The Pusher

He bad O he bad He make a honky poot. Make a honky's blue eyes squint anus tight, when my man look in the light blue eyes. He thinks He don't play His Afro crown raises eyes. Raises eyebrows of wonder and dark envy when he, combed out, hits the street. He sleek Dashiki Wax-printed on his skin remembrances of Congo dawns laced across his chest. Red Blood Red and Black. He bought O he got Malcolm's paper back. Checked out the photo, caught a few godly lines. Then wondered how many wives/daughters of Honky (miscalled The Man) bird snakebird snake caught, dug them both. (Him, Fro-ed Dashiki-ed and the book.) He stashed He stands stashed Near, too near the MLK Library. P.S. naught naught naught. Breathing slaughter on the Malcolm X Institute. Whole fist balled, fingers pressing palm. Shooting up through Honky's blue-eyed sky. “BLACK IS!” “NATION TIME!” “TOMORROW'S GLORY HERE TODAY” Pry free the hand Observe our Black present. There lie soft on that copper palm, a death of coke. A kill of horse eternal night's barbiturates. One hundred youths sped down to Speed. He right O he bad He badder than death yet gives no sweet release.