-for d.j. phelps
i.
sometimes, i am
a full time thoughtcrime.
sometimes, i am
little more than the bait of slime.
sometimes, i am
able to write a cheerful rhyme,
a rhyme that could tongue it with rainbows
and fornicate with unspoilt mountain peaks.
ii.
you commanded that couch, its frame
was always bent to your will, the pillows
pockmarked with tiny craters
from dropped cigarette ash, that couch
could have been
a second-rate throne.
and then the mic came around, passed
like a peace pipe, as the room grew smaller
with the closed-in alliance of would-be rappers.
wannabe emcees took giant drags of fancy wordplay,
while an earthquaking drumbeat
filled out those background sonic spaces.
outside, the college park air
was stagnant with famished mosquitoes
and dreaming of a breeze.
nobody fucked with you on that couch
that was like a second-rate throne,
everybody knew
that the best emcee
should always get the mic last,
have the last word
that beggar-bowled
to be heard.
iii.
sometimes, i wish
that every night had a cipher,
that my living room
was a live-action hip-hop mecca.
sometimes, i wish
that your munchkin frame
would reside on my shamrock-green couch,
that my shamrock-green couch,
ashed-upon and ruffled-up,
could become
your second-rate throne.
most wishes never come to pass
but i must wonder-
why you stopped going to class?
