Posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 6:03 am
Author: Feature Writer
Gc contributor: Sim Stafford
Please note than an audio version is now available below the text.
I have a friend who says the “N”:
A Whiteboy who’s crazy as sin.
“What up my ‘N’!?” when my call
Reaches him. “Nothing much, Homey,”
I reply with a subtle stall
In my mind: “Sticks and stones is all
It would take to break his bony
Maybe I should bounce his head
On rubber cement ’til foamy
Suds bubble. Homey don’t know me—
Must not—but who am I to dread
As the noose-knotty wood burned cross,
From which our forefathers were led,
Shines bright in the room the “N”‘s said?
Yet, still my friend ventures to toss
Those five or six letters around
Recklessly with no thought of cost,
Or how much of his soul is lost—
Spent—spending time digging old ground
For new rhetoric expression:
A nasty note with a sweet sound;
A hateful song where love resounds,
“Is it progression or regression?”
A question I ask the sinner,
“Is it intent and inflection?”
Retorts my guilty reflection.
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