This poem was written to Sean Price’s Heartburn (Instrumental). Best read to the same beat. Or not.
All this love in my heart…
Young nigga, I was born on a false start. Flag thrown, fifteen yards. Or was it 5 back?
Either way… ahem ahem. Now I’m here and I just wanna fart. That’s that poetry in my system.
Okay so what’s left? Looking to the future now… always looking… always finding… and the questions which are answered… often lead to more questions.
And so will it be until we die. Until the perfume from the girl three tables over is bothering me. SO strong. Wish I had nose plugs. Like these ear plugs. Sometimes I ear hustle.. Ear jockey… ear disc… ears on my wrists… all the better to hear these words with. The clack clack of the rhythm as I type type… tip top shape… never chit chat… just shake loose another foe, another enemy blocked.. friends list getting shorter… but that’s not real friends anyway. That’s internet shit.
They just put out a solid gold block of fake gold in NYC. It’s under guard. They call it solid but it’s hollow. And I know the difference. NFT SCAMS. I been here before, know how this movie ends. But I’m just moving. And in my moves you can see pretend dressers, hiding under bassinets. Babies thrown in dry river wells. The California price of aguacates still excels. And my pen table will prevail.
Now I exhale. Now I write. Now I pick up a tossed stick and burn it back. Cigar ash. I still see visions of Freddy Kreuger in Action Bronson’s dreams… On Mt Kreuger. Kiliminjaro. Young nigga, how high will I go? As low as that swinging sweet chariot. Bust a cap, bust a cherry top. Peel rubber, burn back the same cigarette ash I alluded to before. NO blue swede shoes, just blue eyed soul… Blue fin sole… Blue laces on converse convertibles. Collapsible Craftmatics, Ironice Eye Addicts… And I … haha.. I…. don’t even know wtf I’m saying anymore. Just tryna find flow state.
Tryna unleash all that should not be said. I am not Said. Not my name. 44 mag chrome in every poem. It’s rent time, and I’m broker than Sean Price the brokest rapper alive. But he’s not alive. And neither are these words. Neither is Larry Levis. All the people that bring me inspiration no longer breathe. Perhaps why their words mean so much. Because it’s hard to say they wasted breath, when they have none left to take. One take…. Jakes got my line taped… hold up… Black, rewind that.
Transponder not receiving frequencies… moneys not being allocated frequently… my duckets low, brow even grimmer. Still, with my eyes closed they both blend. We bend language until it has meaning, or form, or the lack thereof, and that’s where the fun begins. Aight man call yaself a poet then.
I just want to write… is what I used to say… but nowadays… writing doesn’t mean as it used to.
Doesn’t hit how it used to. Doesn’t lift how I’m used to… This winter got me sinking, and I’m hoping, no thinking… this quick trip to the sunny state will help me get my shit together. Just in time for graduation. Ayyyyyyyye I’m on my way out the door, lol, what more can I say? Fuck this institution, and every one like it. Going back to the place where I lay… dare I call it home? Dare I find a place better than Minnesota… brother you better get on them job boards and start posting. Start finding a way out. Just survive the game. And you’ll be aight.
Everything will be okay. Allah loves you. And so do… I.