Did you see him? That black guy running backwards in the rain? A suspect? An aspect. 360 Respect/Spectator. Massa gave him a raise, massa gave him a race, so he ran, get it? Shouting, Get your Africa tickets! all the way til he hit the Claustrum. They don't know what's in there. Suspecting it's the punk clouds that recede just when you need your clarity smothered. They don't tear the memory apart, do they, looking for THC and whiteness or the blues gene? Isn't it outrageous, to understand both ways, but to perceive the world as a coherent thing where running is the same hunt in both directions, anyways? Acceptance feels like the real interrogation sometimes. The ghetto is not a mistake, he wants to blurt out. I have an urge to make promises early in the morning, mostly to him. To him for whom the race card is a king of hearts withering in his pocket next to a grip of lavender and a wedding ring he just quit wearing one day when he went outside to run backwards in the rain. What's left in wu-tang's bag-a-items? Start from scratch, then learn how to mix, we all have to be djs this round, to make this same ol' sound new. We need to prove our nouns are verbs and athletes. And who is Jim Crow disguised as these days? I wanna show that motherfucker how to feel the beat so well it disappears into one of these morning we're gonna rise up singing
