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This is a poem about capitalism and how violence in music becomes co-opted for financial gain. How that financial gain and the subsequent ubiquity of the message distorts or assuages our reactions toward violence within urban communities.

Bobby Epic

Ksutherland_chapbook_photoby Kirwyn Sutherland03 Feb 2015

I dance because the earth is lumpy.
Sun grows in my stomach when the
world is flat but it’s never flat, so
I beg for Jordan’s.
They are given to me or taken then
given to me or I took them.
They are on my feet, now my
rap career begins.
Lips can’t hold teeth so shooting a man
seems joyful to you.
Gunshots feel like music to me,
so I dance again for millions
to witness levitation.
If the soles of my niggas
brushing roof tops is magic,
I will sell anything for that power.
Takes strength to pull a rabbit
then throw the hat.
What comes after is swinging bone
knocking in the pocket,
racks flavored in Auntie Fee’s basin.
Whole block bopping to the big lens.
They see us over and over and over.
Likes, views, numbers,
our green make the club go up.
No more cracks.
No more catching of illegal pieces.
No more dying in wall-to-wall mixtapes.
A table
A pen
long paper with writing
and my boy, L.A. Reid, gazing.