Products and Commodities.

[Obi Adisa Asad]

Disclaimer: This poem employs frequent and liberal use of the dreaded "N-word." It has an important message, but I feel as though I should warn you first. Viewer discretion is advised.

Products and Commodities

Racism, the predication of

decisions and policies on

considerations of race, for

the purpose of subordinating

a racial group and maintaining

control over that group.

Black culture has been reduced

to liquor stores, beauty shops,

burger joints, rib shacks, and

barbershops packed with ghetto

niggas clogging their arteries

with double cheese burgers and

barbequed chicken wings, all

while hooking up their tight

fades so they can sport them

deep waves made by swap meet

bought du-rags.

Pants hanging so far off their asses

you can see shit stains. These

cats greet each other like

competitive alpha males instead

of brothers. And God help you

if you inadvertently smudge the

shell-toed Addidas of a khakis

suit clad soldier because gang

signs being thrown in your face

will be the least of your problems.

Preoccupied with death, these

niggas walk around bare chested

showing off tattoos of skulls and

crossbones, guns and low riders,

bud leaves, west side, tear drops,

and gun shots. Niggas wear bullet

wounds like badges of false bravery,

street honor requiring them to

brandish semi automatic weapons

while waving their flags from

their back pockets. The gun

becomes an extension of their

manhood, these niggas stand

huddled comparing muscles,

tattoos, and gat sizes in a

quasi-homoerotic ritual rite of

passage while narrowly escaping

the grim reaper’s grasp. Because

chasing after death doesn’t make

you brave, it makes you foolish.

Niggas trade in blessings

for 50 cents worth of bullshit.

Commodified culture you can

purchase on compact disc.

Emulating this corporate

contrived culture instead of being

ourselves–whatever that is.

Walking the way of the wicked

path littered with empty

bullet casings, chalk outlines,

cigarette butts, and shattered

shlitz malt liquor bottles. A path

that leads to the penitentiary or

the cemetery. ‘Cause niggas know

penitentiaries, from the grooves

in the wall to the texture of the

iron bars. And dead niggas know

the cemetery, from the worms that

feast on decomposed flesh, the

the screams in Hell from other

niggas waiting for them.

Black people ain’t black no more,

now we’re marketing gimmicks

singing songs of Kool Aid, and

fried chicken wings. Mammies

and House niggas hawking

syrup and cream of wheat. Middle

class niggas cruising through the

hood in pimped out BMWs,

thanking God Almighty they no

longer live here, because

success in the black community

has always been measured by how

far we move away from one

another. Celebration of individual

wealth over community health.

And black businesses fade into

the back alleys of obscurity where

the crack heads play hide and go

get it with the whores from down-

town, and the children sing

nursery rhymes that spell out

survival.

Caged screams are made of these.

Who has the mind to disagree?

Sold all over the world and across

them seven seas. Ironically, the

only one who can’t afford me, is me.

We come strapped with mac10s

and AK47s. Stories of ghetto turmoil

prepackaged and shrink wrapped,

guaranteed fresh and stereotypical

for the MTV viewing masses. Drippin’

in diamonds that bleed all over our

neck, wrists, mouth and arms. Sportin’

baggy jeans hemmed and stitched by

wage slaves in Cambodia.

We have become the massa’s field

niggas hoeing a field of dead black

bodies, listening to music from dead

black rappers. A culture that eats death

like so much collard greens and cornbread

Tupac was never worth so much alive,

but to Interscope, he’s worth millions

dead. And we concoct theories of Pac

alive sippin’ Pina Coladas on an island

off the Atlantic groping the female natives

while screaming “Thug Life, baby.”

Hip Hop ain’t even ours no more. Like

Rock & Roll, it’s been co-opted and

transformed. White music with black

faces shuckin’ and jivin’ on camera.

Hoodwinked and Bamboozled. Industry

controlled niggas banging bitches

and video vixens in over-glorified

gangsta rap songs for 14-year-old

impressionable white and black kids

whose only wish in life is to be some bad

ass niggas. Their sole goal in life is to be

niggas.

Once upon a time, a black convict

was a story far and between, now these

dreams of urban renewal and

college bound kings are deferred.

Instead we hustle and flow and sport

wife beaters and chuck taylors and we can be

found in every movie theater,

on every CD and boom box and on every

street corner. Niggas talking to their baby’s

mamas from the other side of three inch glass

on a two-way phone, leaving their women

alone to handle a man’s responsibilities.

Destruction of the black family instituted

as social services since the inception

of slavery. And white folks

complain about affirmative action and I

want my actions to affirm that I am more

than just a prison number.

I’m sick of being a nigga.

I’m sick of my life being some

sick joke to a bunch of suburban white

kids whose only insight into being black

is what they see on BET.

I’m sick of The Source Magazine and

Vibe being my only means of identity.

I’m sick of being called militant because

I’m angry.

I’m sick of being called angry because

I’m militant.

I’m of people asking me why I’m so angry

when if they open their eyes, they’d

see that they should be angry too.

I’m sick of the only time a black man is

given respect is when he either makes a record

or has a record. I’m sick of my history being

denied existence. I’m sick of being a nigga.

I’m sick of being a nigga. I’m sick of being

nigga. I’m sick of being dead.

[JANAJ-YANAY]

oh, this is some obsevation !!!! thanks for contribution