Get the first book from "Mr. Read a Book". Circumlocution Vol II is a collection of poems, essays and song lyrics compiled from the last 3 years of Bomani's writing. Covering everything from love, fatherhood and the Sandusky scandal to blacks and homophobia and the bible, this book is definitely the circumlocutions of an irreverent mind.
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lyrics
Ah, the perfectly processed PG Plaza purchasing experience
wish I was to revolutionary for Old Navy,
but co-op’s don’t sell boot cut jeans for $19.95
Me and my man are pimpin through
incense,
pleather bag,
and picture t’s median
two grown ass men,
comfortably silent
uninspired,
un-amused
then
we see them,
sashaying the wrong way
my upper lip curls like plastic in the microwave.
my nose flares til kids
scampering around toy booths
see what I am thinking.
THESE-GUYS-ARE-FLAMING
Sending not so smoky signals
a too tiny tee-shirt,
and a perm better than my mo…
…is that a mufuckin’ Louie Vitton bag?!
Damn bruh
I’m just about to let it go when…
soft enough to be silent but loud enough to be felt
comes the thinly veiled patwa lyrics
“Boom Bye-Bye to a botty Boya!”
Ssssssp!
“I can’t believe he said that out loud”
I caught the sing songy death threat being thrown
any louder and the prissy couple proudly strolling toward us would too.
You don’t get limp wrists
without a workout of dodging sticks and stones
but this cliché comes to life through this song,
From a culture
where gay bashing
is literal
the gasp succeeded to puff up my chest
with a self-righteous satisfaction
I am enlightened
progressive
raised in a blue house
of a blue county
of a blue state
But didn’t I just see red
when I feared I might accidentally lock eyes
with the queens sauntering toward me?
What does that say about me?
Am I a humanitarian hypocrite?
I mean, I would have missed the grand opening
of the American Indian Museum,
if it had fallen on the same Sunday as a redskins game.
The polling booth is now “Custards last stand”.
the Union now wed to civil war
I ain’t ready to see hard legs
with handle bar mustaches,
hand in hand
singing “We Shall Over Come”
same time,
I’d be the first to call you out for dat
Bull Connor
listen to lil’ youngins
You’ll here down low lingo about lesbians.
now I’m the old head, like the “Greatest Generation”
losing the sexual revolution
to the Baby Boom
Generation Y wave rainbow belts
around swaying hips.
Ahh, the rainbow, Gods promise
not to never again drown us
IT’LL BE FIRE NEXT
echoes off church’s brimstone
a sexual sanctuary for the frustrated and confused
Paul and I have long parted ways long
his sons still scream at sodomites
that I see simply as a symptom.
oprah successfully put black men in a sinister line up
we’re all usual suspects,
Kaiser Sose of a seedy sexual under world
sewing seductive lies, lisp-fully spreading soiled semen to sisters.
But… see…
that can’t be right…
I’m a sexy muthafucka, and I don’t ever get hit on.
Not that I want to! I’m starkly heterosexual!
When my sisters ask “does he look good”
I can answer without missing a beat,
but the slightest thought of being spooned by a guy
is disrupted by vision so knifing this duded in the neck.
What disturbs me more?
My violent response
Or the questioning glares formulating in the audience.
All I know is I am now uneasy, in the middle PG Plaza, asking myself pivotal questions
And all they where concerned about, was what’s in the window at Claire’s
