Rhys Langston - Sky Drive (Three Diatribes) [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Diatribe: spoken word fidgets in the back of the room, wanting to immediately understand]
a bus full of dynamite and a burnt road: in effect, college logic
“Why are we driving when it’s five minutes away?”
41 grilled cheese sandwiches somewhere in Modesto, California
“Nigga, what happened to 42?”
desert basketball and the humidity of an ice cream cake
“Which place was it?”
“That place.”
the tan line separating nigga and whiteboy that happens to be under the earphones
“Why that shit so bright?”
the choice between line and theft is easier before the orange jumpsuit;
pickled chitlins and breakfast in nothing more than minstrel pocket tricks
“Bro, where the center at?”
a fat man on a rooftop and two bald women rarely have questions about each other

“So, I can’t rap without a dick?”
“Naw, it’s not in the budget.”
folds of the blanket stay when it’s not washed in two bodies
explicating chump change and sketches of Hispaniola— no luck with the ladies
“Nigga, listen to me!”
a king in burgundy and his crown of rusted adult school, late night conquering
“Why am I free?”
a classroom of diverse pigeons with breadcrumbs in all colors sing “It’s a Small World After All”, meaning really: none
“What is Mental?”
(laughs)“Mental is slavery.”
guitar strings of hydrogen tones and there is a gay pride video game
continue the fingernail enlightenment
“How long were Jefferson’s?”
conversion of measured shadows to a metric equal
“How dark is she?”
Halle Berry in Swordfish and his sword itches
a skin-tone competition in Brussels, World Championship, (x2)
a skin-tone competition in Brussels, World-motherfucking-Championship

[Diatribe: Bus Stop 17:00]
cosmic crabmeat,
imitation nebula,
slaves to teeth
burn stars into
nonfiction ink,
one-handed typing;
a picture of
skyline tigers,
but stripes
break the light
for pipe dreams,

previously followed
along the middle yellow
of a highway:
the lineated prose
of two shoes
clobbered in muck
and over dropped
pennies.

returned home
the pronoun
asks,
what does tea do
besides inhale
the cold?

(the he and the she—
absent
from robes,
folds in
a patterned cave—
a congress being,
a burka)

then yelling
proper
noun
past the chicken
crossing the
butchers block;
overhead pigeons leave
their stoplight nests,
the green leaving,
reds and yellows
call themselves hands
on the waiting legs.

reds and yellows call themselves hands on the waiting legs

[Diatribe: Packed in Sardine-tin Loneliness]
blunts in the backseats, flame and Eleanor Roosevelt— moonlit dashboard, raisinets and legacy of presidents’ precedence. overture, dead presidents to represent hearing reminiscent of #42 at the local delicatessen, there is graffiti on my favorite wall and in my favorite pants. direct in word choice and diagonal uniforms; as the crow flies, “hipster” is an ascot if I drive a few more miles. “that’s ghetto” on the lips of partygoers, singed dispensary cards and three spokesmen for the Black experience. one well hidden, blonde grabs brown curly and wherever home is sounds good right now. 2:57 am with rolled-up window dry-heaving, I’ve been sorry for too long. a search for verse in drunk short skirt exchanges: is it me, unable to accept revisions? one draft and no phone numbers. catharsis in Doritos and unfinished sketches. wherever home is, I am broken syntax.
the routine of a donut shop. the rhythm of a plane crash.

*

scared to step into this room: the semantics of semantics, apes chucking poo, caught in dialogue about silence (no parking after 12). instead driving a few miles to sit on the curb not too close to one’s apartment.
visible breath in that cold the definition of insanity and afrobeat
transiency

to think
This poem is sure to bring vagina and escaped thoughts about revisions before the first draft...