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.