I let a girl the color of cardboard sit across from me eating a smoked salmon salad with goat cheese and candied pecans say “This is getting out of hand.” My teeth grabbed my tongue before it could spew off a few slurs about her city’s education system, and the colored who raised her. Those coloreds who wore clothes in the 80′s waiting to be called in as extras for Dynasty, and only spoke about injustice briefly when they stayed up long enough to hear their favorite reporter touch on it. I spoke with pieces of plantain still in my mouth.
“It’s been out of hand. This is the shit that happened to Radio Raheem,” I said cooly, chasing down cucumbers and tomatoes with a hard cider. She never picks up on my film references, and this one time I don’t feel like explaining it. Spike Lee didn’t make that up out of thin air. Radio Raheem was not an original thought. On my side of the tracks, he was the guy we all knew who did nothing wrong, but was killed by cops who’d get off. The tip of my tongue heavy with names I refuse to drop because I get angry too easily over these things, and this tea lounge is too close to the Charlottesville [..]
The last few months
Maybe a year
I’ve wanted several things
New oil paints
To put a hickey on your bottom lip.