All dem kids sittin’ round laughin and talkin’ shit—
boys with corn rows and lined up fros wearin baggies
playin ball on the indoor courts at the Clinton Rec.
Healthy activities for young black/hyspanic/po-white bodies
was typed on the funding application.
The Youth Worker has a 270 degree view from his peeling laminate desk
hidden behind striped two-way shatter-proof glass,
the office door stays open, he likes to be accessible.
Bleary eyes zero in on the clock on the far wall of the court,
its hand points out the last seconds of his twelve hour shift.
All dem girls sitting round on plastic chairs and uneven tables
belting out the lyrics to En’Vogue and Blackstreet
TLC and Brownstone
they own doze lyrics—harmonies are on point
bell rings
5pm
lights off; tha singin don’t stop
it jus flows down the cement steps and out into S Hicks street.

STOP COPS

Weedy lil copper man
powerless but for beige and brown cotton
black and silver steel.
This is routine.
Standing at the bottom of steps. He speaks through his nose,
“Y’all think y’all so good don’t ya?”

The crowd of youths that may have been happy stop
posed on each step lower their masks of no expression,
well educated in being Black/Hispanic/po-white by elders who are still alive
conditioned responses to the taunts of the Tennessee constabulary.
“THESE KIDS HAVE NO RESPECT!”
murmurs.

The temptation to give these Mutha Fuckas what they expect
attempts to incite in head voices and murmurs, speaking to indignation and a young man’s ego
Only its disembodied voice rises above the baseline hum of the crowd, “Pig!”
Non-violence
meets
non-violence
Not seeking a cause for the effect of fists, rebel words rise out of the pavement
no stepping off to let them pass
TARGET ACQUIRED
“Cop killas, all up in they chest, and I know what to do with that vest, man.
Twenty-two shots. I killa.
You don’t want to fuck with Bone, nigga. And it really ain’t shit to pu1l a trigger
on a copper, ’cause if I go down, some of y’all goin’ down, ’cause I’m goin’
down poppin’.
So muthafuck all coppers. Let me catch you slippin’, nigga, bet I pop ya.
the children’s chorus
POP POP,
POP POP,
POP POP
POP POP,
POP POP,
POP POP
POP POP
to tha sky three fingers tucked, thumb
and pointer cocked
POP POP,
POP POP,
POP POP
POP POP,
POP POP,
POP POP
POP POP
DIRECT HIT

Weedy cop and his light-skin offsider sink back into the sidewalk
beige shirts morphing with the twilight and smog from the nearby powerstation.

The wounded limp home to nurse their injuries with Koolaid and Super Mario
Triumphant in victory only until the chorus of Bone Thugs dies inside their ears.

This poem includes an extract from ‘No Surrender’ by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony © RUTHLESS RECORDS 1994.