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]