Four Poems by Aaron Counts
Eazy-E at the Republican Senate Inner Circle Luncheon
To Eazy, squab was a verb; definition:
to fight. But when the plate slid in front
of him filled with a roasted bird,
neck twisted over wilted greens
and talon wrapped around a pearl onion,
the waiter said to him, Your squab, sir.
Eazy looked around the table and asked
nobody in particular, Man, I paid twenty five
hunnerd for this little ass chicken?
There was a smattering of laughter, so Eazy
played along, calling out to Connie Mack, the only
senator whose name he remembered, Yo Connie,
he wasn’t kidding about the squab, was he?
Cuz I’m finna fight somebody over this shit.
Truth be told, he would’ve felt
much more at home fighting than he did
dining with those senators who’d branded
his songs obscene just a few months prior.
But Eazy had been many places where people
felt he didn’t belong, and he had the dimpled
knuckles to prove it. Luckily, nobody talked
trash, so nobody’s card got pulled that afternoon.
Instead, Eazy-E, the thug from around the way,
sat back in his black leather suit, close enough
to stab the president with a ball point pen.
Sleight of Hand
J could sever the jugular of any record
you dared dig up, juggling beats with the second-
hand sweep of his Seiko, and he never missed
his mark. We learned our swagger when he spun,
bebopping into clubs with just a few bucks
and even fewer IDs. Pounding fists
rather than shaking hands cause DJs lick
fingertips for better grip while scratching.
And man could J scratch. He was
a magician. His mixes hypnotized us.
Heads still bow in respect to his ability to bedevil
crowds by playing the Beastie’s Paul Revere beat
backwards–holding the inverted needle
to the underside of the record as it spun
counter clockwise, held aloft by a spool of thread.
That was long before he started to spin out
of control. He’s unraveling now, standing crooked-
spined on street corners, zombie-eyed, espousing
astral realities to no one in particular while matted
locks hurtle down his back toward the concrete
he calls home. There is so much I want to say to him,
but my tongue is dumb struck and I only manage small
talk and a hug. When my hand slides the five dollar bill
into his, I wonder what magic licks his fingertips now.
Letter to the Visiting Poet who Told the High School Audience
Hip Hop is Too Easy
for Yusef K.
You, sir, knew hard once.
Before book tours and boutique hotels,
you walked a similar path
to these boys who have yet
to earn your respect,
soldiering through the jungles
of a strange land with no path
to follow save the rain-filled
footsteps of those in front of you.
These boys are ravenous.
They rip open language like
MRE rations, gnawing
on machismo and violent verbs—
dogs fighting for alpha-position.
You rest easy in bed,
but their heads know nothing
of 600-thread-count pillowcases;
they can’t stuff their ears with
Egyptian cotton and refuse to hear
the anguished sound of a son’s
tongue, plucked like strange fruit.
They carry the weight,
daily, the way you once did.
The young man with the target
on his chest is your son, shouting
the ugly his old man doesn’t
want to hear, using a ballpoint pen
as a toothpick.
Cross/Fade for Jay
All them brothers need to just pause
–Run-DMC
You were laughing when your killer stepped
into the dim studio, rain still dripping from the hood
of his black bomber. Your wide smile reflected the glow
of the TV, where a Playstation hummed with the new Madden.
Loyalty was important, so you played as the Giants
while Tony repped the Jets. Thick thumbs flicked
the sticks like a crossfader, breaking Tiki free
for a hard-run touchdown. After a couple taunts, you paused
the game, standing to slap hands with the shooter.
Were you close enough to smell the wave grease
under his hood? Were his knuckles still cold from that October
chill? Did you embrace? There was a jagged lump of steel
pressed against his spine. Maybe it reminded you of the dimpled
indent still heavy in your own back—your pistol lying harmless
like a lazy Siamese cat on the arm of the couch.
A phone rattled on the table, and everyone reached
for their waistbands. That’s when you caught your last break.
Shots clapped like snares, and you crumpled to the floor,
breathless, slumping in the sticky puddle spreading under
the supple leather of the sofa.
[author_info]Aaron has written, read and taught creative writing with professors, prisoners, dropouts & scholars. He is an artist-in-residence with Seattle’s Writers-in-the-Schools program and his non-fiction text, Reclaiming Black Manhood, is taught in jails and penitentiaries. Aaron’s poetry and prose has appeared in print and online, and he is the winner of the 2011 Nazim Hikmet Poetry Competition. Aaron holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of British Columbia, but is just as proud that he still owns his turntables and a closet full of dusty vinyl. [/author_info]
Aaron’s poems are full of heart. Their stories belong to us all. Excellent, Aaron.
Aaron’s work is a crown jewel in the slowly burgeoning tradition of hip hop poetry. I am blown away and can’t wait to see him on stage (again).
eli
I was all the way IN the Easy-E piece and the one for Yusef K. was yummy.
These are unreal! Found Aaron on twitter and had to see it to believe it. Awesome.