Marcus Cap Williams is a writer living in NYC. He tweets at @mswthug.
High uptown w/ squad playing this card game Palace but I sit the first round while cleaning Deadbody’s kitchen. I wash the dishes w/ those lil yellow sponges w/ the perpetuallyfatigued green scrubby side; I throw those out to use the plain purple sponge, stove’s next; at the stove: wipe burners obvi but then go at the walls/cabinets that surround the hood & the knobs & eeem the knobs’ grooves, knocking out brown gunk with the back of a match; oh & the refrigerator gets some too. Everything is dingy under the kitchen lights. Two outta five are dead after the Grape Rillo & two rounds of Palace. ‘You’ve been recused from the broadcast bruv.’ Get off Yale dick, I think. You know we talk that stick talk. B. and A. are snoring so I know they good. ‘He aight he aight.’ The lacrosse commentators are coming at players’ body parts. Bumass knees & fucked up ACLs & etc. I woulda copped the Beyoncé I Ain’t Sorry tank w/ Boy Bye on the back for the summert if it wasn’t $50. Navy’s jerseys are more a John Legend beige than the accented gold it emulates on their dark blue helmets. Deadbody dies. ‘Let’s go baby Navy, let’s go!’ Thought about creating a zine and expression. General glumness on the streets of East Harlem: a dude runs west towards the MetroNorth dragging his cello’s bag & another small rolling suitcase, wheels clicking & footsteps clopping; homeless men talk to themselves & shady hoodie’d muhfuckas huddle in the shadows of $1pizza spots, giving sharp looks, whispering they got smoke; police Command Centers broadcast their classic warning of blue and red against McDonald’s & Rainbow & bodegas, Duane Reade, Jimbo’s Hamburgers. General glumness at the 125th 4/5/6. Crowded af. 13minute trains—somebody threw themselves on the tracks. I check the time on my phone & I notice a saved photo of some woman holding bundles of Jackie Robinson’s guwop. It’s/she’s beautiful. New poster for Black Excellence.