Cover the table in junk newspaper and shut up about protest and communal living and the way it feels to touch thin ink and weep Picture Cuba Gooding Jr. with those silver balls weaving his palms in Boys in the Hood Maafa are you good are you here and you good here Lady be good be here and be good here, do you hear me, ma? Looking good ma, thick and brothel clover occipital killer but not really you want us to live. It’s 1995 in Compton and you have the nerve manipulate survival, to call it forth from the sandalwood smoke, to know how we’ll live when the tension between two greens is hunger and it bit into the grass like a natural out there on all fours ass up testing the melasma of slurred verdure I heard the blades snap on your tongue I felt the mirrors home in your mouth I know it hurts and be so proud and beaten cover the newspaper in the corpses of crabs make a bib of the real estate section and let their flesh melt through you in some crude glory in black and white Noriega stripes do not do this hock the gnawed up grass onto the headlines and pile numb melons until the sweet stench collapses don’t listen when it acts as if there has to be a naming of the devil that’s a trick don’t call nobody you don’t want to come
