we. deez tray i use to think shooting stars and comets ‘were the effects of God emptying the loose change from his pockets, and that, silver lining wwas a zipper found in the fabric of God's purse, old baggage... full of crinkled bill that kept former presidents and slave owners alive, i think that man, wasn’t always 50... savage until, he found a faltered stitch in the fabric and pulled thread, emptying all of God’s belongings all over the earth's table like black doves being released from the grip of a magician’s handkerchief, ‘cause tricks, are often creative traps in disguise... like rappers misleading words on platinum records that fall like halos towards ground zero of the ghetto where young jitts hula hoop with them, double dutching on land mines intricately placed like comerstones in our comer stores, that are designed by the same minds that televised the frying egg in the frying pan, the message ran, “this is your brain on drugs”... only meant that a junkies mind was a delicacy ‘cause if eggs break that easy, then there’s a fragileness to be discovered in being sober. higher leaming for those most fortunate and important Ashe Experiments informed how simply minorities conform,absorbing subliminal orders like insubordinate soldiers posted on the curves of governmental infrastructures ‘oven baked complexions, half baked intentions, dying in the trenches of a trap, dying, ‘while serving sentenees in corrections... pecking, bread crumbs the pecking order like trap pigeons roosting in a mechanical coop, “cause the only way you gon’ be fly is by taking the roof off of the coup. preferably #at the red light # in sight of those who molded, created, and recreated us with a purpose to hurt us, the Hekel & Jekel feathers that metaphorically beat us with crowbars. “cause kid Iearus would have been another wax candle figurine in south florida prison cell weather. just another kid, another myth, another statistic. ‘bumed between the missing teeth of a skinny fiend and the milli rock ‘of a teen in skinny jeans, gold wings and leather shoe strings pulled so tight by gipettto on a pair of timbs so clean you'd pass your dreams as if you studied for nightmares, ‘clinging on the rare coat tals of forever, on replay like cycles and ciphers ‘that cyclone around a e c k ssn so the nuance of hanging ourselves with golden charmed pieces of Jesus that chained us to a system where laws aren't chiseled in stone. their engraved in the bones of ancestors ‘who hung like decorations from the porches of white supremacists anti-depressants prescribed to pacify and dumb down the anger channeling it forward, towards Channel #9 ‘but never the 13! amendment... ignorance, ‘were the ashes the Jim Crow rose from like the phoenix. funny, ‘how they pay our own people to demean us, leading us. trapping our image like o-dawsg in the ver cassette of our adolescence totin’ the chrome sideways, was a false gangsters way of missing his goals. in retrosight, the real life pacs,died when bishop fell from the roof, the jim jones sweet nectar BALLIN # poisoning our youth... the truth is much more than a cigarette commercial. its hills, pills, hurdles, ‘mountains, segregated water fountains that sprang crystal clear racism that gulped up old folks like sinkholes in cemetaries... traps. don’t set themselves, set in motion from elementary to penitentiary we've been taught to defend ourselves anda dollar. why win a spelling bee for an award, when you can sell a key for a Porsche. it’s the whip that endorses and forces the horse’s power, and it's the clumsy who power trip over trap lines, that weren’t recognized... that weren’t defined by the crime they already knew you'd commit, but by the very definition of trap: ‘an apparatus, used for hurling trap pigeons in the air for trap shooters... the same ones, who snorted our silver linings, and found a stitch in the hemming of the devil's prada bag. tearing the velcro as loud as the sound of a thousand single grieving mothers. trap pigeonsguttering out of freshly dug graves that blink like watery eyes in scope of a trap shooter’s sport. the blame the court the comer the coroner the mourner the ery the questioning of God the why! his simple reply. “why not? hhe was born in da tap.”