Ronald Palmer – Hom: (Age To Hip) Hop:

Ronald Palmer

Hom: (Age To Hip) Hop:

“In short, blackness is a political and ethical construct.”
––Cornell West, Race-ING Justice, EN-Gendering Power

“Why is it that sexuality became, in Christian cultures, the seismograph of our
––Michel Foucault, Sexuality and Solitude

.  .  . To be read in the voice of Busta Rhymes:

Coral te:          rraces se:          cure the logic

of our gla:        cia:        l nation              so please be patient:

with my dam:              penned carto:       graphy.

I need your minds awakened:                  no        lethargy:

Allowed:          I’m black and I’m proud:          not etherized by some dumb fable:

I’ll have you earthquakin off your seismo:                      graphy:

(AND be sure to b:                    rrrrrring evidence:

of humanity’s brief feeding:                              ––from motha:earth’s toxic table:

Instead of nursing on your ally’s false temp:        tation):

Blink your ass back for re-seeding:

humans are here again:                          albeit a perp:        etual visit:           (Knock Knock:
Who is it?)         I’m your nightmare’s last fidget:

So Go On And Keep Breeding:              And I’ll deliver the hollers: the holy rollers

      (America: Why are your malls filled with strollers?)

                          I Think I’ll Send An After Thought:        So somebody Gloss it!

                          I’m the one bleeding:

                          On and off:          like a faucet

from my aching anus:                    Yo! grind back the gears: switch this bitch into reverse:

Look how the ice sheets            (thick as four million years):         mimic the universe:

This mind is perverse:                                               I hear our traumatic mothers rehearse

Their fears:          then jump up to reinvent the world for us:

wash the world with:        their tears:                      chemically fossilized in deuterium:

My rhyme’ll lock you in: to: ward’s delirium:

With 10 gigga:hertz of memory:                                         swallow the logic of darkness:
      hege:          mony era:      ses your peri:    phery:

Now:      tell me again                your gang’s fanged fuss:

if y’all rappers was intelligent

you’d be genuinely dangerous.                    Yo I’m slippery:

With a weird arro:          gance      I unwind your treaty:        with a salty hero-glance:

I ain’t pretty:        but I got enough to plead the greedy:

(And don’t you think it’s about time a faggot got angry?                I love you: you know
it: even though you’re homophobic.)

(What? I can’t hear ya:    come closer:

Did you say an:                other sero-con:  version?

whisper it here:                right into sub:    version’s con: front:        ation:

Or better yet:                  into power’s subtler ex:                              term:    in:        ation.)

I’m high as an Afro: so where else can a poem go? Except Wrong: very very: Wrong:
          But Shepherd already stole                                                Beckett’s best song:

So: should I make this:                more Dr. Seusish:            or more like Play-Dough?

Case: Dismissed:                        At least I got you thinking hard:

Your face:          in twists

Maybe we should pause this:                    till I move to the city:

Till we stir in the nitty gritty:                      with        Pity me:            Pity me:

Now you gotta trust me:                          (Your body’s so easy to free!)

And I’m counting hour: by hour:                          beyond the logic of power:

Where every berry:                    gripes:                then re-ripens to sour.

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