When you have an idea, and it came from conflict, and you remember that you’re a social super node. And that’s where all the confusion comes from. And then you realize that you’re already overcommitted, and today was just panicky. The Taco Bell was fucked up like it always is. They never get it right because they slang hard out the lobby and only take pickup and delivery orders, and dude I know I was high key when I was in the game but my designer shirts was art label shit that had runs of fifty that you can’t find pictures of on the internet anymore, with you lookin’ like you just walked out the Gucci store in Plaza Frontenac getting hounded by that one fuckin’ police dog because you’re black and you’re lookin’ out that door past the now hiring sign you’re pickin at in your puffer making thousand yard stare eye contact with me in my Adidas golf sweater that I have to hang dry in a Subaru Crosstrek thinkin’ about what kinda life I got and how I’m whiite not knowing the Crosstrek is in mom’s name, I fight for my bread, and if you think for one second just because you got a Kel Tec or a S&W you picked up off your boy tucked in them too tight off brand joggers with your D&G Crossbody fulla grams, that you don’t see the same pain in my blue eyes reflected in your shark bole irises and pupils, a shared brotherhood of societal transgression and the revolving door of the prison industrial conplex, brother, if you would come out to the car you could hop in, roll a spliff and we could share war stories or horror stories. Or sit in silence. But you’e a young buck and this is the end of South Grand off the strip by the KFC, White Castle, Walgreen’s, where the police have their little wish they could catch anyone flashing light with the camera set up that just catches homeless people dying in the cold all winter, or smoking meth to stay warm, and this is your spot, and what the fuck am I doing picking up Taco Bell at midnight on a Tuesday parked right fuck across two spots in my cool blue khaki because I’m so white I know the name of the color of my car, but what makes me think I can roll down the window, chew my juicy fruit Nicorex Target Up&Up knockoff and blast Gucci Mane out my window in the cold, my breath fogging out the side window from the nuclear cooling tower of my mouth, mouthing along Got them collard greens, sell a lot of things Four plus a four, dawg, that's a chicken wing (yeah) Trapping in a drought, money in the vault Bring me another pot and another fo', Gucci. Put the pounds in the trash can, Gucci do the dishes (yeah) Don't nobody, nobody fuck with my kitchen (yeah) Bought a old school, then I sat it on sixes (yeah) How you cop it, Gucci? Plenty working in the kitchen (huh) The manager who always fucks up my order and I don’t give a shit may let you and your friends trap out the Taco Bell, and I admire that level of nuts. It’s like capping a motherfucker in an alley down from the police station, changing your fit, putting on a hat and shades, walkin’ over in front of the precinct and calling an Uber before they can get someone out the front door. What am I doing, hipster ass white dude oversides motherfucker woo-woppin’ to Gucci like that song isn’t almost old enough to drink. But young buck, we’re both victims. Stay behind the glass, you’re too skinny and tall to not have a burner tucked. I’m 6’3” and 3’ wide and the car makes me look small. We’re both victimized by the same system. My privilege don’t give me shit aside from a shell toe in the door, and I’ve been drifting since 2012. I hope you recognize real and I look familiar, because you stay on that side of the glass until you’re ready to talk, until you have perspective like I had to get the hard way, and hopefully you don’t have to get it that way, and you make it out this shit alive instead of pop pop and pour one out for another soldier down in Dutchtown, because this is a blue city but a red state, so we just sit here and be cool because if you take one foot out that door and I see it in your eye, I see that want, I see that insult, cuz nobody fuck with my kitchen, I see that look where I’ve gentrified the block, but I was the block before you sir were having rap dreams sold to you by liars who never pulled a trigger, poets of the crack era filtered to the next two generations gone feral and mumbling how Timmy Turner got a burner, kill ey’body movin’, and yeah, Gucci came out in ‘17 so changed they said he’d been replaced, a whole new vocabulary and where’s the ice cream on his face, and Thugga saw nearly a thousand days inside that cage, with a backup even his money can’t buy him out of, and I know I got lucky because I was white and moved militant before Benny the Butcher was talkin’ bout the Black Mafia Family up in Buffalo and said “I’m thinkin’ militant”, before Westside Gun took those shots and got those scars, I was there for that last boy run from 06 until I went in. And I may only look unfamiliar bacause appearances are skin deep, but come sit down and have a chat because if that anger overcomes you god I pray for us both, because I’ve seen stupider shit happen on this end of the road, and you might quit pickin’ that sign, open that door and approach, but kid, I’m an old head, and before the time you can wrestle that drop piece from where it’s stashed halfway down your crotch under the puffer at the back of them too tight pants, you’re already too close and I’m out the car, cuz I know a jux on the way. I’m about to be crying in the street over shit we had in common and rage and reactivity over appearances, white motherfucker in a Subaru at Taco Bell wrong time wrong place, you’re too close, the ritual hits you, and we’ve created a confusing obscenity. Because I’m too old to not keep sharp and I don’t have the luxury of using a blicky, but the pearl handle of my knife blue cap hilt deep up under your ribs and my hand grabbing yours grabbing that burner you shouldn’t have felt you needed in the first place so you could survive, all these fucking confusions and this country we’re in, this racial divide and the music, the righteous anger, the wrong end of Grand, just turned a depressed food run into a tragedy. I’ve committed a gross act of white supremacy. My history of violence isn’t something you could have seen. Maybe if I’d worn the tiger stripe vest and my beard wasn’t so clean, but sometimes a perfect storm is a perfect storm and I’m not saying it’s white guilt, but I’m not saying I don’t blame you because fuck, you didn’t know better. My name is lost to the city along with my horrible legacy. And my hands will never be clean of this theoretical white on black violence, just get out another tube of cheap acrylic, squeeze it crimson in a bowl and dip my hands in it, the red was starting to fade and your last breath blood bubbles and I see the light fade from those eyes I knew weren’t shark black but just like mine, a different color, same fucked up circumstances, a different time. I’ll get off because this is the blown up heart of the Mississippi, St. Louis Misery, “I’m sorry officer, it was self defence” and it’s just more fucked up shit in my personal history. A year and a half ago when the Saint was fresh burned and I was still wishing I didn’t have to live the rest of my life without it. You could have come up to my open window slower than shit pulling that piece, put it against my temple while I was singing and I knew violent delights had violent ends and I deserved that sort of energy, that ice cold metal hole and two flashes, pop, pop, shout out, earn your stripes, and drop the gun, hit the cuts, maybe I slump against the horn, god what a fitting elegy.