Riot Act, April 29, 1992
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
Like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of the big house,
while massa looks out the window and sees only smoke.
Massa doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raiders' cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
Archangel
For Chet Baker
You stepped through
the Van Gogh blue curtain
into my dream.
That day in Paris,
we sat at the outdoor café for hours.
I had high breasts
and my dress was cut low.
You leaned close to me, so close;
yet, did not touch.
"I don't need to," you said, "it's the dope,
it's the rush
so much better than lust.
Hush, take a deep breath
and you'll just go to sleep like I did."
I knew you were hustling me,
that underneath the hipster philosophy
lay the same old Chet out to score.
Still, I lent you money, still I followed you
to the pissoir,
where Lucien gave you "le fix."
Shaking his head, he pocketed the money and said,
"I heard you were dead,"
and you answered, "I am."
You said when you slammed into the pavement,
Amsterdam shook, then settled back into apathy,
the way we all do, when we are through
with the foolishness of living.
You ended up sharing your works with a whore
who waited outside the pissoir door,
you generostiy as pathetic
as it was predictable.
You wanted sainthood like everybody else.
Instead, you earned the wings
that were too late to save you,
but not too late to raise you
up to junkie heaven.
Later, we stood on the steps of Notre Dame.
You were calm, as you pointed to the bell tower.
You said you saw Quasimodo up there,
holding Esmeralda over the edge
by her hair,
but all I saw staring down were the gargoyles
who'd found peace,
because it meant nothing to them.
"I see," I lied, to please you,
but you knew and you blew me a kiss.
You wished me "bonne chance,"
then you eased into flight,
as the cool, jazzy, starry night
opened its arms to retrieve you.
(c) 1993 Ai. All rights reserved.
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