2 Poems

Cuttin’ Through 808s (featured)

I’m used to country and rock—for that music, dad
had a soft spot. Driving to school, mom always
played pop, which was cool, but it never hit the spot.

March 2017: “HUMBLE.” just dropped.
That was my first taste of hip-hop.

When the summer sun popped, sweat slop—girls showin’ skin, wearing crop tops,
duckin’ the dress code like they’re hiding from the cops. Those hot, humid
hallways—our bodies going through a change. You could guess the scent:

Raunchy.
Like us. Like our music.

Like when I’m stank faced, headbangin’ in my cousin’s Monte Carlo,
he passes me the aux. I was thirteen. I played “RIP Roach.” He code switched—
started lookin’ at me differently. Like I said—raunchy.

SoundCloud age, my nostalgia gives it praise, but us kids
listened to the nastiest things. Wasn’t long ‘fore we turned to
pornography, if we hadn’t already. Then drugs

and drinks. Kids who vaped quickly graduated to weed.

We’re addicted to things we never wanted to be.

I won’t say the music’s to blame—
I love hip-hop.
It’s how I escaped bad grades, mental strain,

and teenage heartbreak. It’s part of my childhood—a part of me
I’ll never throw away.

But I’m not ignorant of what’s endorsed in its lyrics. Those words:
I would listen. I’ve grown to oversexualize women.

I wish I wouldn’t.

Artists: you play a role—
hands wrapped around the ignition of the world.
What you say, even if your audience is small,

makes an impact on millions. But you lose your vision when you’d
rather chase millions. Think of the next generation, the children
who grow up forming flawed opinions from the shit that you’re spittin’.

To the artist grasping their next grand creation—
know what you’re wielding.
Art is a tool to incite change and make a difference—
as an artist, that’s my ambition.

No beat to this—so
who’s going to listen?

 

Leeches

It took ten minutes to jumpstart
my ‘94 Oldsmobile. Headlights overnight.
Battery drained. Rookie mistake.

When the Corvette left,
I tied my kitchen trash bag and
plopped it in the newly vacant parking spot—

like a traffic cone.

Trash serves a purpose. It held the spot
where Jordan popped the hood of his black Malibu.
Rusty cables latched like leeches.

Red: dead to live.
Black: live to dead.

Hands tucked in his black coat, Jordan asks,

“Why the fuck is he living here?”
He points to the Corvette, now parked a spot over.
Its metallic shine—the body of a fly—

glistened outside a thin-walled, gas-ridden, mold-stained apartment.

“This is where he chooses to live?”
My shoes crunch on broken glass.
I think it’s right where it needs to be.

But how could we understand?
We’ve never touched a hundred grand.

My fingers wrap around the old ignition.
I breathe. Teeth sink; eyes clip, wrist twists.
Bucket starts like butter.