Sunday, October 19, 2014

"Green Power Ranger, GO!"

"Green Power Ranger, GO!"

My 3-year-old nephew thinks
he’s a Green Power Ranger.

"Dragon Buster, Fire!"

And you know what the craziest part is,
I actually believe him.

Well,
at least until motorcycles come
roaring around the corner like
a pack of blood thirsty lions…

Then he’s just Invisible Kid using
his grandpa as a human shield.

"Dragon Kick, Hiyah!!!"

But I believe all 3-year-olds are
walking pint-sized miracles that can
see through lies and skin colors.

"Tiger Knee, BAM!"

That can scare monsters away with a laugh and
then challenge God to a footrace around the sun.

That can spin the world on one finger
while making shadow puppets with the others.

"Hadouuu-KEN!"

So if being a good uncle means telling my
nephew that Power Rangers are make-believe,
than what the hell should I tell him about people?

"Power Gun...BOOM!"

Thursday, October 16, 2014

“Dear Hip-Hop, Since Our First Kiss…”

One of the most pathetic things I have ever
witnessed, is rappers arguing over who’s richer…

“Ya chains fake,”
“You ‘ont get money nigga,”
“I fucked your baby mama doe! Then
made her do a somersault into the Landaulet…”

I can see the KKK right now with their feet up
eating popcorn in a mansion somewhere.
Watching fool’s do a better job than them in HD;
thinking it may be time for early retirement.

NIGGAS ARE BLACK PEOPLE
THAT LYNCH THEMSELVES.

Its sad because if you ask a rapper why,
they smile and tell you its part of their culture.
That people watch it and love it.
But people also watched the twin towers collapse,
so does that mean they loved that too?

And why don’t novelist
or actors ever beef?
I never heard Denzel Washington
call Samuel Jackson ah “fuck boy”.
Or Paulo Coelho tell Robin Sharma
he’s going to “shoot ‘em when he sees him”.

This is why people see us as threats.

So when you’re walking down the street
and white folks are locking their car doors,
its probably because in your last song you said
your “trigger finger’s itchin’ for ah homicide”.

But don’t mind me,
I’m just another hating nigga
throwing shade out the bus window.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

#Ebola

She’s an African girl with a french kiss
that can make your insides bleed…

Your body ache…
the butterflies in your
stomach grow claws.

She smooches over every inch of
your body with her lethal lips leaving
a trail of hickies behind—flesh-eating
ones that look like red rose petals
tattooed on skin.

She hates humans with a passion.
In fact, the only thing she likes about
them is the way their voices crack
whenever they say her name.

Her hobby is dancing at funerals.
Her occupation is streetwalking for the Grim Reaper.
Her dream is to one day travel the world.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Fuck Cancer

My grandmother was strangled to death 
by the bloodstained hands of cancer.

I imagine the disease one night sliding
down her windpipe and tip-toeing
like a burglar into her lungs – *again*.
I say *again* because the first time
he wasn’t strong enough to finish the job.

You see,
cancer and death made a
deal years before I was born.

(…Work was picking up for death – 
as it usually does in the summer. 
So one sunny morning he 
gave a few of his top hit men
a call and told them if they came 
through as usual, the reward 
would be bountiful…)

The first time,
cancer underestimated
my grandmothers fight.
So death empathized with him
and they both agreed to wait
until she was practically senile –
COWARDS.

…Then BOOM!

Her corpse is in an incinerator
being cremated and we’re outside
teary-eyed wondering why God
always lets the bad guys win.

My dad told me something about death
being a bully and that funerals are like a
shindig for him and his posse of rapscallions.

Back then, I wanted to find every
one of them and cut their throats
with the shards of our broken hearts.

But I guess that wouldn’t make me
much different, huh?

Friday, October 10, 2014

Multi-Billion Dollar Industry

Nowadays…
kids take Adderall like skittles;
catch Ritalin in their mouth like
popcorn.

Doctors write out prescriptions like welcome letters.
Mothers read them like Bedtime Stories.

…Everybody feels a little more heroic.
They dance, they laugh, they smile –
we clap.

“Adults are never wrong”, right?

Just lock your child’s mind into a
dungeon until whatever’s left of them
comes crawling out “normal”,
if thats what you call it.

If “normal” is hot-wiring somebodies brain,
than I guess vacation is another word for
kidnap.

…Aren’t we all so lucky?
…Shouldn’t we all be counting
our blessings on bloody fingers?