A barking dog is a warning, a barking man is troubled.
|
Young Nigga I
The young niggas you know what i’m sayin’ the young niggas slappin hands pow pow pow slappin hot hands together you know what i’m sayin slappin hot hands then pullin gats and blowin holes in each other’s manhood you know what i’m sayin pow pow pow guts runneth over south side chi--town eastside philly oakland, Kinsasha, Luanda you know what i’m sayin my ass drowns cause niggas slap hands then blow holes in each other’s manhood. Maybe just maybe we oughta greet each other by shakin dicks you know what i’m sayin instead of this hand slappin bullshit it ain’t a love jones thang you know what i’m sayin it’s an intimacy thang just maybe we gotta feel each other get close to the thang that created us to know us to survive us. This ain’t bout no back door action it’s about us surviving ‘til the trilenium you don’t feel me yet but one day you will be conscious one day nigga, it will be our day. |
Excerpt
Eartha Pearl and her man-hating cousin never want to go nowhere. When it’s daytime, they say it’s too hot. When it’s evening, they say they don’t want to get caught out at night. And when it’s night Eartha and her cousin share the bed and give me a rug on the floor with my feet in the bathroom and my head in the kitchen. So I spend most of my time riding the subways and checking out the humanity that rides with me: Brothers singing opera or preaching Malcolm X; cripples on crutches hustling dollars--throw a dime right back at your ass; folks changing clothes--stripping down to their Swiss cheese drawers and looking indignant at you for looking at them. All Eartha Pearl experienced was that suicide that jumped out the window of her cousin’s building. Of course that was something to see. We hear this screaming in broad open daylight and look out the window. There’s something spread out like a bloody chicken on a car’s roof. Downstairs in the middle of a circle of people, a young white boy lies naked on the roof of a black Cadillac with cow horns on the hood. His legs are spread as if he’s relaxing on a bed instead of frying in his own hot blood. The car’s owner stands with his arms folded across his chest. Every now and then he kicks a tire or fender and yells “Goddamn!” In a window above us, an old woman waves and screams like a hawk. “Goddamn! What she want me to do? Throw him back up to her? Who’s gonna pay for my car?” The car’s owner asks as he kicks a fender. |
Related Book(s)
