have we studied
Shakur? a baby in a cell born symbolically—destined for war. raids. walls.
bodies dragged a bit lifeless. we never know viciousness until we see it. do we
hear sawmills, taste grain, cotton, tobacco? do we gnaw freedom, laugh at
freedom, die for freedom? will authors rise higher?
blackness in its
freedom on mother at father damn near lost granny. too many prayers not enough
motives like iced-out feigning comfort. another afore his Judge another in his
coffin a soul tries to smoke freedom. grounded in underwater coals threshed
like winning a grand for cuff links. bigger rims bigger problems a black song
too gorgeous to ask forgiveness. a parakeet back when an innovator those weeks
a creator this month. we praise as wrapped in bandanas stark black, left arm—Officials
watching they fear an uprising they fear mutuality they fear black dominance—smoother
rescues women cleaving if but his pride spoke his ambition—talking money like
demons talking sinning, like angels talking revenge—at gods flooded as swirling
into speakers, we spoke it early on a Monday—another petrified.
the roof is blown
out doing gas and fire rolling at 75 mph—switching lanes, Lil Mikey at the
library, studying three months straight—trying to grab a ticket, trying to
thresh a garden, felt more than internal skies. we smile at mercy, we ignore our
envy, we seem a certain way about breeding hardwork.
at a dealership at
a sailor’s gusto, riding books like new Impalas.
