Rhys Langston - Sky Drive (Three Diatribes) lyrics

[Diatribe: spoken word fidgets in the back of the room, wanting to immediately understand] a bus full of dynamite and a burnt road: in effect, college logic “Why are we driving when it's five minutes away?” 41 grilled cheese sandwiches somewhere in Modesto, California “n***a, what happened to 42?” desert basketball and the humidity of an ice cream cake “Which place was it?” “That place.” the tan line separating n***a and whiteboy that happens to be under the earphones “Why that sh** so bright?” the choice between line and theft is easier before the orange jumpsuit; pickled chitlins and breakfast in nothing more than minstrel pocket tricks “Bro, where the center at?” a fat man on a rooftop and two bald women rarely have questions about each other “So, I can't rap without a dick?” “Naw, it's not in the budget.” folds of the blanket stay when it's not washed in two bodies explicating chump change and sketches of Hispaniola— no luck with the ladies “n***a, listen to me!” a king in burgundy and his crown of rusted adult school, late night conquering “Why am I free?” a cla**room of diverse pigeons with breadcrumbs in all colors sing “It's a Small World After All”, meaning really: none “What is Mental?” (laughs)“Mental is slavery.” guitar strings of hydrogen tones and there is a gay pride video game continue the fingernail enlightenment “How long were Jefferson's?” conversion of measured shadows to a metric equal “How dark is she?” Halle Berry in Swordfish and his sword itches a skin-tone competition in Brussels, World Championship, (x2) a skin-tone competition in Brussels, World-motherf**ing-Championship [Diatribe: Bus Stop 17:00] cosmic crabmeat, imitation nebula, slaves to teeth burn stars into nonfiction ink, one-handed typing; a picture of skyline tigers, but stripes break the light for pipe dreams, previously followed along the middle yellow of a highway: the lineated prose of two shoes clobbered in muck and over dropped pennies. returned home the pronoun asks, what does tea do besides inhale the cold? (the he and the she— absent from robes, folds in a patterned cave— a congress being, a burka) then yelling proper noun past the chicken crossing the butchers block; overhead pigeons leave their stoplight nests, the green leaving, reds and yellows call themselves hands on the waiting legs. reds and yellows call themselves hands on the waiting legs [Diatribe: Packed in Sardine-tin Loneliness] blunts in the backseats, flame and Eleanor Roosevelt— moonlit dashboard, raisinets and legacy of presidents' precedence. overture, dead presidents to represent hearing reminiscent of #42 at the local delicatessen, there is graffiti on my favorite wall and in my favorite pants. direct in word choice and diagonal uniforms; as the crow flies, “hipster” is an ascot if I drive a few more miles. “that's ghetto” on the lips of partygoers, singed dispensary cards and three spokesmen for the Black experience. one well hidden, blonde grabs brown curly and wherever home is sounds good right now. 2:57 am with rolled-up window dry-heaving, I've been sorry for too long. a search for verse in drunk short skirt exchanges: is it me, unable to accept revisions? one draft and no phone numbers. catharsis in Doritos and unfinished sketches. wherever home is, I am broken syntax. the routine of a donut shop. the rhythm of a plane crash. * scared to step into this room: the semantics of semantics, apes chucking poo, caught in dialogue about silence (no parking after 12). instead driving a few miles to sit on the curb not too close to one's apartment. visible breath in that cold the definition of insanity and afrobeat transiency to think This poem is sure to bring vagina and escaped thoughts about revisions before the first draft...