“Prose-chella Thoughts (Death To The System)”

Shay-Shay…rechercher pour le degré MFA — all in an effort to take filtered pics in a sundress, complete with D’Ussé and lemonade; cheating by looking at the big screen because she doesn’t know the words to Beyoncé. Dating a bare-footed fellow, heir of cotton-soft colonizer, and he won’t let her.

Then, she met Griselda on the Westside of the park, trying to escape the Machine meant to Butcher all that she really is and means. The means to an end being low-paying gigs at pretentious literary magazines, with wannabe Paris Review themes. Meanwhile, she just wants to be all of the things that made Common sing The Light, back when he used to love Her. Fenty makeup in her Telfar bag, considers it blasphème that women call themselves socialites, yet they still use Vaseline.

And me? I’m on the outside, looking in with my face screwed, a Raw cone, organic, of course, with a Bic, about to get lit. And, speaking of comma, all that is unabridged in Oxford; you’d need a Rhodes scholar to holler at me in bilingual whispers, while I’m giving fingers to ya Queen.

Double-entendre for the quick readers and fast listeners. I could re-invent the quatrains Nastradamus used, to instead describe what it means when you predict and breathe life into organisms, instead of the ending to beings.

But shorty still needs me to go sit down at a writer’s retreat, under an old tree at some prestigious university — as if a Dead Poet’s Society could interpret What Dreams May Come when you survive Robin Williams’s thoughts.

I’m tossing freebies to Hov, Curren$y and The King. And make others pay it forward, for all the nights I prayed for it, then woke up to days where I still had to wait for it.

With all of this fire.

Fin