three different streets
I.
You
are a traitor
to your race, gender and culture
(that’s what s/h/e typed, verbatim)
among other sundry isms not long before
the camera started rolling
(niggas be rolling,rolling,rolling …)
I received notice more indictment(s)
that the abstract genitalia diagram of roofing nails on the wall of my loft
would somehow corrupt the mind of my seed
in a manner that the “Street Woman” on our living room wall
(an oil painted in 1968 in a downstate Illinois prison)
managed not to become a Joliet Penitentiary
the 106 miles from Chicago distancing the corruption
Because it’s OK and appropriate
for Negro Illustrators to paint
Urban Renewal Murals Encouraging Community Uplift
(Dad’s parable: “If you stay in a whorehouse long enough you’ll turn a trick, son.”)
It’s OK as long
As the tricks don’t trick us with their trickery
as long as we do not have to imagine
that they might be real people
speak, exposit, cuss
jump out of the varnished mahogany frames
pussypopping at our pre-Kwanzaa dinner party,
causing the Council of Elders
to spill box wine on their leopard print dashikis
mamaspeculation:
[“I think he was probably painting a dude.”]
as if saying so would make hir less titillating,
make nipples and lines of linae and pubes look less tasty to me
make them somehow less chock full of possibilities
like the way Juneteenth let us know it was gonna happen
(lest we forget)
this be not the Sport and Play of the Asiatic Black Man
the middlesexing that made Elijah Muhammad’s dick jump
And got his asthma going
this is our way the way
our ironic and schizoid disgust at our own spectacle[s]
speaking when spoken to
my brain makes scenes that are not heard
but blood taps breakbeats on the rhythmpad inside of my skull.
The party is starting (taps forehead)
up in here up in here
four 1982 dollars
will buy Italian beef sandwich (bread dipped in au jus)
with a slice of American, ketchup on fries
and a large Suicide with extra ice
and give a bit of time
for the host to stack
penis-shaped soaps and vitamins
while the evening’s entertainment
A Reggie Theus lookalike with chest hair like spilled raisins
disrobes in my bedroom
mamasdirective:
(“don’t come back up the streetlights iz on.”)
i hope they tipped well, Reggie
but know they didn’t, though they wanted to.
(they could not … that would be shameless … and they are the shame)
Reg learned me. I want to thank that brotha,
30 years on
for an age-appropriate germ in my twelfth summer
He showed up again later
Courtesy of stepdad’s Betamax collection
Sneakpeeks into sex worlds during parent’s Saturday overtime
Feature Special Guest Star Mr Johnnie Keyes,
Looking like a Black Nationalist/Pan-Africanist superhero fantasy
Sleeveless White lycra spandex bodysuit
Crotchless with pretty dick swangin’ at my face through the screen
Afro flawless, barefoot,
tigertooth necklace nestled on more chestraisins
(I will be his um … sidekick, yup … once my balls drop!)
and will fuck alllllll of his run-off pussy
allllllll of dem white girls
just like Jackie Wilson’s personal assistant told me he did
back in the day
until that day
I will set the VCR and
will not fast forward through my lessons.
I am
somebody
I’m a college graduated bohemian rapnigga
I got a baby mama
but we got in a fight, so now
I got another woman
way over town
with a three chip Sony
oh yeah
and friends doing grainy art school movies with a capital A
on a Fisher-Price PXL 2000
I’m a weekend dad
with lots of free time
and space and time and space
and illmatic head game
(black men don’t eat pussy yet, see)
that gets me whines
and crudités
and a spot on an erotica tapeloop, flickering
honey dripping from my nipples
five minutes at a time
in a Barneys New York storefront window display.
No one, (specially baby mama) is the wiser
but i’m learning quickly
if not quite keeping pace with the increasing computational speed
of The School’s post production equipment
and the post orgasmic shrinkage
that will eventually
put the power of two in my hand.
It’s all fine
fun and games and art and beauty and for The People
until Vaseline lensed scenes with gossamer-draped four-poster bed
Give way to squirting and ass-fisting and Brobdingnagian crotch shots
You and your head is put out and you can’t deal with me anymore
And it becomes about “The Children”
As if an eight-year-old boy now two thousand miles away
gives a shit about anything other than
how seldom he sees me
or that his mom needs to give a shit about anything I’m doing
other than whether it’s something that will get
the back child support sent to her yesterday through the mail faster.
[“Is it hot? Check.”]
[“Do they write hot checks? Naw? Check.”]
then we all good.
and they fitting to posterize this rapfaggot
I’m legendary
I’m nekkid
’cept for my Starbucks apron
piped dress socks, and black Stacy Adams wingtips
they call me El Grande Dark
’cept I like to use my real name
so the kids
so the family
so the chirrens
so them that’s in the life
know there’s no shame
but that there’s a gang of middle class privilege and insulation
That accompanies my altporn collarpopping and academic swag
My lil one [“papa’s going to work tonight.”]
is spit on a skillet.
whip-smart like her mama
[I got another baby mama]
Who be a fried squirrel ’n’ beans eatin’ Missouri trash girl
With a raft of hiding from DCFS trepidation cum terror
Inherited from her own mama.
Unlike my talented tenthian protonegro self
me and my 1964-bits of civil right
Mixblood dyke trashgirl attorneys know
That the law is what is done
So she tell me to bring home stories
Teach them chirren well
Wire that grocery and rent money
watch your black ass, baby
’cause we love your black ass
Be careful in tour with that gang of hoes
Especially when riding through Scottsboro
And hug them
because I love them hoes, too
and love comes quick.
coins come in a hurry.
we git it done
no waiting on student union admin to cut us loot
my boy is now old enough to guess what his dad’s steez is
but we still have the formal conversation
as I’m hyper conscious of leaving things unsaid
[“yeah, dad, I kinda guessed from the spines of the dvds on the shelf.”]
I’m getting to that age now
summer short suits, piped dress socks
mints and toothpicks in shirt pocket
unlit Kool Menthol rapidly bobbing on the bottom lip
’cause I’m too busy shit-talking to light it
Driving it home
leaning back
burgundy sedan be immaculate
Egyptian Musk freshener from the record store
hanging from the rearview
leather seats polished and
Important Papers tucked in the passenger side sun visor
[“you know what this is, boy?”]
[“yeah, dad … issa check.”]
[“it ain’t jussa check, boy.”]
Teenage eyes roll like Vegas slots.
[“what is it, then?”]
[“it’s a car note.”] [“it’s from a job.”] [“it’s work.”]
[“it’s always work.”] [“it’s good.”] [“it’s real …”]
[“and fuck anybody that ever tries to tell you different.”]