FunkY
By ChristiaN LorieL
Copyright © 2011 by Christian Loriel Lucas
Smaswords Edition
Cover Design by Raphael Baker, Copyright 2011,
Raphael Baker Photography and Video,
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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To my true loves,
Noah and Marian
Dara Jackson
Why do girls get into cars with men,
Men sometimes as old as their daddies or
granddaddies,
But not all the time,
But definitely older than grade school,
Older than pimpled, prickly, pickled face boys,
Who pull at pony tails and make jokes about flat titties;
And boys who get sent to offices, because
They talk too much, play too much,
Wrestle and fight too much;
And boys who lie about boning girls,
Although their dicks are still puny
And have failed to contribute to the masculinity
They yearn for and boast of;
And the boys who’ve gotten only to second base,
Because either the chick was too afraid,
Or he was too scared to put his little wee-wee to use,
So he just tells all his niggas that he hit that anyway—
Yeah, I’m talking men way older than that;
Men who get their own money and make pretty babies,
And carry their guns in their pants;
Men who’ve written love letters from prison;
Men who ride atop candy-painted stallions,
Riding to the rescues of ghetto damsels,
A booming parade of drums and rap beats
Marching behind them in their trunks;
Men who have mature penises,
Well educated in the course of fooling girls,
Getting her to like him until she loves him,
Until she makes him the moon of her planet,
Until he’s all that can fit inside her head,
Until the point comes when she’s so fucking gone,
He can get that little girl to do anything he wants
Since she’s never had a daddy,
One to tell her that she was a princess,
Or more beautiful than any other girl
In the whole wide, universe;
Never told her that she was too smart,
Too pretty to settle for losers, thugs, or dogs.
But these men!
They tell her all types of things,
They greet a girl like true gentlemen:
"Hey, lil mama! Don’t you live on Funky? And ain’t your name Dara? I can take you home."
Why do girls get into cars with men?
I don’t know—we just do sometimes.
MEMPHIS CITY LOG OF RESIDENTS
LUNDY AVENUE, 38109 (1997)
HOUSE NUMBERLISTED OWNER/RENTER
1797 . . . . . . . . . . HALLWOOD
1798 . . . . . . . . . . HARDISON
1799 . . . . . . . . . . STONE
1800 . . . . . . . . . . SPARROW
1801 . . . . . . . . . . FINCH
1802 . . . . . . . . . . CANARY
1803 . . . . . . . . . . ROGERS
1804 . . . . . . . . . . PETE
1805 . . . . . . . . . . WILEY
1806 . . . . . . . . . . TATE
1807 . . . . . . . . . . BURNETTE
1808 . . . . . . . . . . GARRET
1809 . . . . . . . . . . PEPPERS
1810 NO RESIDENTS (Condemned)
1811 . . . . . . . . . . JACKSON
1812 NO RESIDENTS (Vacant Lot)
1813 . . . . . . . . . . GEORGE
1814 . . . . . . . . . . AVERY
FridaY
(MaY 8)
~The Funky (Lundy) Street Sign~
I do not stand.
I lean northward on a tarnished leg,
Beaten by the rocks of three little girls,
Pelted by the bullets of those with the body
markings—
They were the brutes who, years ago,
Scarred my face with their abrasive paints,
Changed my good name to “Funky.”
Lean, I here,
Drenched in Isaiah’s foul piss,
Stained in the creamy shit of fly-by birds.
I used to be a brilliant, pea green,
Smooth and sturdy on a rust-less stem,
A lighthouse beckoning to a new black promise,
A promise that has faded from their minds,
As they age, as they die.
Only Blue Baby exalts my presence:
Beneath me he stands as the nights pass,
Making good use of an old,
Northward-leaning pole.
~1811~
Felecia Jackson
Why do I let this chile worry me?
Hey Latisha, girl!
How you doing, Miss Burnette?
Don’t mean to bother you, Chance,
Mrs. Pete, nor Antoinette.
Hear the knock of my fists,
See a worried mama’s eyes.
Yeah, I know I shouldn’t worry,
But, I’m looking at the time.
I’m gone beat that chile’s tail
For making me fret.
It’s way after three,
And she ain’t even home yet.
Do you know where Dara’s at?
~1814~
The Three Avery Granddaughters
Grandmama’shousefortheweekend!
Whatwegonedothisweekend?
Hopscotch.Hide-Go-Seek.JumpRope.
FreezeTag.Spades.Barbies.RedLight
GreenLight.Sega.Jacks.Throwrocks
atthesign.Betyoucan’thitthe“F.”Let’sgo
acrossthestreettotheCandyLady.IceCream
Sandwiches.NowandLaters.FreezeCups.
BubbleGum,BubbleGuminthedish!Howmany
piecesdoyouwish?RunfromIsaiahbeforehe
spitonyou!Betyouwon’tknockonMissAshley’s
door.IbetIwill!Ibetshewon’t.HereMissAshley
comes!Ooo!Yallbetterrun!
~1808~
Ashley Garret
Beware my friend:
Herein lives a monster.
I first saw her face beside that of mine,
In the heart of my bathroom mirror.
She stared a pitiful stare,
Did not smile, nor snarl,
She wailed instead of roaring a horrible call.
Her black and blue eyes bled as she cried,
Lips were swollen like red balloons.
I did not ask of her reason for her weeping;
With worn bed sheets, I covered
All the mirrors in my house,
To avoid seeing her over my shoulder.
Nevertheless, I feel her hot breath
Burning the nape of my neck;
Still I hear her skin-peeling cries.
She bleeds and stains my carpets;
Blood rains from her nose,
From her lips and her eye sockets.
I wish she’d leave,
I wish she’d die,
The monster inside.
~1803~
Lorraina Rogers
I’ve known love,
Believe me.
It wasn’t the kind
That could stay around
And just love me
And love me.
Love left me,
Left me for a pipe dream,
To spit flows
And to be known,
Like I’ve known love.
But for now,
I gotta forget about love.
Settle for strange hands
And alley ways,
And back seats,
And stanky motels on Third Street.
And “Ooo, baby!”
“Yo skin so muthafuckin soft.”
“You like it, baby girl?”
“Scream for me, baby girl.”
I’ve known love,
Believe me.
And I miss him so.
~1799~
Edgar Stone
Still, I exist here,
At rest and restless,
Self-imprisoned within these walls,
Fearing what is beyond them.
The children are different.
What lives out there is
An infestation of mindless termites,
Dismantling all we’ve built here.
All that we’ve marched for,
And fought for,
And died for.
Their language is strange.
A breed with no direction,
Wise they are, but they won’t rise.
Disrespectful and cold their tongues,
They dare look into our eyes!
They dare face us,
And order us to fall back!
They say we are the weak,
And they cast us aside!
Those boys that terrorize this street,
They cuss real loud,
They snicker at me,
Throw stones at my door.
(I’m sure they burned down that house, eighteen twelve.)
My grandson brought a gun by here,
I keep it close, for there’s
A revolution going on out there,
And if ever it ventures past these doors,
I’ll show it right out again.
~No None Address~
They
They late night ball,
They trip and get lit,
They fight in halls,
They spit and spit
The lyrics of their favorite Fly song.
They call his shit, “real shit.”
Ask them what “real” means
And They’ll show you
Their exit wounds and healed slashes;
They’ll read aloud the tats that say,
“Money over bitches,”
“Hoes Gone be Hoes Anyway.”
They stay posted up,
They run trains,
They got a girl knocked up,
Never once asked of her name—
It’s Candace, though.
Ask them their dreams,
And They’ll reveal a rubber-banded bank,
Who needs some fucking dream
When the streets pay so easily green?