Ask me, there should be a bronze statue

of Crispus Attucks standing up next to Bill Russell

At city hall in Boston town

Home of the great molasses disaster of 1919

The tsunami of bean sauce flooding past Paul Revere’s church near the future site of the spectacular Brinks job, long before it was Prince spaghetti day in the North End, “Anthony! “came the mama’s cry, her little imp hearing her down at Haymarket where he was cuffing an apple after he’d already nicked a loaf of bread. “Anthony!”

Not just a statue, but a Jubilee

Ask me.

Led by the latest Miles Davis sing-along choir on horseback trumpets blasting out the Star-Spangled Banner, fuckin’ song never had it so good some black man will say, “I’m black alright I’ll never let them forget it.” Southie jeering from across the street, busing bricks in hand, looking separate, but I wouldn’t say equal per se; euphoria in the city of Champions, except for that one time at the marathon. Probably they knew about it and got it from some gitmo detainee guggling under water. don’t aks me, aks John Kiriakou. their tongues

And the south end is getting so an n-word can’t sleep at night, what with all the whites pouring in, coming back from the Symphony Hall, talking like extras from the set of Jordan Peele’s Get Out!Black folk peering from behind window curtains, wanting to shout down to the regentrifists  shut yo honky mows, but biting they tongue lest the motherfuckkas raise the rent and another n-word bites the dust.

And I remember when brother Scatman Crothers was lying awake in a motel 6 bed in Florida not far from the school where GW read that goofy story to the children about scapegoats before the boom boom happened, and Scat had a vision of the Overlook hotel he left behind and had a fatal urge to save some white asses and got there in the middle of the night, arriving on a snowcat, Bob Marley cassette tape jamming, and he got inside and shouted, Anybody here? and took a fireman’s axe to the chest, and he cry out, Motherfucker! For his troubles. Ask me.

Molasses. Bean Town. Killed 600 horses. And there were so many local men killed that the president was forced to hold a draft lottery for the next war. Big old brown wave. If only it could have covered the nation. They say you can still smell the molasses in the air if you lean out far enough from desolation row. Apparently the negligence event led to the first class-action suit. It was preventable. Come to think of it, so was the Brinks job. Ask me.

Juneteenth is coming up. The day Lone Star said to the black man, by the way, you’re free, so as soon as you shovel up the last of that they cow shit, you can go to the Jubilee and see what you will see.

“But what am I going to do about my skin color?” exclaimed the ex-slave, lonesome Hattie Carroll, pulling her weight in another Bob Dylan song. Hattie huffin, Hell, when’s a black gonna win the Nobel prize? Hattie’s sassy sister crying, Shut yo mouf! Have you already forgotten our beloved Toni Morrison? Chicago, she cry.

And it went on like that for a while.

And I will throw in the lawyer from Chicago, another black man who got speared with the American flag during the busing years by white  Bostonians, probably from southie or C-town. Yep, another statue. Right next to Crispus, the first to be taken down by the British po-lice in the lead-up to the revolutionary war. Cops wore redcoats back then and be-bopped with musket balls. Someone heard Crispus shout, “Mothafukka!” as he fell. For he had only just been freed. You had to agreed.

This year they feature the last poets singing they just could not win against Ho Chi Minh. Brother snarking, Who the f-word was Ho Chi Minh? And the mayor comes riding in looking like the warmed-over troubles of Ireland, potatoes, and protestants. Nothing but leprechauns to chase them away. Ireland never had snakes. Someone said it was just a metaphor for the protestants and someone replied, oh.

This year there’s talk.

There’s talk of bringing the Jubilee all the way to DC on the fourth of July with everyone celebratin the UFC gangster fight on the mother f****** lawn of the whitest house in the land, Captain Thunderpants presiding. His wife wearing that graffiti raincoat. People jeering and throwing tomatoes when the Lady cry, Let them eat bukake. The scene suddenly all porn. Ballers going around dressed as the ghosts of Jeffrey Epstein, lookin like the Mud Men of Papua New Guinea, some sing, sing, motherfuckers. “Marie Antoinette,” someone shouted. And Dylan sang, if my thought dreams could be seen they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” And the revolution was on. And in the air. An’ you didn’t kneed a weatherman unless you a dipshit.

Long as you weren’t a black man.

Well, the 4th of July isn’t what it used to be.

Some f****** MAGA clown going around getting nasty about the chosen people and declaring that we should take back the knife and ban circumcision now that we all have showers except for the Gazans. But that was seen as too obscure to hit home. For someone axed, You ever see Shaquille O’Neal in the shower room? “Shaquille O’Neal in the shower room? How the f*** and why the f*** I wanna see that? You ain’t one of them BLTQs are you?”Someone responded.

Three Israelites were seen dancing on the roof of a van. Horuspication time. They were anti-Semites, for they loathed Palestinians. Aks me, one black man said, they all a bunch of antisemites. Self-loathing too, like that m*********** Henry Kissinger on his Nazi knees praying with tricky dick to the god Fuck All You, I’m a Lucifer fanboy.

“Prolly,” said an anti-conspiracy fearist; they saw it all coming and went wahoo! like Slim “King Kong”  Pickens riding the Bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove. That role should have been a black man, someone said.

And that should be a statue too.

I watched the O.J. doco the other night and came away worried about race relations in America. Are we fucked or what? Reverend Harris said that Hegel was just a poster boy for racist apologists.Master slave, he say, Fuck that shit.  Scuse my french. There was no slavery in Europe. Religion is the opium of the people, they say. Come to think of it, so is oxycontin. No wonder God dead.

Wouldn’t you?

Every day should be Juneteenth.

“Hey, let me aks you somethin. How come when Musk for men was handing out a million dollars per to voters to go to the polls, none of them were black?” Blanche tugs at my arm and say, I don’t think that’s true. I go, “Oh yeah, any black people you know are Republican?” Shoah, I tort back, What about Kanye West? “Kanye West? That m*********** he about as black as Michael Jackson in blackface in birth of a nation.”God damn, you got a mouf,” she say and goes cackled dee cackle dee doo. And I gotta be honest, that cracked me the fuck up.

If you see my little red rooster, please send him home. Course I like Taj Mahal better. Little Red hen say to the Little Red rooster you don’t come around here much as you yooster. Aks me, we all long gone like a turkey through the koan.

And the last poets are singing lyrics from their mega-hit white man’s got a god complex, help me help me, help yourself n-word. Sheet, you need it. Took whitey 40 years to understand they talking about looting. And then someone got arrested for pissing where the new ballroom will be. Have that smell of insulin obesity too.

Getting so a black man can’t sleep no-mo.

Again.