pretty pink tipped trophies
you, my brother, want to win
collect and rest them on a shelf
in an apartment on 125th st.
there you will keep them safe
safe from the greedy faces
of men whose faces look like
your own but you're different
now because the taste of plump
pale breasts have filled
the black lined images of
the pictures americana soaked
into your mind the sacred madonna
in the g-string bikini
ass the size of a penny
her daddy hiding behind
the trunk of a tree wishing
niggers still got lynched
for defiling white women
they don't
not too much anymore
the only glare is found
in the sharp stares
from their sisters
"we ain't good enough, no more?"
we ain't soft, tiny flowers
giggling away our voices
under the roofs of skyrise projects
our college degrees don't impress you
too often our kitchen
reminds you of the
fat neck of yo' momma
the watermelon twins straining
in the worn washrobe she always wore
she reminded you everyday of the fact
that them fat titties fed you
you now want tittie- LITE
her purty plump pale pink tipped titties
are sucked nightly but
will never fill you sorry
pumping your dick
into the american dream
won't lay the world
across your lap
you gotta wanna work
and colour in the lines
cause in the mean time
my breasts do not do
a jiggly dance beneath
the cashmere of my sweater
they have mouths to feed.

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