Four Poems – Julian Randall

the homie:



Fuck Tha Police: a Family History in my Father’s voiceI overheard your mother saying she more hood than me fuck that. now your mother she from Washington Heights in the 60’s she season all her food with things that sound like blood but she don’t really know what blood sounds like. She’s never seen an entire city bus implode from the first sound of some nigga’s throat or the weight of his finger on a boombox and then every- thing howls chaos a storm of tense flesh craving nothing but escape and only finding more maze and everything that does to bones. Which is an arthritis I picked up in St. Louis. so what I’m saying is that your mother isn’t Black Doesn’t understand blood Not like I do Every night I pray to every god that I haven’t outgrown that she never has to but she’s got you…

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