Fatal Transition
Turning Point, Burning Point
Swift was the pace of the bullet, traveling milliseconds toward a worthy target, enemy mine, enemy defined, enemy declined to talk, comment, due to his blue blood, now red surfacing from the orifice which got him shot in the began, as a turf war opposite, he was now succumbing to that which was worse than Satan, Hell itself; me, a lifelong equal, present at the prequel, the sequel and the final act, curtain closed, retaliation to all those who, at his hands, died premature deaths, gasped premature last breaths…
Standing, motionless, I savor this occurrence, this observance is fulfilling, taking life from the unwilling, exciting, this must be what it feels like when God’s reaper visits, sits, chats, leaving empty handed never…
Sirens ring loudly in my ear like the first virgin I had, better than climax, my hand still shaking, trigger finger still making the joyous noise, “click, click”, gun smoke smelling sweet scented like 100 dozen roses, his dying body laying limp, arousing like 1000 poses of a nude Halle Berry, echoes of those who rode, ridas, one in the same, voices light in my ear like whispers, but clear, clarity, “Nigga, lets go!!!”
Days later television reports speak of a murder, a mother who I’ve never seen or heard spills empty words into the air, “please help me find the killer!” After all, she knew where to look, the funeral home, “he lies beneath the tombstone you purchased,” hers is just another plea, the same one made by the mothers of Trigga, Combat, Don1, Little Rock, Big Lee and “G”, my set mates, her heart aches…good, as well it should, as the streets live and learn; we burn, Usherized, cannibalized, urban eaters of us; each one, eat one. Son, sun, burn, red hot like firearm which gave me freedom!
“Knock, knock,” my interrupted celebratory thoughts interrupted by someone wanting entrance…
Knob turns, flesh burns.
I lay where I stood.
The last thing I hear is mama, crying, feeling her tears comforts me. Shaking now, walking in his shoes, exit wounds allowing life to escape, mine; was I wrong?
Running toward the white light is my last memory. Ghetto synergy, ghetto sympathy don’t exist. My trigger man’s mother will soon weep, then I can celebrate in the afterlife…
Swift was the pace of the bullet, traveling milliseconds toward a worthy target, enemy mine, enemy defined, enemy declined to talk, comment, due to his blue blood, now red surfacing from the orifice which got him shot in the began, as a turf war opposite, he was now succumbing to that which was worse than Satan, Hell itself; me, a lifelong equal, present at the prequel, the sequel and the final act, curtain closed, retaliation to all those who, at his hands, died premature deaths, gasped premature last breaths…
Standing, motionless, I savor this occurrence, this observance is fulfilling, taking life from the unwilling, exciting, this must be what it feels like when God’s reaper visits, sits, chats, leaving empty handed never…
Sirens ring loudly in my ear like the first virgin I had, better than climax, my hand still shaking, trigger finger still making the joyous noise, “click, click”, gun smoke smelling sweet scented like 100 dozen roses, his dying body laying limp, arousing like 1000 poses of a nude Halle Berry, echoes of those who rode, ridas, one in the same, voices light in my ear like whispers, but clear, clarity, “Nigga, lets go!!!”
Days later television reports speak of a murder, a mother who I’ve never seen or heard spills empty words into the air, “please help me find the killer!” After all, she knew where to look, the funeral home, “he lies beneath the tombstone you purchased,” hers is just another plea, the same one made by the mothers of Trigga, Combat, Don1, Little Rock, Big Lee and “G”, my set mates, her heart aches…good, as well it should, as the streets live and learn; we burn, Usherized, cannibalized, urban eaters of us; each one, eat one. Son, sun, burn, red hot like firearm which gave me freedom!
“Knock, knock,” my interrupted celebratory thoughts interrupted by someone wanting entrance…
Knob turns, flesh burns.
I lay where I stood.
The last thing I hear is mama, crying, feeling her tears comforts me. Shaking now, walking in his shoes, exit wounds allowing life to escape, mine; was I wrong?
Running toward the white light is my last memory. Ghetto synergy, ghetto sympathy don’t exist. My trigger man’s mother will soon weep, then I can celebrate in the afterlife…
posted by SLUMP FACADE at 1:10:00 PM
