Burns Day

My theory is that wrinkles on one’s face directly correlates to the

 Amount of face palms administered in one’s life

Which is why I do a double take

When I look in the mirror and see that my face is still clear and

Without rivers crisscrossing my face like canals through Venice.

Yet, I know that I can probably blame that on my ass hands.

That is, my ass hands, soft as a Michael Jackson caressed booty.

Yes, the same Michael Jackson that has a female pork face,

Ala, Kat Williams.

But, he definitely didn’t let the cat-out-the-hat

 And don't ask me where his other glove is

I knew from a tender age, that Michael was a dangerous man.

When my mom played Thriller in our Berkley apartment I surerly beat it.

 And that was from a four year old living in Berkeley who saw gays on a daily.

I mean, they beat it too, but I wasn’t scared of them, like some…people

I was scared of MJ.

I hope from my face-palms I can rise like Fredrick Douglas,

 But I know that ascension mirrors pretention in some parts

Ambition is a lost art, our generation rides and dies to the beat of apathy

Because we don’t believe in the gum under our shoes

I mean, ignore it as we may, but that shit is still there

Now, I’m not trying to get you to pay homage to some pie in the sky

I’m just wonderin’ where the Ginsbergian howl went.

Because, I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by apathy,

starving hysterical head full of pride and ears of lettuce,

dragging themselves through the negro streets

at dawn looking for an excuse not to believe,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection

 to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

So , I scream fuck your ethnicity.

Because maybe we can start there.