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Kofi Mnemonic

There is a great sadness in this poorest of lands.
The only Lambo in the land belongs
to my Christian friend.
A Lambo is a Lamborghini,
a piece of Italian art
on blaster wheels.
Nightly, a piece of an Italian
is wheeled into the
lamb I’m always on the verge of—
the most precise steel in the most aggressive heels
of Italian steel ever felt in the sternum,
a chemical kind of power,
a space coupe dressed as
Very hardcore business, man.
I’m a business, man.
Our dearest anthropologists always warn us
of past things: a blade song, a greed radio,
but y’all too busy tryna find
that blue-eyed hole. Me,
I let my black hair grow
and my stroke go
and my smoke mow
down my sweat
too much on the regular.
“We gonna let them
    bullets fly.”
“We gonna let them
    tracers go.”
If it ain’t
Fallujah hallelujah level
then I don’t want
no more snow. I’m betting
on flip flops, loose robes,
an RPG glow. Seriously,
I just nearly won an award?
Talk about a face numbing
off a bag of blow.
I’m like, goddamn,
I am not a Teen Choice,
goddamn, I am not a Bleach Boy.
When my boy’s Lambo needs
repairs on the regular, he drives
the car up a ramp and onto a plane.
The monster’s exhaust rockets
louder than a Carthaginian
elephant army rain.
He flies that beast business class
from Africa to Spain. It’s a business man.
First stop: drop off the kilos,
then it’s on to Italy and the Hospital Italian Lambo.
A month later, my boy-god sends a plane
filled with hollow mangoes filled with
I-can’t-feel-my-face things
back to Italy. He collects the wildly metallic
patient that now scream-sings
in perfect punches.
Back in my young-god’s bankrupt country,
the roads are too wrecked
to wreck a piece of Italian art blaster
by driving it.
In a fortified garage, the car hulks.
Whip game make
a nigga understand though.
Got that Hannibal,
silence of the Lambo.