Cook The Rapper and I were chillin’ the other day
on the couch, smoking weed.
I was sippin’ on a forty, while Cook
was eating on candy, Nerds Rope.
D came throughwith 287 and 420
and we all talked hip-hop and dumpster divin’ in Manhattan.
Then D says to us he saw Randy yesterday riding a BMX bike.
“Black Randy?” Cook asks.
“Yes mutha fucka,” D snaps.
“Randy was wearing a suit
and had pierced his nose himself the day before
and he was riding a BMX bike!”
“He’s on an aderol-xanax mix,” I says.
“He’s in a K hole,” Cook says.
“Don’t forget he introduced me to you two,” D declared.
Then we all laugh and go quiet and think about Randy.
Stagger D met Randy in oh six,
while they were gamblin’.
Wrong ‘em boyo.
It is. It was. Tops, Cook Book.
And then there was me.
Randy was a lifeguard then.
He now looks mad ghetto but he still listens to metal and punk rock.
Randy knows Beach Fork, believe it or not.
Does Randy even work anymore? None of us think so.
Thugs and hipsters.
Beach Fork says Randy is crazy.
Randy is growing dreads.
I think he was born in South Africa.
He has a bachelor’s in Political Science from Rutgers.
We always shrugged Randy off as harmless.
Everyone, especially the old ladies on his block,
says he has the nicest smile.
Randy just wants to plays his guitar for folks who come over his studio apt.
Until he slaughtered a man.
Randy used to wear Haile Selassie I shirts
and he still loves East Harlem, yet
now he keeps saying the werd misunderstood.
Randy sold yayo for a week
just to rap about it.
He got a rusty snub-nosed pistol that week.
Randy takes Xanax behind the hardware store
and then tags Coyote Blood in black spray paint.
Down by the accident,
that is where Randy fell in love.
He still howls,
though
we don’t see him as much.
He has become a catch phrase,
of sorts.
I just pulled a ‘Black Randy’.