1.19% of all college basketball players make it to the NBA. 5 percent of African-American males ever attend college in the first place.
what his favorite teacher thinks
sometimes, rock bottom
can be rock solid, armed with critical knowledge
that the whole world
is just a golden commode
waiting for you to sit on, for hours,
with a good book wide open,
a better than amerikan standard
golden commode
allowing you to reflect
on the sit-tight sprawl
of intractable mold.
are these flushed away hopes?
another unpale flesh hunk
for the prison-industrial auction block?
there is nothing cheaper
than the cheapest talk, of a revolution
that does not want to show up,
of a nation that refuses to grow up,
of a closeby army recruiting office
that someone responsible
really needs to blow up.
really, it might sound silly
how taking zero responsibility
has caused his head to spin,
a head filled with enough good ideas
to bring back spring,
reinstate winter,
allow every unwelcome guest
to freely enter, for this house
is the world's house, his
hoop dreams that become schemes
to pretend that math, reading, and writing
are never worth fighting for;
still, he walks through the door
of the world's house
and wipes away its stubborn mold
with a smirking sponge.
what key thinks
"smirk." my head is mad full
of tupackian lullabies. dearest mama,
my heart is still a stillborn baby
that always cries
for you.
"smirk." my forehead, wide
as a bay window,
tinted maroon,
pounds the desk like hard,
frustration is the best cure
fer
sure.
"smirk." my one
really good hand is still bleeding,
s'posed to be a pillow
where the brick wall stood
laughing gruffly at me.
what his mom thinks
watching my baby sleep,
counting the remains of sheep,
he don't ever do no wrong
or right:
he just is, here, suspended,
six feet of toomuch talent
already smarter than the street.
