a metaphysical machine, my mechanicals
have come undone… black, greasy smoke
billows from my stove-pipe-type mouth
as my pot-bellied-soul craves esoteric chunks
of coal & cries to be fed…
but the screensaver clicks on in my head
and for awhile, i am blind to my own deficiencies
stuck in spiritual auto-pilot like a muuuuhhhfuck.
my bells are broke / my whistle, wont.
too intuned to the static-kinetic-limbo my
extra-sensory-satellite dish picks up in pirated,
bootlegged perception… i scan the resolution,
televised for intelligence but find an illumination
fit only for beer commercials… i’m not thirsty,
but i drink me a coor’s light anyway, because
Arrmur’ka sed so.
two words why english
is the hardest language to learn:
i’ve had cold duck
what the fuck
is cold turkey?
what mental mishap
is this rap from?
at least old turkey
makes some sense, because
i like my turkey cold but
if it’s old
then that shit’ll kill ya.
i reserve sundays for self-autopsy (meaning:
whiskey and jazz!) and preserve my findings
in the anti-supremacy survival manuals that
i (in eloquence) call “all these fuckin’ notebooks”
and i’ve discovered this:
that i dislike my white friends who call me ‘buddy’
and i dislike my black buddies who call me ‘pal’ -
‘buddy’ seems like the politically correct substitute
for ‘nigger’ and ‘pal’ sounds too much like ‘gal’…
being ‘anal’ is another self-discovery disliked.
‘anal’ is an open mic’d poem about me that jehovah
recites every other friday night at the waffle house
(because the jehovah in my head is homeless
and that’s where the fuck he hangs out)
“let my poem go” is another of his classics!
this shit here
my sesame-street-ism flares
and my soul bares its bones
black but brittle… when once
i could say of black folks:
“we are the spittle of the sun”
my writings are now poor
riddles abandoned of wit or fun;
more excessive leisure than
black empowerment lit, but still
folks cheer, clap and give dap
when a life-preserver and
a good thesaurus
are more in order
for my salvation.
in dysfunctional dialect
i retrospect this, a partial remix:
less than holy but
more than mud
my personal red seas
never part / they only flood,
and all my liberations are not
the necessary libations
i need them to be…
the wheels have fallen off my words;
it’s more important for me to be seen
than heard… eccentric without eclectic
is just fuckin’ absurd, obscenely weird
and nearly feared.
rhymes should be ‘endeared’
not pap smeared… but i’ve veered
too far from my literary path,
and now “all these fuckin’ notebooks”
need scented candles and a bubble bath.
shit. i’ll never be elected president
with these poems….
”—from the poem “alien autopsy” parts a through f, upfromsumdirt (via upfromsumdirt)
at my core i am sun-shit-unstable;
not ghetto fab but a diasporic fable,
uwainhurd? shiiiii-it, man… when it
comes to slingin’ these packets of slang
i am your concrete concierge.
motherfucker, i am not “self-obsessed”!
motherfucker, i am self-PUBLISHED!
get it straight.
(and then this again!)
can be back to
some sentences have more
stove-top-stuffin than any ol’ nothin
you can actually use… the cadences
i choose abuse my poetic license…
e.e. cummings be damn’d…
if anyone’s gonna fuck some
language up, then i am’d!!
i be onsumol’ thelonius monk junk:
i think, i ink, and then i drink pink
(wink, wink!) - all ‘round midnight.
yes, i kiss my mama with this mouth.
i need to call her before my minutes
like a pocket-protector
i stay tucked in Eshu’s nerd-shirt;
it’s me, a pilot G6 gel pen, a flask
of gin and a green apple jolly rancher
candy stick - us all, Eshu’s personal
treasure. he uses us as he sees fit.
my poems are candy necklaces for the gods!
in a glucose high, they moan in my ear:
“you on some dopeshit, fatboy”
i would blush if that shit wasn’t true; like
PaPa LaBas, i am a secretary for the unseen.
”—from the poem “alien autopsy” parts g through m, upfromsumdirt (via upfromsumdirt)