Black Spring: Or Nah?

It’s  the beginning of begetting;  all our symbols are speaking    double talk. The caustic swirl   of it favors misfits for translation   and I am very harrowing and beget the insistent   ghetto of overcoming, turning rogue as Rich Manhattan.   Hold up, remember him? He wore a conk on campus in the two thousands   and walked like a nigga ballerina and called Homer’s Iliad numb emergency    number one in lecture that day and I could feel him protecting me just by existing     I laughed as we were both exiled from Greece by the cokehead professor no one can ever fire, not even Persephone.   We were a sight to behold, all of the black beauty and trauma quietly locking bicycles to starving trees   with the rest of the elite slobs of opportunity, we were walking brass ladders. What happened to Rich Manhattan?  That was his name then. That was his name. That was a black man’s name in Americanism. Respiration shuffle, no rage where there is style. We  are the floating graves of your cities and finding begets needing even though we don’t want you no more. That night we listened to Al Green   together and pretended Berkeley was the Savoy and gave up soy and gave up rhetoric and gave up gatorade and gave up rome and gave up noses and just laughed   as the smoke dripped from our hair with the histrionic intensity of their branding irons