For me it was all about figuring this shit out. I know I took my sweet time with everything but I guess the lord has her own script for the way I’m living. Sometimes I’d like to think that those visions are entwined, but I’m often shown otherwise. So I bask in those small moments that remind me that what I’m going through is so much bigger than I am. Only a small dot infinitismal molecule in the galaxy of humanity. Just trying to keep moving every day like the sun shines new light on old scars in the hood.
So what is the deal? Statis, nothing else fams. If I tried to tell you otherwise I’d might be someone else. But me, stuck on the block with the same old folks doing the clichéd same old shit. Really. Even if you ask them, what’s good, they say, same old shit. As if we don’t have different bowel movements each time we eat something else. But what can you do when the only option are Kansas Fried, Kee Hing Chinese Restaurant, Hot Millions, snack cakes and sour powers washed down with High Fructose Sugar Water? So all that schooling, even going round the country and the Caribbean still got you in the same spot you was drooling as a young’n. Thinking that hanging out with the dropouts and criminals was going to instantly add to that the street credibility you been so desperate for. Like that saying you take the man out the ghetto but you can’t get the cold corners dark lights and smoky rooms from the soul. It stays trapped in the walls of your skin like that metallic musk you smell when you step in the elevators and sazon sticking to the hallways of your hope.
Where I’m at? Right in the back park, headphones on, zoned out, looking at the moon shift shape in the purple sky while the clouds cling on to the good memories of today trying to make the pain go away so that the sunrise can be brighter tomorrow. Analyzing the parts of myself that I keep hidden tucked away like the secrets behind my eyelids. Most likely just catching my breath while about to breeze around the city, scooping inspiration from the beast when the conga man bangs boogaloo on his bongo, the iron horse rumbles to the next stop, hopefully I will be getting wherever on time at least within reasonable colored people tardiness. Right to action.
But what happens when the words aren’t enough? Do we ever stop being poetry in life?