Wow, that's powerful.
I'm going to mess the order of things up a little bit
and read a longer poem that's so long that it
may cause me to have to relinquish
my go on the last round.
This is from the project.
So what I did with the project is following
the lead of Fernando Pessoa, I wanted
to write a series of poems under a heteronym.
It's not exactly a persona, but it's
close in that I think Pessoa's heteronyms were
different versions of himself.
And this heteronym that I wrote under
is called Johnny Shakespeare.
And what he's doing is he's actually
writing in a form called the toast for the most part.
And the toast, as some of you may know,
is a form of oral poetry that has a long history.
But it finds a good part of its generative portion
in the carceral system.
A lot of toasts were oral poems that incarcerated men
would make up on the spot or composed in their head,
and then share them with each other
and use those to pass the time.
Some of the toasts you might know
from Etheridge Knight's poems.
He has a standard, "I Sing Of Shine: Dark Prophecy."
Shine is actually a character who shows up
in a lot of these toasts.
"Stagger Lee" is another.
"Signifying Monkey" is one you might know,
those from Dolemite, and Oscar Brown Jr. So
what I was doing in these was writing
to the heteronym using a form that was created in prison.
And this is funny.
When I was working on this, I've worked
on this for a while and kind of retroactively
made it a heteronym poem.
I noticed that there are certain themes that pop up
throughout a lot of my work.
And you guys might see some similarities
between the first poem I read and this one.
But again, it has to do with that image back
in the day of Jim Kelly I think rebelling against the police
state.
This is a poem.
It's kind of a double persona thing.
So it's a persona poem written in the voice of Stagger Lee
by my heteronym, Johnny Shakespeare, who
was the creation of the artist that's currently
known as John Murillo.
So it's all that going on.
And I think that's all you need to know.
It's long.
So settle in.
It's called "The Ballad-- oh, Stagger Lee.
So who is Stagger Lee?
Stagger Lee is a character that shows up
in a lot of these toasts.
Now, the toasts are often problematic because they're
written or composed by typically young men,
young men with a very hyper-masculine sensibility.
So a lot of the toasts have to do with sexual prowess
with martial skills, whether they be knuckle skills or gun
skills.
So there's a lot of that in there.
I try to expand this and maybe change that a little bit.
I won't say too much about that and give it away,
but it starts out in the same place.
And that's where it goes.
So Stagger Lee is the prototypical bad nigger.
This is-- he's the man all the men want to be,
and all the women want to be with.
The best dancer, the best fighter, all these things
built up into one, a caricature, if you will.
But one that was useful.
So in the prison system when a lot of these men
felt like they were being emasculated and dehumanized,
they could tell these stories about this mythical character
and feel somehow upheld.
Stagger-- "The Ballad of Stagger Lee"
or a variation on the theme by Sterling A. Brown
with a slight nod to Etheridge Knight.
"One.
Hear ye.
Pull up a chair and sit still.
I got bubblegum, and time, and a story to tell.
When I'm fresh out of gum and have some place I got to be,
but listen close, I'll be quick about my main man, Stagger
Lee."
So it's not really a persona poem.
"Now, once upon a midnight.
Stagger Lee left the house of Harlem's finest grinning
cat with the proverbial mouse.
You won't believe it, but pimping Stag for once
thought he might put a ring on the last woman he
bedded that night.
He thought about her smile, thought about her lips,
thought about her wide, West African hips.
Stag stopped to light a square, thinking about her hair,
and heard, nigga, drop that cig, and get your hands in the air.
The King was interrupted ruminating about his Queen,
by six cops in one one car pointing guns and looking mean.
They had blue guns, black guns, long guns, short guns,
all sorts of guns, don't show up in the report guns.
Stagger Lee stood steady in the streetlamp glow,
blowing smoke O's and leaning against the pole.
He thought to himself, these motherfuckers
must got me confused for an unarmed Black man.
Trust.
I'm Stagger fucking Lee with the wild four-four
about to send six rockets through these pigs' car door.
Just then, a cop shouted, nigger, can't you hear?
Stag said, no, sir, I can't.
Could you come a little nearer?
A crowd started forming coming closer to see.
One woman whispered, do they know
they fucking with Stagger Lee?
The wrinkled one, used to keeping Blacks
under boot, used to smacking them around
and shaking down for loot, stepped his old ass
out the car he did, his old bones creaking,
then he started speaking.
Boy, you must don't recognize the badges in the car.
You must not see the gats.
You know who we are?
You know where you at?
When we say stick your hands up, you stick 'em.
Another cop said, let's beat him and kick him.
The other four cops hopped out the funky ride,
slid their pistols into holsters pulling whackers
from their side.
One shouted, show ID.
One hollered, hands in the air.
One bellowed, butt on the ground.
One stammered, s-s-stand right there.
A short, fat cop reached for his waist to get some mace.
Stag took a drag, then flicked his cigar in his face.
The old cop faltered, but a rookie felt bold.
Thought he might slide up, and try that old choke hold.
Wannabe marine, still on A Few Good Men hype,
Stag cut a thin stripe straight across his windpipe.
More people gathered.
Those on parole scattered.
Some carried banners reading Black Lives Matter.
YouTubers took video.
Hippies chanted peace.
A few with fresh wealth sang fuck the police.
Pop, pop, pop, rat-a-tat in the air.
Calling all cars.
We need help over here.
We got a nigger cornered as far as we can see.
Dispatch asked, then what's the problem?
Cop said, his name is Stagger Lee."
Two.
"Helicopter lights showered millions
of cops, armored trucks, snipers perched on tenement tops.
They shut down the block, barricades and yellow tape.
There seemed to be no way Stag could make his escape.
Stagger Lee hunkered down behind a brick wall with his cell
phone dying and nobody to call.
In his coat he had a flask, Desert Eagle, a few clips,
half pack of Ports, one he flipped to his lips.
The standoff lasted well past the break of dawn.
The police chief reached for the captain's megaphone said,
Stagger Lee, I'm tired.
And my patience is thin.
You got 10 seconds, nigger, to bring your Black ass in.
Stag took a swig from his flask of gin
and began to think what this country asks of men.
Stand here.
Go there.
Don't be too big or too Black.
He thought about the water hoses, police dog attacks.
He thought about Breonna Taylor, Emmett Till,
Oscar Grant at Fruitvale, Trayvon, and Sean Bell, Sandra
Bland, Rekia Boyd, George Floyd, and Rodney King,
Freddie Gray, Shelly Frey, long list, and that's the thing.
Stagger Lee knew they had no plans to let them walk.
He knew they had a measure for the bags and chalk.
Even innocent folk couldn't breathe and walk free.
He thought, let alone me, gangsta ass Stagger Lee.
He took another swig, dragged on his cig,
then popped the shot over the top of the wall
and the boss cop dropped.
Bedlam and panic as the pigs ran frantic.
Stag kept blasting on some one man gang shit.
He unloaded, swore, then reloaded his 44,
lit up 10 more, and the rest hit the floor.
Police pissed their pants up and down the boulevard.
SWAT team begged the mayor, call The National Guard.
Days flew past, tear gas, and now tanks.
To get Stagger Lee, the city broke the bank.
The president, too, sent special forces and SEALs.
And when asked, the Pope said, by God,
that nigga is just too real.
Still, a Desert E clip only holds but so much.
And the soldiers wouldn't get close enough to touch.
Then, the assistant to the assistant
pulled the mayor aside, and said,
if you don't want him alive, think Philly in '85."
And y'all can Google that if you don't know what happened
in Philly in '85.
"You don't mean-- Eureka!
cried the mayor.
And before long, a lone drone sliced the air,
circled wide while the cops tried to clear the block,
then hovered, a hummingbird with the missiles cocked.
The mayor gave the gladiator's sign, thumbs down.
The drone set its sights, then exploded mid-flight.
Duck, the mayor screamed, then scrammed, run for cover.
Stagger Lee looked up and saw his number one lover.
On the rooftop, leather body suit, a bazooka,
fro blowing in the wind.
Stag said, aw, sookie sookie.
And she wasn't alone.
She brought the Panther brigade, singing Get Up Stand Up,
Stag knew he had it made.
She rode the zip line in smooth to save the day.
Her name was Nikki Black, from down the Apopka way."
I'll say really quickly, I've since
found out that there's a poet named Nikki Black.
She is not the inspiration for this.
There's another Nikki from Apopka
who's the inspiration for this.
Three.
"La, di, da, di.
Boy, Nikki Black sure had a body.
The hottie said, get ready.
Then tossed Stag a shotty.
12 gauge sawed off pistol grip, hold this,
then she went and blew Stagger Lee a gold-toothed kiss.
Now, I said I'd be quick, but here's where it all gets good.
Nikki Black had gathered up all the boys in the hood.
Home girls with hand grenades put pistoleros in place.
A santero sang and killed a couple of goats just in case.
They lit Pirellis on fire at each end of the streets,
bottled gaseous rags flung at riot cops' feet.
Stag said, I can last at least a dozen years, dozen days.
That's when the president balked,
said he had golf to play.
Ronald K. Chump left the mayor out
to dry with his bullets run low and two tears in each eye.
The mayor cried, Mr. President, motherfucker, can't you see?
I can't do it alone.
That's that nigga, Stagger Lee.
Then Chump said, you're fired, bigly,
and I quit, then signaled for his limo with the spoiler kit.
And while the president bickered with the mayor and cops,
one rebel snuck Stag and Nik a bag of props.
Nikki Black threw on a beard, tuxedo, and top hat.
Stag and drag dressed in wigs sashayed away out the back.
Stag chloroformed the driver.
Homies held down the goons.
Nikki Black phoned the pres and said the car would come soon.
Chump saw the red, bobbed wig and sequins on Stag's dress,
then hopped his ass right in and started groping for breasts.
He reached high and low to grab as much as he could,
and turned snow when Stag said, hey, oh, partner, what's good?
Chump had the base in his face, a big old yam in his hand,
some chilly chrome to his dome, but still could not understand.
So Stag Lee cleared his throat, turned it down in a rant,
but Nikki Black shot the pres, and was like, I'm sorry,
I can't.
They left the limo running with his presidential plates.
Nik said, we can still catch Shaft,
and Cheryl's is open late.
And by the time they found the limo with the Chump
in the trunk, Stag and Nik were back in Harlem, hugged up
and half drunk.
Wow.
Johnny Shakespeare.
My boy got some skills.
Yeah, no, I loved that.
It was very theatrical.
It was almost like a video.
I could see.
It's just very cinematic the way that it's drawn out almost
like a musical.
But I really love that, and I appreciate you sharing that.
I know that there was some question
of whether you should share it, but I'm glad that you did.
It's a badass poem.
Thank you.
I mean, Johnny Shakespeare thanks you.
[LAUGHS]