THE REAL DETROIT
In review I look at the list of things I have yet to do, both want and need. I know with each passing season the reason becomes more critical and less desirable. I am though, become a slouch not quite ever ready, willing, or wanting to get off the couch. Lazy? Maybe. Tired? Sick? Yes both the latter definitely. It is this place, this concrete covered space, this union between racism and harmony that takes motion and holds me (e)motionless. White ofay devil that Jesus has no love for with the your boot on the black man’s neck still, and ever will, the nigger pricks never had a job or worked at anything harder than rolling dice to win a gun used to murder, drugged schemes, rob babies of parents dreams, killed by prison stretches. Wretches is all that’s left living in this arena, lion or prey. Kneel to pray no never, never ever bend a knee before a preachin’ dog who robs the poor box. Special folk who keep that box key in the pocket of a two thousand dollar suit hanging in the back seat of a seventy thousand dollar ride, now pimped out on thirty sixes. Doing the Lords work is the last profitable employment left in this world cut loose from the rest. Fuck them all, the white baby rapers and the black pulpit pimps who only look to their own while telling me I don’t motherfucking belong simply because I be white. There is so very little right left in this place that it just marches along ignorant of its own ignoble end. I can’t be sent away or forced out and being a thorn in this crown of racist filth is worth the idleness of dreams not worth moving for.
© M Durfee