the new doctor knows his niggers ‘cause he worked
Brooklyn where we called this—
he wonders if i know why they call it
Flatbush Diabetes [fucker just can’t help] [
‘cause black people, i know, [think,
/ am, therefore—] but don’t say.
i mean, it is kinna kind, the mean
meaning making, /
brown-me ain’t Brooklyn born nor bound nor bound
to anything [worth buying (into)]. my white friends read Zinn,
love J. Law, but—
oh, i ain’t gotta do it, do i?
sugar is the killing crop; azucar is the killing crop; sucrose is
dirty crowl of national interest, my dizzy making / my
dazzled breaking. my coffee is taken hostile and free of
moreover, die-a-beates can be regulated with diet and exercise /
with die-ins and exorcisms:
the spirit hacking it up,
the spirit hashing it out.
how abt something sweeter / somethin’ neater:
i wouldn’t say the U.S. systemically neutered black women
or anything like DEAD SLAVE SUGAR
but i gotta—
that’s history. all there is, folks. anyone can die
for a cause—a sign of maturity is to live day by day for a cause.
my privatized pop-off? my hypertenative
doctor knows how nice his office holds—offers coffee
and bets, just knows, you’d love it with sugar,
but know better.
so it goes
i love what i can’t
like any respectable traumacist.