The Exchange is the Weekly’s poetry corner, where a poem or piece of writing is presented with a prompt. Readers are welcome to respond to the prompt with original poems, and pieces may be featured in the next issue of the Weekly.
Every Third Tuesday (?) by Chima “Naira” Ikoro
“Street Cleaning” is a myth. i know this, because i hosted a show
and at that show, my friends partner brought us
snacks and stuff for the green room,
things from Trader Joe’s. Fruit Snacks. Drinks
I went and picked this stuff up from her before the show
and then i brought it to the venue and i put this stuff in
the green room and unpacked everything, lined it up all neat,
put a few in the performers dressing rooms. i didn’t really eat any though
so at the end of the show, when we were packing up to leave
i grabbed a few things, one of those things was a can of pineapple juice
it was the last one. everyone said it was great, and that i deserved it,
the last one.
so i put it in my bag. and went to my car. and drove home
and parked on my block. and while i was juggling all the things i had
my pineapple juice
rolled out of my bag
onto
the sidewalk.
and then slipped slightly under my car
and it was December
and the ground was gross
and i was exhausted
and it was like midnight
and i was really looking forward to drinking it
and i’m an environmental studies minor so before you say shit to me about littering
i was carrying so many things
so i left it. there. and slammed my car door closed with my butt
and went inside.
yesterday. i happened to park in the same spot.
mind you, it’s March. the can of pineapple juice was flat as Florida
rusted.
still at the edge of the curb
just beneath the sidewalk
unmoved.
so i would like to contest every ticket i’ve received for parking on a street
that y’all claim you’re about to “Clean.” this is not a poem.
this is a draft letter to the Mayor’s office
please let me know if it sounds good.
thanks.
Actually Do by Slam Bandyt (Andrew Ntamere)
Been at this job for like a month,
and yeah I know I chose the path of the few,
but I’m like bitch let me get back inna stu,
do what I actually do.
I’m just a poet, I be knowin’ most of the time it sound like rapping to you.
So if they say I hit my ceiling, then what’s after the roof?
I’m tryna show these niggas how to turn they passion to fruit.
Got raps that’s from the past and the new;
them niggas cap they really lacking the truth.
Had to be more honest with myself.
You lying to yo’ self, that shit like tyranny fa sure,
steady keeping up this image, I appear to be demure,
but I’m dropping village love n’ I be clearly inna burbs.
Im tryna be in love but I be fearing for the worst.
Scared to be committed, I’m just feeding all my urges.
But I know fear can be so detrimental
that shit fuck wit yo mental,
I don’t talk to therapists,
I talk to instrumentals.
To avoid embarrassment, I try to keep shit simple
and I be anxious, but that’s just because of shit I been through.
My heart can’t take it, I’m like stop the Levo start the Phenyl
You think it’s mine the way I jump out when I park the rental.
You think it’s mine the way
I jump out when I—
Been another couple months
and yeah I know I chose the path of the few,
but I’m like bitch let me get back inna stu,
do what I actually do,
and shorty knowing I’m da mack of da crew
I’m just a poet, I be knowin’ most the time
I’m just a rapper to you.
They know I’m African, too,
so if they say I hit my ceiling then what’s after the roof?
I’m tryna show these niggas how to turn they passion to fruit.
I got raps that’s from that’s past and the new
them niggas cap they really lacking the truth.
Prompt:
“What is something that seems relatively realistic that you suspect is actually made-up?”
This could be a poem or a stream-of-consciousness piece. Submissions could be new or formerly written pieces.
Submissions can be sent to bit.ly/ssw-exchange or via email to chima.ikoro@southsideweekly.com.
Featured below is a reader response to a previous prompt. The last poem and prompt can be found here.