By J.J. Tindall
GIMME BACK MY BULLETS
Put ’em back where they belong.
I ran to a gangfight and a
classroom broke out. HO-la!
I shouted out
DRUGS FOR
WHITEY!!!
Whitey don’t care unless the
dead kid white.
WHOOPS!
Sorry, fellas . . .
This morning on Chicago’s Very
Own Champs d’Elysees, North Avenue,
I walked alongside a funeral
procession. The hearse
silver, head of a
snake, scaled like a pearl-string of
late-model,
mid-size sedans.
Felt
my pockets
for my
bullets. All good!
Schanna boom-boom,
yeah, Sister,
gotta barrel that’s a-blue
and
cold . . .
–
J. J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He can reached at jjtindall@yahoo.com. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
Posted on March 11, 2008