Thursday, September 13, 2007
A poem, third fourth draft:
The Grand National Nightmare is over –
Barry Bonds FINALLY hit those fucking home runs.
Now we can move on to hating Michael Vick
because electrocuting puppies is waaay worse than doing steroids.
And since he happens to be black,
we won’t have to demonize any white athletes.
But first,
Picture four friends.
They are 12, and walking back from school.
They see a girl beating down some dude,
yelling to give back her headphones,
encouraged by the friends that surround them.
One of her people
says the white kid
is laughing at her.
Three friends are named 'Aamir, Shapel and Kareem.
The fourth
is Benjamin.
He is surrounded,
and hit twice
and they laugh.
They take the Yankee hat Kareem just bought
because they won the World Series
and the rest of the city
is celebrating.
Because of this
you know in your stomach
that when a friend cracks wise
about his latest DWB,
it's not just an attempt at black humor.
We are the sons and daughters of the Civil Rights generation,
and for the first time
when the dominant popular culture
is colored.
Our poetry has become Def,
Jammed into breakbeats
and sped-up soul samples,
stomped around in Air Force Ones
and steel-toed Timberland boots,
our flat-brimmed fitteds sittin' sideways
bling so bright you can see it in the dictionary.
But all the ice shines cold light
in distracting directions
and the snow trapped
in the mainstream
makes music like Minstrels.
These are some things you probably know:
Barry Lamar Bonds.
Leftfield.
Black.
Already established as the best player of his generation,
Bonds hits 351 home runs after the age of 35.
He collects four straight MVPs.
This is one more than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance-enhancing drugs.
As is Gary Sheffield,
black,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters seek
Two books are written.
The world wants its records back.
These are some things you should know if you don't:
William Roger Clemens
Pitcher
White
A one-time phenom thought to be on the decline,
Clemens wins four Cy Young Awards for three teams
after the age of 34.
This is one less than anyone has ever earned
in their entire career.
He is named in a federal investigation
regarding illegal performance enhancing drugs.
As is Andy Pettitte,
white,
a training partner who couldn't keep up with the regimen.
Reporters pass Pettitte by for comment.
There are no books,
and Clemens gets paid $18 million
to start the season two months late,
and only join the team on days he is pitching.
Sports
they can be at the forefront of society.
Baseball broke the color barrier
seven seasons before
Brown beat the Board of Education
And now that Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith
squared off as coaches in the Super Bowl,
their landmark leadership
showcased on sports' most spectacular stage,
maybe
just maybe
we’re prepped for a black President.
In politics.
We are
Team
Fuck.
Yeah.
Just remember,
don't hate the players,
hate the games
we keep playing
with race.
Because until I can’t update this poem with parables,
we’re still separate
on unequal fields.
Labels: Barry Bonds, baseball, poetry, race, Roger Clemens
