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Excerpt from a Dice Game

In Poetry on October 21, 2014 at 3:00 pm

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by Sugar Tongue Slim

 

Shooting at the stars almost hit mars!

Tagged the sun on his side tryna get at The Lawd
Give me 2, 3,or 12 and I’m gonna see Hell

7 or 11 I might just reach heaven

Now I could work a 9 to 5

Or a 4 to 10.

But then I’m betting straight money, door blowem for the win.

 

Coming out!!!

Corn liquor sipper blue knickers with a down south crease,

Slick like chicken grease.

Burn you when I’m hot baby, put down.

Cee-lo’s my game but craps I slang though, ivory dice slung at a angle, stooped hein catcher

stance like anybody get my pockets stealing home.

Two shakes and blow, baby need milk and pampers let’s go!

6 off the first lick, a nick and ace. Bring it back doubles the hard way,

Fader playing hater say 2 slats even with 2 angels on your back you can’t bring that back.

Over hand toss give the dice some slack, hit the bricks like click clack, deuce tre’s how you love

that.

That was my right hand, cold hand, switch to southpaw stance, left hand golden, shake twice

before throwing. The ritual to get richer dirk diggler dice pitcher 7 when I’m soft but 11 when I’m on. Bet 20 for I throw’em.

He said homes I don’t bet less than 50.

Quickly accepted this nigga don’t know my hustle game like cellophane I see through all the

wrapping.

Knowing the circumstance it’s the romance that gets me back at it, even when I stink like crap at

it, I shoot till I’m shitless, a craps addict.

Spazmatic for money quick grab at it, gotta have it like my nic bag habit.

9 out of 10 average cut the talk let me get back at it.

As savage on the toss between the legs ass backwards, showing off as if it matters.

Then he scream out snake eyes you cocky bastard, vanity is a sin

I say ‘ naw it can’t be if God made men to worship him’

Threwem for a loop when I went religious on but with my performance at stake he kicked the

bucket said fuckit ‘Bet Shit’

Like I’m suppose to gasp and pass, I survive off principle and probability, hand to hand hustling

math, break his ass for the bank.

Is Thant dank I smell?

2 pulls and I’m cool. Too much and I relapse to the revolution cock the tool and cut the fool for 40

acres and mule.

They say you still on that shit.

Hustling ass activist, money aint shirt but a pacifist, do the numbers don’t act as if.

Niggas been slanging craps at the bottom, with crabs at the bottom from Jackie Onassis to

Hilary Rodham.

He said mannnn Shoot the dice

I said hold on I gotem.

Huh, break a cat for more scratch than most cats who work eight hours.

Dice in left hand right hand to pop my collar, Next Day Next Dollar and all the hustlers holler.

 

*

 

Don Carlos Price, who also uses the moniker STS, is a Poet, MC, and songwriter and has ghostwritten for platinum artists and performed and recorded with The Roots and many more. Featured on Def Poetry Jam, he’s graced many stages from Philadelphia to Paris. Stsisgold.com

Art: Dice Roll, 2010 by fitzsean

 

 

They Called Her the Last Lenape in the Land

In Reviews on October 21, 2014 at 3:00 pm

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A review of Dawn G. Marsh’s A Lenape Among the Quakers: The Life of Hannah Freeman

by Linda Barber

 

I was ten years old when Mother allowed me to follow the well-worn path to the Indian Mound.  I heard about it from my brother and his raucous friends and thought of it as a wild corner of the world where grapevines were smoked, oaths were made, and secret ceremonies performed. I knew that the Cook family next door often exhibited trophies of Native American skulls and arrowheads in their detached garage – a place I considered cursed and holy. That was around 1960, when attitudes toward Native Americans had not evolved much further than a begrudging admission that Andrew Jackson’s Trail of Tears was a bad idea. In my hometown in Tennessee where the Buffalo, Duck and Tennessee rivers come together, there are still those who play a cat-and-mouse game with Tennessee game wardens attempting to enforce the ban against the collection of Native American artifacts. Hobbyists still scour the banks of those rivers for a shard of pottery or an arrowhead. I discovered, many years later, that the mounds were not the product of the Cherokees but were left by their ancestors who built the pyramid-shaped earthworks a thousand years before the Egyptians built the pyramids. I made many trips to the Indian Mound over the years, and later as an adult, I dragged my Nintendo-obsessed son and daughter to the crest of the mound and told them in hushed tones stories of the Native Americans who lived in this quiet, reverential place.

Everything that Remains

In Reviews on October 21, 2014 at 3:00 pm

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A review of Lee Klein’s The Shimmering Go-Between

by Brittany Harmon

 

Upon finishing Lee Klein’s colorful debut novel The Shimmering Go-Between, I felt the simultaneous delight and relief of having just exited a multifarious fun house. This particular house belongs to a woman named Dolores who has quite an interesting secret. Sometimes it’s referred to as an STD, other times it is an unexplained phenomenon she calls Immaculate Conception Syndrome, but during intercourse with bearded men, our protagonist has the unique ability to produce micro-women: living, breathing female human beings no larger than a human tooth. What started as mysterious and rapid conception before she had ever even kissed a boy turned Dolores’ overly fertile body into a physiological oddity that plants nits in her boyfriends’ beards. After having three abortions as a virgin, she vowed to keep herself hidden from men for fear that fraternizing would likely make matters worse.

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