Sometimes I wake up after a strange dream,
only I can't fall back to sleep again,
maybe I repeat a phrase in my head,
even after writing it down, the lead
to my pencil breaks, I sharpen the point
in a jiffy with my Buck knife, a ream,
mostly recycled sheets of paper, taunts
even out of the corner of my eye,
sometimes it is bold and calls me "chicken".
"I will burn you to cinders," I reply,
"wishful thinking, I am your manuscript,
as Bulgakov knows, manuscripts don't burn,
kiss my ass, Rooster, you're still fried chicken,
even if you write a novel, what then..."
under all the trash talk, I came to learn,
paper can neither speak nor write a book,
as I got out of bed to make some eggs,
for a moment I thought I heard, "chicken"
to my astonishment from the bedroom,
even I must be imagining things,
really, how acid lingers in the brain,
a half dozen hits in high school, once more
shakin' my rumpa at a twelve hour rave,
the acid made me keenly aware, drugs
really fucked me up for years, three decades
and a ream of paper talks back to me,
"nigga be trippin' he not even black,
grow some balls, Rooster, you torsion runner,
even your testicle would not stay down..."
"damn, call the kettle black, ream of paper,
really, because Frames Stewart lost his shit,
even that self-righteous bigot can't run
a lick fast enough to keep up with me,"
maybe I should try to go back to sleep?
No comments:
Post a Comment