I cannot shake my suburb, no matter how hard I try.
I really think I must, without ever wondering why.
Even though I live in city now, we both know where I’ve been.
Born to green lawns and spanish maids and undercover sins.
I’ll always miss a grittiness, a fire that I’ll have to do without.
My words will never carry far, never have such clout.
I cannot be a thug or pimp, though I often wish I was.
I cannot speak slick lines of quip, whiteness just because.
Who knew a place that’s lined with lace could restrict and revile,
And have me wishin’ so feverishly to be born along the nile.
You see black is cool and white is wack, least that’s what’s in my mind,
It took me years to come to this, I’m surprised I found the time.
I’ll call myself whatever I like, versed in poem and in rap.
“Hip hop don’t belong to you,” fuck whoever told me that.
I’ll channel Maya whenever I feel, I promise I don’t give a damn.
Flip it like a white tupac or a black uncle sam.
This poet from the suburbs has seen a lot of shit,
One thing that I’ll tell you straight, I’ll never fuckin’ quit.
A place don’t define no man, and I’ll never fuckin’ quit.
At it again with a recorder and a pen.
“When everyone was tryin’
out-do-the last man. I was just
a ghost tryin’ to catch some
Mrs. Pac man.”
Pedaling. Broken chain held together with duct tape. Basically.
Bike lane. Southbound on Central. Past that run down college with no students.
Janitor in the window cleaning for another busy day of nothing. Green lights. Brake lights. Walk signs with burned out white bulbs. Skyline. Peace of mind. Night time and 70. Cool as Malcom with a fresh pair of shades on. Donald Faison with some J’s on. JD-esque interns at the hospital where another dude got shot playin ball. And they all fall. Down. Dominoes. Order me some slices round these foes. Just playin’. Pass ‘em by with a small wave. Get out the way of a car chase on Liberty. Snap-backs snappin’ back at cop cats. Don’t talk back. Didn’t these fools learn manners? Hold ‘em host-age. Flash the badge and rights read. Better than more bloodshed. Turn the pavement bright red. Make it down to the Ohio through the skycrape bayou. Tumbleweeds made of newspapers tumble down 4th street. Wad’ya have to eat? Horse meat. Bull shit. Alright caught a face full of concrete. Wasn’t paying attention. Or pay no mind. It’s fine. Brush myself off. Torn clothes made of cloth. Wishin’ I fell in some moss. Back to the sidewalk. Part of town where dudes get lined in chalk. Snitches wishin for stiches. Coffins closin. Pirelli’s rollin. My town’s a lady. Queen’s consoling. Every perps patrollin. How ya like me now? No teeth when I smile. You can take me outta Cincy, but I’m still buck wild.
Black and white kinko copycats. Jacknife plinko to bring the money back, honey that’s a mystery or minstrel. Makes no sense like History channel reality shows. And reality blows when you’re working 9 to 5 cleaning toilet bowls. Shit or get off the pot. Another way to say make up your damn mind. Life can be unkind, we all know that and if we all know what Bo knows then we all know rap. All star whether with a football or a baseball bat. I bet he hates all that. Rather go pro being myself than be an idiot trying to be somebody else.
Fame called too but got a busy signal. Is he single? Nobody’s asking that. Stoners hit on bongs and then on hacky sacks. Wickety-wack tracks made by sissy science cats. Rice crispy, sticky-icky, Saturday, Luda raps. Who was that? Magnetic mellifluous wordsmith SAT. Vocab to rehab to bring the 80s back. Empty cap guns spit quick puns, son. Nothin’ to do but run from the blast. Volcano flow. Spit hot lava till your brain’ll blow. Rock cocainal though. Or K9 rhymes bearing teeth at your tanlined sandal feet. Downey brand bleach your sheets quicker than gentrified neighborhood meet and greets. To all my peeps. Rockin’ jeeps. Down the street to the beach. Save a Corona for me. I’ll bring the limes and good times but the bud will be out of reach. Keep carving a niche. Best is yet to come so I’m starving the streets. Best there ever was? Naw, that’s Shad’s decree. But silver never tasted so good. The vampire bullet is me.