basquiat's revenge
basquiat’s revenge
today…
i’m just a fat Black bitch with a few good words
a court jester at best
every [Black] poet waits in line for their 15 minutes regurgitating the last one’s
sonnet into a lackluster spinoff
every Black man’s poem reads:
i was killed today
i will be killed again tomorrow
america, you wish to consume or wear or fuck or frame my flesh
america, you were never america in the first place
let us swallow our fists until the bruising bears resemblance
of a broken chain
i am never at your mercy
they calculate every move
hovering to see if the academy gon’ take the soul outta me
as if i didn’t sell it already in a los angeles basement
//in exchange for a simple day
2016 got a few secrets on me
the devil got even more
i am imperfect
in the most perfect ways
no idealism penetrates the perilous nature of my pen
i see the southpaw stance of their spoken word from a mile
away
i prefer an unorthodox rendering of my wicked tongue
a fading table sketch of an early basquiat
turned calamity from a violent cadence
a sicko’s mind fuck
how far left can i take god's third eye
let’s see:
a portrait:
my latinx cousin smoking meth in the bathroom
in the room over her toddler watches a gay cartoon
a landscape:
my african friend begging for my hand in marriage
for citizenship in a country he’s doesn’t even want to die in
a still life:
of my third abortion. no. my fourth
graffiti:
the lines of coke i snorted the night before i moved to oakland
i play god always
i’m as shameless as i paint myself to be
the Black woman’s poem reads:
i was raped today
i will be raped again tomorrow
america, you wish to consume & wear & fuck & frame my flesh
america, you were always america in the first place
let us swallow our blood until the bruising bears resemblance of a broken chain
i am always at your mercy
they calculate every move
hovering to see if the loneliness gon’ take the poetry outta me
as if i didn’t offer everything in a florida graveyard
//in exchange for a killer’s aim
this the second time you read that stanza
in the last piece
i refused to bleed
on this page
bleeding is the only thing
that seems worthy of your applause
mimi, you screaming at the walls again
mimi, you shouldn’t write it like that
mimi, just shut up & do the work
mimi, play the game
mimi, slow & steady wins the fake mimi, tell us about your next—
mimi, be nice
&
maybe your 15 minutes
will last longer
than the nigga ahead of you
the chip on my shoulder gotta death wish
the arrogance
can’t even hide
itself
it removed my head
from the body
&
placed it off centre
left on the canvas
the eyes dilate
lava hot
a whispering window
shot up from
skull
crack(ed) dances
into the yellowing
of the teeth
a cigarette spawns
the tall-tale sign
too good for this willowing scene
vibrating in opposition
to the onslaught reverberation
safety tantalizes for
luxury
i’m almost bourgeois bored
the reality is if i don’t hear the slit
of the wrist
transposed through
the paint
then what are we really dying for?
to be representational?
i forget to be here all the time
GROUNDED JUST ISN’T MY THING
it’s the ones who
prance proper
holy
who got the viciousness
begging to crawl
naked
completely out of their skin
me?
every wall
was already
taken
every seedling
of
doubt
was planted into
a forest
decaying my wandering
thoughts
into a new beginning
let’s see
how pretty
i can make
this frown
look today
sun in the 6th (the house of unforeseen enemies)
you were in my dream last night. i hope you are well. you & all your friends were
sitting on a stage. you were quietly meditating in the corner & then you left. once you were gone,
people began accusing you of having a gun, but i didn’t see it.
