you asked me once,
about place.
nothing more, nothing less.
this one or that one,
and why, and how?
the air: asthmatic, stifling,
some hoary hobo’s ashtray lungs but really
it was the whole city.
you decided to croon, to eradicate the smokechoke:
“poison inna babylon, yeah
dread day a gonna come
vampires a feel dem flames
king of kings h.i.m. get h.i.m. claim.”
sunday morning, rewind:
it was ackee fruit and u-roy,
just as the sun began to grope its way.
on the street, the sable sheep flocks
lined up like old-hung laundry
before the door of mt. carmel.
the five percenters wearing suits
that were ninety-five percent polyester
swarmed the baptists like paparazzi,
snapping them with flashbulbs of guilt.
“don’t pray to a white jesus,
that’s just part of the plan.
the white jesus and the cia
have conspired to kill all black people.”
you snort, your expression flips a coin
trying to guess which is worse.
“baptist or muslim, dem jus the same
pawns of babylon en dis sufferahs game.”
