20th Street Screams.

I.

The only green
     on the 17
          is weed
          and weeds
          and eyes.
Pick out them seeds
     let's plant some grass
          we make that money
          and build us
          a castle
Got hardwood floors up in that bitch--
          locked him up for life,
          but I be hood rich.
Call me.

II.

Gotta make that paper...

gotta chase that man.

Never gonna catch him.

Damned if I don't--

damned if I can.

What you hold in your hand

in any other world

would carry your notes

envelop your snot

and wipe your ass;

instead,

it's bathed in shit

rolled in coke

stuffed in tits

and you lick your lips

at the thought of it.

There's no room for belief

in a universe

where greed is pure

and cash is king

only room for more
     more
          more
               more
                    more

Mores, we made them

morals, we lost them

money, we eat it

No wonder we're all sick.

III.

The man on the sidewalk

with the broken body

has a spaceship.

He looks like he knew

something

and was punished for it.

Looks at me like he knows

I would do anything

to fly away.

Forgot his exterior long ago

to focus energy

on The Next Days.

Too bad the spaceship's grounded.

IV.

As a human, I know nothing;

   as a woman, I'm ignored;

      as a pusher, I will die young;

         as the rest of you, I'm bored;

            as an animal, I am.

Let me Be.

Chinatown Bus Philosophy Class.

This is a belated post written on my way to DC on 3 October 2009. I just remembered it:

Five o'clock, we can't be late
Move this bus, need this escape
to the capitol for 14 bucks
pissed, foreign, lookin' for luck
shelter from 3 hours' sun
recycled air stifles all: one
six-foot five and red black man
thinks comfort should trump profit. Damn!

What if the yellow sun'd-Asian
listened to this California raisin
if he unwrinkled his nose
kept eyes less off me, more on his toes

What if we talked to our Selves
developed muscles for mind elves
if cell phones were cigarettes
save souls from second-hand smoke Tourette's

So long to think, so much to sow
can't move too much, can't throw my 'bows

ideas are flowing, sprung a leak
wish telepathy could spark the weak

clouds catch the sun, great mystery
ethereal, metaphysical, reality

what's real? what's right? what's fate? What's sleep?
Sought ultimate truths are molten, deep.

Public transport philosophy,
Eastern neighbor serendipity.

Once You Go Black…

Red light? Looks green to me--
zipping straight down South Street.
Won’t stop, I’ve got a date
three close friends, can’t make me late.
Their Tritone deep;
their flavor strong;
their colors dark;
their journeys long.
Don’t fail me now, such a Wyrd day;
got no more WORC, no bills to pay!
Don't need no car, got my jetpack:
a hundred pockets right on my back.
Purple-yellow steed, my ride;
Lightning, fast, slides past your side.
Please, Officer, resist brutality—
's only black tea, dark coffee, and cheap whiskey!