i.
i’m an orb of lead. it begins. where the alleyway ends.
through an off-guard lens. it begins. watching lovers kill their friends. watching friends slay the meat on which their livelihood depends. i’m an orb of lead. it begins. i’m an orb of lead that could never make amends. lethal pulse of mainstream rap video trends. armor plated dance floor bends. it begins.
my next verb begins. seconds suspends.
i’m an orb of lead that sleeps in a clip and seeks warmth from a place
where no hope portends.
in the beginning, wuz the verb.
the verb superb, leaving my blasted-out spine
dripping victims on the kerb.
ii.
faded gray new balance, thought it was the shit.
the moon speaks to us of knowing
if the sun could go legit.
gleaming noose of gold, forty karats that won’t quit.
the rivers are now begging
for the ocean’s leftover spit.
turned around kangol, new school gangsta wit.
the meadow tells us nothing
that a praying mantis would admit.
benzee rims that twinkle, what a perfect fit.
the sky becomes an arena of stars
telling constellations where to sit.
brand new crib in the burbs, making neighbors flit.
the maple trees are silent
watching squirrels perform a skit.
when the hustler speaks of nature,
his charm clings to you
like a nit.
iii.
in this waste land of landed want,
in this dank pool of pooled misery,
in this mis-schooled abyss of abysmal venom,
in this increasingly landless land,
i am.
i am
the reverse of the name brand that can make baby universes expand.
i am
the very first grain of african sand
sweeter than forty lickings of sugar unplanned.
i am
the flicked-away miracle that takes butterflies by the hand
and pilots space stations grand.
i am
the overdose of weeds
choking white bred marble elegies
at custer’s last stand.
iv.
a.
“for what is love to us,
if not a flower blooming?
for what is love to all,
if not a pet worth grooming?”
nonesuch.
relevant, not much.
for lines like those my mid-class doze
gets disturbed by professor’s nosey nose.
“what’s that in your notebook writing?”
an x-ray gaze, with pupils nail biting.
“much better than hearing
the dead white guys you’re reciting!”
a most honest remark, detention-inviting.
laughter breaks out
like an onslaught of typhus
that only professor can catch.
the chalk outlines
of his academic corpse,
lagoons of blood spilled by my retort,
anemic lesson plan cut very short.
“just put up with it, be a good sport!”
is what professor uttered next, with nary a snort.
