Dear Babylon,

In the constant lutte to not become that bougie housewife of an athlete taking too much oxy while the help cooks ethical fried chicken for my family and I’m also the help and the television sighs and wags in the back     some Wendy Williams   rerun and     this is acceptable and celebrating neon israel and soul     is so radio :     I walk alone.   I know myself. Or so I chant in the mirror right around discovering that trap music is all the new negro spiritual / righteous delirium try to defund the clown in the en   in negro       say it a little   less     enter the New Yorker in Desdemona’s     scarf     and be this generative   productive whistle     blower for the radicals / coal at the root of slow kill and not scream     at the Salvadorian man with the leaf blower   in my landscape     and hide him and his hoes       when the ICE raid follows and swallow mister PCs   pcp    ,   in this constant     creaseless / as in iron willed / as in   willow weep for me /     effort to love my enemy I became him       The body of me. Its erotic     disbelief temporarily suspended .    alongside the American eagle     : temptation to define freedom     as   consumerism, justice as my right to an object in a special whites only window : see that seedless eagle run the heavens so : suspended and     hovering over my own safe house and spraying it with liquid hog manure     literally. Check WikiLeaks.     Assange looks like a creep but he saves everybody but himself     so   he must be.         Negro do you wanna be that     creepy?