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MURSALATA MUHAMMAD

 

Detroit

 

like most over-peopled places, I'm a toilet

I stand before you w/o fašade

I aint got no identity hang-ups

 

My Northside harbors
       once-upon-a gangsters left with only grandiose stories
        Negro heydays of singin & dancin, pushin & pimpin

They aint got nothing on Eastside young-blooded killers
        some don't know they fates so
        they still ask “what's up” and play ball wit cha

My Southside should have a neon sign
       “Welcome to Wetback/Hispanic/Latino Land"
       Where the only thing separating them from the hood is a maybe Spanish accent

Bow-tied F.O.I accost you on the Westside
        with fruit/bean pies/Muhammad Speaks
        enough Malcolm X impersonation to remind one what they used to be

 

All over I breed:
        People who've forgone living any american greeting card lines
               opting to hone skills that make survival a most profitable commodity
        Women who don't love & those that do until it
               breaks noses, detaches retinas, kicks fetuses from wombs
        Crime that's 100% equal opportunity
                accompanied by un-sexist police ass kickins
That said
Give me my props:
        I once had Paradise in an Alley
        Now I got Joe Louis' fist hovering above the place white men meet

 

 

Afternoon Nap

(or Dear Linda, Americans can write love poems)

 

Don't want to got to sleep

Naked, alone

so I slip into your old cut off faded Laker shorts
        They hold no scent

Don't want cold sheet toughing

my curves,

reminding me

you're somewhere, at work

Wasting bodyheat into thin air