Hello, everybody. This is just another installment to my portfolio of poetry. This is called “KFC,” yes, like Kentucky Fried Chicken. It’s a place that I worked for years ago when I was 17, and it just the thought brings a lot of depth to my thinking so here we go.
KFC
KFC.
Kept Feeding Cheez.
Cheez is who I used to be,
C-h-e-e but with a Z, cuz I put people to sleep
the way I used to beef in the street.
KFC.
Ketamine, formaldehyde, cocaine,
Three of the many things
I killed with at our house
Where we threw raves.
Label: The House.
Street name: Joseph Campo.
City name, Hamtramck.
True tracking that’s how we kept you tracked in.
KFC.
Keepsakes, finite, crossroads.
Memories dying to get back to X marks the spot,
But once you pull that treasure box I’m speaking of
It rusts and corrupts.
KFC.
Kiloton, fraction, Christendom.
Pieces of Jesus rattled in my pocket like a missing mosaic.
Now the pictures painted from explosive historic
And hopefulness of inheritance
Promised to us with marks missed.
KFC.
Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Hysterical is it?
And 59 at Crescent Lake Road are the coordinates,
The aforementioned forces stem from chicken resources.
Massive larceny,
Internally by me at 17,
A speaker ordered me
“Three piece dark meat, green beans and corn please.”
Me I repeated with “Pear tree. 423, pull around,”
From my pockets change comes out and
Your money goes down.
Seven months, daily, we robbed masterfully
To provide a death currency, corporately,
So God clogged our source abruptly,
Specifically, to show me
That you ain’t OG without OD,
Original deity,
That’s God B.
So come work for me at my KFC
Is what God told me.
KFC,
Kingdom for Christ.
I went from slinging poison and chicken
To now 17 years later, in prison,
Yet happily whistling
Because I’m on a mission
Of bringing joyful endings to people who once were my victim
Which means, God will whisk me up out of this prison
To help fulfill Christ’s kingdom commission.
KFC.
Thank you.
These commentaries are recorded by Prison Radio.
