Happy Birthday Kobe Bryant My Name Is Shane Stant

I was born during a Lakers game
not at the actual game, idiot
it was 106–93 and Kareem
shaved his head! Fuck
the Celtics.

You were only 8 years old then
while I slid out of my mother
a young woman you didn’t rape
but likely had been, statistically.

(She never told me.)

Los Angeles is fucking JACKED today!
Let me tell you, whooo boy, you’re our man.
You’re gonna be up on the Jumbotron
making your teary-eyed speech, city key in hand,
rumbling, rabid fans Beatle-flipping out in the stands.

And while you glitter in purple and gold confetti
and bask in some apt pop song from overhead,
can you remember what it sounded like
when you told a young woman you’d just raped 
to kiss your bloody, cum-dripping dick 
seconds after assaulting her?
Did you call it the Mamba? 
Did you push her head down
like you were palming a basketball?

Let’s play that one on the radio.
Let’s chant that one during the parade.

I know so many men better than you, bigger than you,
real shit heel motherfuckers who dig ditches and
swallow their paychecks whole, who will never be celebrated,
never have a signature shoe, never make enough money
to afford Pamela Mackey for fifteen minutes.

And how is it that some men,
raised in the same crush and cock of our modern society,
manage to never rape a woman, not once, not even a little?

Let us now praise famous men, indeed.

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