Gold in Fifty

To Be, or Not.

perpetuatingthewheel:

My Bitches and Nigga-g’s. I reference me,
not thee. With a joke:

What do you get when a WASP hits a bar
and says hey there bitch,
get my drink!?

…The irrevocable schmuck of the bar.

Now, when a female walks in with her pack of bitches
and black widow hoe’s, they have earned rights
to their goldin embroidered Satin Bombers and name;
by path. One morsel other’s tend to take, and bash,
poke and pry with self-indulgent fantasy.

We can call ourself that because:

History has been a struggle. 

And to you, whom tamper the footprint:
the monument you build leans its way to Fall. In leaves
and small pox bundles, overwritten Holiday’s, Dear Columbus,
I’m not talking to you, but I hear your fleet flapping sails
in the wind and I’ve seen the pictures they have painted of me
to send home. I am not that savage one. I never will be
—even stripped of my fields and bulbs, my toiled fruits
—I’ve seen the unedited text,
and I hear thoughts from the horizon.

I am not the wind at your back,
the wind is we.