My Name Is Jeffery
by Ebony Isis Booth
there is a man
on the cover of a rap album
who wants the world to know
nothing more about him
than his name
Jeffery
he does not wish to inform
us about content or sound quality
we are not gifted with photo shopped
skin treatments to his countenance
we cannot levy class judgments
against the ecru and eggshell enamel of his teeth
there is no reasonable comparison
to be made here
none
unprecedented deliberate dismissal of norms
Jeffery’s arms
are so long
angles of Maasai warriors and skin tone
touched by the brush that stained
plantation mahogany wardrobes
to burnt umber
contrasted most purely against a white backdrop
he is bent
and at the same time poised
to curtsy or combust
a curious figure this one
Jeffery
telling the world so much
we used to call him Young Thug
but today he introduced himself swaddled in
Italian designed
Japanese inspired couture
conceived and Columbused by a white man
who grew up listening to battle cries of Bronx natives
belted out over broken beats and breaks
the bridge is over
brigades of creatives
infiltrated bridges and tunnels
for the sound that
now
needs no braggadocios adjectives
to describe itself
no fantastic, furious, or fabulous tribes
beat down to their beat downs
fruity loops makes beats now
silver still caps baby molars
to avoid the rot of bodega nutrition
rappers reinforce stereotypes and
gingivitis with diamond chipped crowns
they wear inside their mouths
hoping to sound like royalty
while they speak the king’s language
and spit on queens
Jeffery
is a rapper
is a black man
is wearing a dress
on purpose
in public
is not a comedian
is not a drag queen
is not interested in your opinion
and black folks are pissed about it
what is it about the absence of an inseam
enclosing fabric and phallic principles
around the meeting of male thighs
that sets off patriarchal bombs bursting
in heirs to old laurels and misconstrued manhood
how does the liberation of angular and sinewy
limb and joint expose an inclination to surrender
ones self to penetration
what an inconceivable function to expect from fabric
Jeffery
spent hours conforming to yards of free balling bondage
perhaps just to say he did it
or maybe
glamour belongs to all of us
for some the price of freedom is 3 million records of
indiscernible words and sounds distilled to points
and profits affords
Jeffery
a choice
a risk
a long con
an androgynous option
a shot in the arm of convention
we are not prepared for the spoils of our war
we are accustomed to struggle and suspicious
of our own magic
we are bound still by restraints of conformity
we consider flamboyance an operational risk
Jeffery
makes music
we dissect the images based on fear and distance
from our ancient selves
consider black men emasculated by cotton again
blame white folks for the way their hate feeds
our concept of sin
turn our volume to ten when our women are bleached
and dismembered plastic dolls with their pelvic floors
and heaven’s gate gaped open
did your dick twitch just then
before the black church told white Jesus, Amen
what about the children
what message is
Jeffery sending them
this is so much more damaging than the last time
he mumbled rhymes
who hid the black boys from the cover of a Young Thug
mutilated and blind
left eye gouged and bleeding
crimson stained tourniquet
wonder if Jordan Davis was listening to Slime Season 3
when Michael Dunn decided he’d had enough of him
what does the emasculation of the black man look like when
there are barrels pointed at your temple
there is an indictment levied not against what you are
wearing
but against your skin
when you are not a man
you are not smiling
you are not resisting
you are the eve of a hash tag
you cannot breathe
you are no one’s baby, or daddy
and the only thing that flows freely at the
meeting of the inseam in your pants
is piss
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