The BreakBeat Poets, page 19
I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids
in the classrooms, they confused. All their maps
wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck
to do. They gotta memorize new songs and shit.
& the other planets? I fucked their orbits.
I shook the sky. Chaos like a motherfucker.
Today, I broke your solar system.
Oops. My bad.
Franny Choi (1989)
PUSSY MONSTER
from the lyrics of Lil’ Wayne’s “Pussy Monster,” arranged in order of frequency.
for flu food bowl stood no more soup remove spoon drink juice salt pepper heard well cool job blow bet mic check how don’t have clue but find show tell lift top lip smell swallow spit every time goes get call Dracula vacuum catfish fish cat tuna smack flip spatula lil runnin so tackle baby be worm apple butt go backin front throw black Acura been this game actress told action cameras lookin hope yeah where know rain hurricane imagine did pearl talk jump here hi taste taste what what cold cold suck suck hot hot blew blew there there one one two two still still put put face face reason reason why why mama mama need need stay stay gotta gotta survive survive let let up up throw throw on on words words better better comin comin could could tongue tongue with with over over over out out out she she she eat eat eat feed feed feed walk walk walk got got got wanna wanna wanna make make make make do do do do your your your your just just just just when when when when in in in in if if if if can can can can i’ma i’ma i’ma i’ma it’s it’s it’s it’s i’m i’m i’m i’m alive alive alive alive of of of of of cause cause cause cause cause now now now now now her her her her her i’ll i’ll i’ll i’ll i’ll like like like like like like a a a a a a that that that that that that that that girl girl girl girl girl girl girl girl girl my my my my my my my my my monster monster monster monster monster monster monster monster monster to to to to to to to to to to to to and and and and and and and and and and and and and it it it it it it it it it it it it it me me me me me me me me me me me me me the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the the you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i i la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy pussy
IMPULSE BUY
bugzapper dress
laughing teeth beacon whats
yr name again dress
filled w/my hips (not fables of yr
lips & pulling me close &
saying the word beautiful) so
hot shit dress. oh i cum
from the future dress
electric zinging super christ & fuck
that! dress. what’s that?
phone #? passwd.s? well that’s for me
to keep and you to
drool for. in which case:
mr. pavlov bell/ringer dress
take a number & get in line dress
neon polish, programmed to scoff.
bathroom fuck dress. highball hookup
greygoose in splintered shotgunz pow/pow/
we die soon dress. hair dye blue dress.
sloppy wink dress. chlorine in the sink dress.
me without you dress.
Nate Marshall (1989)
on caskets
after Suji Kwock-Kim
1.
decorating the dead is among the most basic
human instincts, to return the borrowed body &
acknowledge Earth as maker & home.
Neanderthals used antlers & flowers. Egyptians
had pyramids with peasants buried in the walls they
built. some niggas just get a pine box. hopefully
you get a hole or a flame. some only get a cold
cabinet in the morgue until somebody or nobody
claims them as a loss.
2.
a permanent fixture on my to-do list
is research life insurance plans. pick
a good one with a fair rate & enough
money to buy a nice box
3.
everything gonna be all
right this morning & i contemplate
the implications of the statement for the night.**
everything in Mississippi is too cruel to bury.
i wonder what that means if every body in Chicago
has red clay in its lineage. Chief Keef must know
in his bones ball like it’s no tomorrow from what
Muddy time-capsuled into the south side ground.††
4.
when grandma died she left mama a notepad
with instructions. the one i remember was get
the casket you want. what you like. don’t be
pressured.
we wore blue at the service. we matched
the box & its glossy painted ribbons,
gold-flecked & light.
5.
house slaves are responsible for preparing
the dead of the master’s house. they clean
& clothe. they dig the hole. they don’t
bury any black body really, only dispose.
one of the concessions won by slave riots
was the right to funeral. whitefolk were
confused at how the Africans sometimes
wore white, smiled, shouted like joy.
they seen funerals. not homegoings.
6.
my mother used to say my father loved
funerals. he worked graveyard shift & spent
the days & weekends visiting bodies.
running his finger alongside the box
& signing the greeting book.
the most decent thing you
can do is visit the funeral of
someone you didn’t know
for someone you do:
sister’s coworker, lover’s friend,
accountant’s mother, your aunt’s
high school rival.
7.
black churches formed burial societies
after slavery. every week you chipped
off a piece of your pay to save for the shovel
& the rough hands that will lower you.
i know some black folks now buying
their plot foot by foot. saving for a
final mortgage.
8.
it is día de los muertos & i have a check
folded in between the pages of a book about
genocide. i will send the money next week
to the other side of my family
& help bury grandma’s sister.
9.
i can’t think of a black rapper who hasn’t
contemplated their own death on record.
ready to die, life after death, death is certain,
do or die, get rich or die tryin’, death certificate.‡‡
this is natural
all my verses mention
boxes or holes.
10.
once we lay this brother
down in the ground
we got work to do.§§
when i was a young boy
at the age of five
my mama said i gon’ be
the greatest man alive.¶¶
these children don’t
expect to live past 30.
they come to these funerals
& they represent.
they put themselves in
the place of the person
in the casket.***
prelude
he must’ve moved out
the neighborhood when i was little.
i bet he could ball,
probably could dunk.
maybe he rap now.
maybe he is the boy on every wall.
we ain’t got graffiti over here
like for real art stuff but maybe
in the ’80s he was optimistic. this was his all
city attempt all over the hood.
maybe he ain’t a he.
in the time before the Folks
Nation ran everything over here
maybe the presiding clique was RIP.
i see it everywhere:
RIP Pierre
RIP Bird
RIP D
RIP Man Man
maybe RIP is a girl.
i see her name next to all
the bad boys. all the big boys
my mama told me not to fool with.
maybe she’s all they girlfriends
at once. but they all
gone. no wonder
she keep finding new boys
to kiss.
picking flowers
Grandma’s rosebush
reminiscent of a Vicelord’s du-rag.
the unfamiliar bloom in Mrs. Bradley’s yard
banging a Gangster Disciple style blue.
the dandelions all over the park putting on
Latin King gold like the Chicano cats
over east before they turn into a puff
of smoke like all us colored boys.
picking dandelions will ruin your hands,
turn their smell into a bitter cologne.
a man carries flowers for 3 reasons:
he is in love
he is in mourning
he is a flower salesman
i’m on the express train passing stops
to a woman. maybe she’s home.
i have a bouquet in my hand,
laid on 1 of my arms like a shotgun.
the color is brilliant, a gang war
wrapped & cut diagonal at the stems.
i am not a flower salesman.
that is the only thing i know.
juke
in dark basement they dance violent
in violet light like a fight or fuck.
boy against wall back bent like a bow
aiming an arrow. she is all knees,
thighs driving into him,
punching his center like a clock.
working & rotating.
she is sturdy ballet
on a single leg, her
homegirl holding her up.
he is playing man,
grabbing, thrusting
like beating, bass banging
into him & out again. he
is balancing on both feet.
tiptoes & swivel
in his new shoes;
they gleam bright, 1 of the few
sources of light, like she is,
or the purple lamp in the corner
nobody can see.
** Muddy Waters, “Mannish Boy”
†† Chief Keef, “No Tomorrow”
‡‡ Notorious B.I.G., Notorious B.I.G., Royce Da 5’9, Do or Die, 50 Cent, Ice Cube
§§ Ameena Matthews, Chicago CeaseFire Violence Interrupter
¶¶ Muddy Waters, “Mannish Boy”
*** Spencer Leak, Chicago funeral director
Aaron Samuels (1989)
Broken Ghazal in the Voice of My Brother Jacob
Irrefutable fact / my brother is black jewish
Kink hair & a wide nose / that’s gotta be black, jewish
He said look in the mirror / naked / if it ain’t black—jewish
If we don’t do it to ourselves / first / then they do it to us
Said he loves countin’ stacks / is that black? / jewish?
Said we loves eating chicken cause we black-jewish!
Said, you gotta keep it real / listen to black music
If you wanna keep your teeth / you ain’t allowed to act jewish
And that’s jewish / Night of the broken glass jewish
They’ll beat your face in with a bat / until it’s black.
They raped your great-grandma, and that’s a fact, jewish
Say a prayer for the secrets your family keeps, Kaddish
See Aaron, you run / but I learned to attack: jewish
In order to survive, you gotta be black, stupid
Let ’em tattoo my arm, that’s how I act Jewish
That’s how I be black / but that’s not what you did
Got yourself a “good job,” where nobody’s black / jewish
Cut the slang off your tongue / it’s too black; jewish
And, you never came home / Aaron / where it’s black-jewish
And not coming home / is black
jewish
Danez Smith (1989)
cue the gangsta rap when my knees bend
because my mouth is a whip
& other times my mouth is a whip, you know
bass, rubber, leather seats, detailed flame
you know, some comfy, show-offy shit
fit for music. because he whips me
around easy as Sunday, no church
or plate to get to, just cruise, just eight
oh, eight inches of tar
for me to glide & boom. because it’s a drug
& always violence & we hood all day
because my head bob the same, my spit be ready
to brawl. because the song need to have claws
& I need to ravage or revenge, either will do
what difference does a vowel make,
the only word my mouth cares for is O,
the only music the kind that bites.
twerk (v.)
keep the body from knowing what it knows
weep through pores
let a NGH cry in public
forget your god’s name, your mother’s
be delivered through your own hips
holy the ether of your waist
spin light into a gown of hands
summon the sky down, teach stars to pulse
make his tender muscle flex, tantrum
dilate the room’s hundred eyes
glimmer the black of your knees
& finally know the reason the body is
Dinosaurs in the Hood
Let’s make a movie called Dinosaurs in the Hood.
Jurassic Park meets Friday meets The Pursuit of Happyness.
There should be a scene where a little black boy is playing
with a toy dinosaur on the bus, then looks out the window
& sees the T-Rex, because there has to be a T-Rex.
(It’s a dinosaur movie, duh)
Don’t let Tarantino direct this. In his version, the boy plays
with a gun, the metaphor: black boys toy with their own lives
the foreshadow to his end, the spitting image of his father.
Fuck that, the kid has a plastic brontosaurus or triceratops
& this is his proof of magic or God or Santa. I want a scene
where a cop car gets pooped on by a pterodactyl, a scene
where the corner store turns into a battleground. Don’t let
the Wayans brothers in this movie. I don’t want any racist shit
about Asian people or overused Latino stereotypes.
This movie is about a neighborhood of royal folks—
children of slaves & immigrants & addicts & exiles—saving their town
from real ass dinosaurs. I don’t want some cheesy yet progressive
Hmong sexy hot dude hero with a funny, yet strong, commanding
Black Girl buddy-cop film. This is not a vehicle for Will Smith
& Sofia Vergara. I want grandmas on the front porch taking out raptors
with guns they hid in walls & under mattresses. I want those little spitty
screamy dinosaurs. I want Cecily Tyson to make a speech, maybe 2.
I want Viola Davis to save the city in the last scene with a black fist afro pick
through the last dinosaur’s long, cold-blood neck. But this can’t be
a black movie. This can’t be a black movie. This movie can’t be dismissed
because of its cast or its audience. This movie can’t be metaphor
for black people & extinction. This movie can’t be about race.
This movie can’t be about black pain or cause black people pain.
This movie can’t be about a long history of having a long history with hurt.
This movie can’t be about race. Nobody can say nigga in this movie
who can’t say it to my face in public. No chicken jokes in this movie.
No bullets in the heroes. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills
the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. Besides, the only reason
I want to make this is for that first scene anyway: the little black boy
on the bus with a toy dinosaur, his eyes wide & endless
his dreams possible, pulsing, & right there.
Dear White America
with lines from Amiri Baraka & James Baldwin
I have left Earth in search of darker planets, a solar system that revolves too near a black hole. I have left a patch of dirt in my place & many of you won’t know the difference; we are indeed the same color, one of us would eventually become the other. I have left Earth in search of a new God. I do not trust the God you have given us. My grandmother’s hallelujah is only outdone by the fear she nurses every time the blood-fat summer swallows another child who used to sing in the choir. Take your God back: though his songs are beautiful, his miracles are inconsistent. I want the fate of Lazarus for Renisha, I want Chucky, Bo, Meech, Trayvon, Sean & Jonylah risen three days after their entombing, their ghost re-gifted flesh & blood, their flesh & blood re-gifted their children. I have left Earth, I am equal parts sick of your ‘go back to Africa’ as I am your ‘I just don’t see color’ (neither did the poplar tree). We did not build your boats (though we did leave a trail of kin to guide us home). We did not build your prisons (though we did & we fill them too). We did not ask to be part of your America (though are we not America? Her joints brittle & dragging a ripped gown through Oakland?). I can’t stand your ground. I am sick of calling your recklessness the law. Each night, I count my brothers. & in the morning, when some do not survive to be counted, I count the holes they leave. I reach for black folks & touch only air. Your master magic trick, America. Now he’s breathing, now he don’t. Abra-cadaver. White bread voodoo. Sorcery you claim not to practice, but have no problem benefitting from. I tried, white people. I tried to love you, but you spent my brother’s funeral making plans for brunch, talking too loud next to his bones. You interrupted my black veiled mourning with some mess about an article you read on Buzzfeed. You took one look at the river, plump with the body of boy after boy after boy & asked ‘why does it always have to be about race?’ Because you made it so! Because you put an asterisk on my sister’s gorgeous face! Because you call her pretty (for a black girl)! Because black girls go missing without so much as a whisper of where?! Because there is no Amber Alert for the Amber Skinned Girls! Because our heroes always end up strung out or strung up! Because we didn’t invent the bullet! Because crack was not our recipe! Because Jordan boomed. Because Emmett whistled. Because Huey P. spoke. Because Martin preached. Because black boys can always be too loud to live. Because this land is scared of the Black mind. Because they have sold the Black body & appropriated Soul. Because it’s taken my father’s time, my mother’s time, my uncle’s time, my brother’s & my sister’s time, my niece’s & my nephew’s time… how much time do you want for your progress? I have left Earth to find a land where my kin can be safe. I will not rest until black people ain’t but people the same color as the good, wet earth, until that means something, until our existence isn’t up for debate, until it is honored & blessed & loved & left alone, until then I bid you well, I bid you war, I bid you our lives to gamble with no more. I have left Earth & I am touching everything you beg your telescopes to show you. I am giving the stars their right names. & this life, this new story & history you cannot own or ruin
