth

the new mission

being in the mission is becoming

like a benetton ad or like living

in disneyland—no longer a place

of everyday people knowing the

the hardness of daily life and yet

creating joy and beauty

out of a myriad of struggles


instead of theater, poetry, dance, music and art

expressing the aliveness of many cultures

indoor miniature golf and outdoor bowling

are the new cultural wave and bars with

twelve dollar cocktails are ongoing frat parties

August 144 hours (Hail the 50th Anniversary of The Heroic L.A. Uprising!)


“I’m gonna loot ‘til the midnight hour
That’s when the gates come tumblin’ down
I’m gonna loot ‘til the midnight hour
When there’s no guardsmen around…”

I kicked off that martial law, off-the-dome
version of ‘Wicked’ Pickett’s dance floor-
filler and Son-Hawk, Ches-Schu, Ron Shaw,
‘Pookie,’ Jimmy and Jerome came in, Right
On Time, as though we’d rehearsed it, all of
our lives…

Our greeting to hoarse engines, huge tires,
of giant army green trucks bristling with
rifles, loaded with blue eyes and itchy trigger
fingers. Rumbling east, it headed down79th Street,

compassion or cocktails

walking down valencia, i see

a woman in a wheelchair

we share hellos and i give

her a buck as i wonder

what her story is—she was

just evicted from her home

or maybe her lover beats her

imagining her hunger and

pain i feel compassion for her

and know i’m the lucky one

because i have a dollar to spare


as i leave to walk on, two young

women well dressed and coifed

pass by—and they too must have

a story—maybe one of them has

Mississippi stuntmen



April 28, 2015

Numeral: 400

As in 400

Parts per million

Carbon dioxide
We release
Into the atmosphere,
Among other gases.
Warning signs in the sky
We still ignore.
We can't take
The heat
Rising below the clouds.


April 28, 2015


It occurs everyday in this natural food holler:
Something looks suspicious, somewhat askew.
Doesn't look like a Yuppie, probably don't have a dollar.
Any Black man, any poor brother will do.

Like a solid shadow, the watchdog follows his steps
Through neat, crowded aisles of health:
Past free-range chicken, organic kale, turn left
Tailing a brother, walking by himself.



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