Buying Dope NYC Style

I go green door seekin’ in Sugar Hill, Harlem. Banging on sickle cells. Cracking open heads. A blue-eyed Susan. A brother from a Connecticut planet.

Gangstas show me their baggy pants. Undress my honky pigments. Frisk my pale white skin. I ear-to-ear a Rasta grin. Home boys snort my genomes, speed ball my bloodlines, free base my heritage.

Thugs dandify me down. Chalk my cheeks with burnt cork. Stuff me with a dime after all. I sprint with D.M.C. Get cool love and a radio from L.L.J. Grandmaster Flash goes on chillin’ ’cause whitey with a needle is thrillin’.

I open my closed eyes. Nod off in appreciation. I dream of Ben in a born-again nation. I rouse to vitamin C. Cry out for Aunt Jemima. Amos steps and fetches me. Andy clutches tar and feathers.

I snatch back my keys. Drive home by rote. Pass out like free tickets. Smile at my mammy.

Thomas Bacher