Adrian Matekja
Do the Right Thing
Spike Lee is so small I didn't even
see him at first, surrounded
see him at first, surrounded
by Black Expo goers like a gumdrop
in a fist. When I asked him to sign
in a fist. When I asked him to sign
my "Free South Africa" t-shirt,
he said, You didn't buy that at this
he said, You didn't buy that at this
booth. Fresh off seeing Do the Right
Thing, I crowed: "What's that got
Thing, I crowed: "What's that got
to do with your movies?" His fans
laughed, so he edited me like my name
laughed, so he edited me like my name
was Pino: Why you care? You
ain't even black. Someone behind
ain't even black. Someone behind
me said, Damn, Spike. That ain't
right. But Spike's shamed scribble
right. But Spike's shamed scribble
on my t-shirt didn't change the missed
free throw feeling in my chest.
free throw feeling in my chest.
Riff:
A Substitute in Lovejoy Highschool
Every February MLK and company permeates
the cracked cinder block of my alma mater.
A swell of pink construction paper `
A swell of pink construction paper `
hearts and black pride.
These soft dark bodies buzzing in time
with the bleached florescent, their sagging
t-shirts, long as nightgowns declare
them as asphalt revolutionaries.
You don't even know who the hell
Che Guevara was, yet your teenage
whispers label me as bitch, another cracker
in the laundry list full of substitutes.
What do I know about struggle,
in my crisp button down and Rockports?
About losing a mother to the crack pipe?
Or covering rent in my cardboard apartment?
They eye me as sixth period's squeal
cracks the hasp of their shackles.
Their hot brass stares burying
in the kevlar of my chest.
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