beaded rabbit

the sixties again

and Iím born.
All that Public Enemy-
I was raised on, Paris, and KRS,
finding revolution between lines in Short and 40.
I watched the whole movie last night with no joy.
Recognized the OG, dated a hundred of him-
cold blooded to everyone but his Moms.
It was too late for her-
room crowded with meds, mismatched afghans,
dirty walled Victorian.
We all bitches-n-hoes till death bed.
I can sing you all the lyrics-
all the shit dudes rapped they never would-
do for us.
pussy-money-weed prayer.
Isnít it all strip-club-church
Chris Rock blamed the misogyny on crack.
He wasnít all the way wrong-
so, we back it up, flip it, rub it down
our asses so full of love and anger-
we fuck with a vengeance.
Search the tender part, near iris.
Pillow talk dumb shit
search for a nugget to love.
I loved a thug once,
because he was the only person I ever knew
who spoke in metaphor.
Sometimes you got to ask yourself,
is this dick worth the conversation?
Young MA wonders why the whole world
wants to see her strap
and you think about it,
while he fucks you.
Youíre never present.
These times tumultuous
as when I birthed, Nixon Moonwalk
Whitey on The Moon
They killed Fred dead.
We still war, we still march,
I need a gun, a survival plan.
There is a big dick in office
with a little dictator complex.
The oligarchs are coming-
shore up your scarcity walls
thatís that bitchesí n hoes mode.
So bendable and expendable
makes pulling the trigger easy
me or him, me or her-me.
The future doesnít look like we thought it would-
a kid called thug wearing a dress
made of Princeís lampshade.
liberties slipping through our fingers

Sometimes you got to ask yourself,
is this dick worth the conversation?
Young MA wonders why the whole world
wants to see her strap
and you think about it,
while he fucks you.
Youíre never present.
These times tumultuous
as when I birthed, Nixon Moonwalk
Whitey on The Moon
They killed Fred dead.
We still war, we still march,
I need a gun, a survival plan.
There is a big dick in office
with a little dictator complex.
The oligarchs are coming-
shore up your scarcity walls
thatís that bitchesí n hoes mode.
So bendable and expendable
makes pulling the trigger easy
me or him, me or her-me.
The future doesnít look like we thought it would-
a kid called thug wearing a dress
made of Princeís lampshade.
liberties slipping through our fingers
unable to pull the breaks.
We roll back.
The only one who gets me-
is an OG on Telegraph outside the liquor store.
He looks me up and down,
says, Hey you remember Blondie?
filling my heart of glass like a fish tank in Vegas
Amazon is the monkey on my back.
Assorted cardboard boxes come-
filled with bags of air
Pal is my Pay.
Maybe I just be buying
random time
and things to fill it with.

Casandra Dallett


contents of issue 11

What the Photographer Said
MK Chavez

October Waits
Caledonia Rattling Gourd Brown Bull

Musings
Roopa Ramamoorthi

Communion
Vincent Calvarese

the sixties again
Casandra Dallett

Oceanus
James Cagney

Reading Cold Mountain *
Kitty Costello


Casandra Dallett Biography

Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in San Francisco Bay Area. She has been published widely online and in print.


Permission to publish poems in this one context was granted by the authors, who unless otherwise specified, hold copyright on these works.