The Poet is a White Boy & Other Clichés

The poet is a white boy. Hair down to here. Hangs when he drops his head the way he does--pretty--hair falling to frame a fresh boy face recently goateed. Twisted in what he thinks is a Black man's pain cause niggas--that's N-I-G-G-A-S which makes it awright--are down with that pain thing. Kerouac Jack dug--cause that's what cats did in beat days--they dug--he dug that the White had long since lost the pain thing that the Negro mainlined from the source.

And the poet boy pushes back his hair, and again, and poses, a strip of flesh peeking between holy 501's and a t-shirt that's very carefully just a b i t t o o s h o r t. Tonight he'll get laid. The short blond with the eager breasts has never met him before but is burning to ease his pain. Can't sit still. She's applauding and he hasn't even started yet.

The poet is a white boy taping Yo! MTV Raps! video niggas--tapes tapping the attitude-cadenced sound of the yes-he-said-it, niggers who get raw in the dreams of the girlfriend he left at home, shortish dark hair, full lips on ivory. The poet can hang but he's not hung, not like the niggas--that's N-I-G-G-A-S, reclaimed by a neo-nigga on a cee dee so it's okay.

The poet is a bi-curious poesy boy, too cool to be hot in black leather under burning spots, looking soft in the smoke of the poets' cafe. Reading yet another blood-encrusted, gutter-dragged poem, rusted needles just above wrist slits, clean and symmetrical. Pretty. Pretty as the white boy whose mocha-dipped stylings will get him between the eager breasts of the short blonde, now beside herself and masterbating with her boyfriend's hand. Girl eyes kissing the curving neck of the boy, a poet, now stepping down into the smoke--a whispy white puff of attitude with a dip nod for the brother, his nigga, in the front row.

DNL