FINAL FOUR: dead man vs Certain

[sral]

Check ins due Wednesday
Verses due Friday


@dead man @Certain

[dead man]

Alright

[Certain]

Let's have fun.

[sral]

IT'S A CLICKABLE IMAGE IF YOU WANT IT FULL SIZED BROS!

[Certain]

delete

[Certain]

Lights glow in the rain. Red and blue, deadened hues,
dulcet tones. The morning’s approaching. Check the news.
Death and gloom, depression fumes. The smell of weed
still lingers on the leather seats.
License, registration and a bucket list of felonies.
Both hands on the wheel, he shoots the cop a crooked glance.
No. False. Moves. No twitching, stretching or looking back.
Yes, the fabricated apologies fall from his cracked lips.
Cuff of his sleeve soaks as the cop stalls with a flashlight.
The palms of his wrapped fists drip sweat onto the wheel
as the officer’s scan finds no threat or contraband steel.
The window rolls up. Sigh of relief. Heart still finding its beat
knowing a broken taillight can lead to chalked lines on the street.
Enveloped in a world where black skin’s a sign of defeat,
he mutters a single word as he drives from the scene.

“Pig.” Some wear it like a badge, with pride and belief,
so damn certain that they’re on the right side of the beef.
The right side of the law. And the law is the order of man,
which in turn protects the weak and keeps discord in remand
to make sure everyone’s every day goes according to plan.
But whose plan? The question no one’s been afforded to ask,
presuming planets find their orbit in a sorted line dance.
But we’re ignoring what’s before us, it’s a sordid romance
where the power lines dangle like a tourniquet’s knot.
Now lest we try to expose this as a murderous plot,
keep in mind, it’s more corrosive and disturbingly wrought.

“Pig.” The job prescribes a head-down, stubborn mentality
where following commands is rewarded with government salary,
a gun and some power. See, it’s the vocation of broken jocks
who once assumed authority over nerds, grunts and loner goths.
The cap and the nightstick form the silhouette of an enemy,
a brute force of capital gains with death as a penalty.
The streets remain the home of cracks, crack and homelessness,
unprotected as we swig and pass back the opiates.
They’re told to only keep us off Nasdaq and Park Ave.
as gats flash and cars crash and black flags rise over us.
The corner: A training ground for both the cops and the thugs,
where the stakes are cardboard caskets and fatherless sons.
So we resent them, boys in blue posted up on our hard streets
who strut to the drums of black bodies thudding on concrete.

“Pig.” Like the one that took the life of Keith Lamont Scott.
Flash his mug on the news, ebony hue — he was our cop.
Nope. We know better. From the crying wife to protestors.
It’s not that they’re Uncle Toms. They’re trying life as go-getters.
But the ties that bind us don’t sever. He’s caught in the trap, too.
Masks cover the actions of another affirmative black dude.
Even the white cops, products of a system in place
specifically targeted to reinforce their visions of race.
And we can’t breathe. Hands up, eyes down. Give up the chase.
Disassembling our physical frames in the name of keeping them safe.
The guilt turns to fear turns to distrusting avoidance.
That same fear, in them, starts this disgusting performance.
So we’re on the block with attitude, fist-pumping the chorus.
It’s fuck the police — even as the system’s fucking them for us.