On the Bus & Train (by guest Poet Ruth D. Caraballo)

I stare with what I hope comes across as empty eyes lost in its own possibilities not preoccupations. I know they think that I think they're looking at me and I at them. They are. I'm not.

They've BEEN looking.

Since I can remember I was a topic of conversation warranted or unwarranted as a child and an adult it felt like spotlights from cameras followed me. Whether I'm in a large crowd or alone in a world of too many familiar faces who do what they do best.

So I'll close my eyes and hope I don't doze off, catch a cat nap and miss my stop. Like a dream I had or a song I wrote it's an undeniable truth. I have to work hard not to look at you.

See it's a distraction from all the things running in my head and heart. Distant memories of the past and future to come leave me indifferent and inspired.

It is what it is till it ain't.

Because I'm caught up in dreams realized, reality made factual and life normalized.

One Love Karma ...

There's war going on outside no man's safe/I too youngin' was cut down in the prime of my imagination & violently mentored to succumb to practicality/publicly transferred from the Nebuchadnezzar to Captain the Ezekiel over the event horizon/yep that's us/flying the miracle wheel smoked out at the wheel high in the middle of the sky/we watched them posse up to cut down strength & gouge out eyes like she was Delilah to my Samson/all because a clear look into my Soul'll get you aroused like seven bare naked ladies/I remember vividly how them snakes hissed at me but they were too blind to see I was 45,000 miles away from home/just a Hip Hop buddah monk coloring blues in the hood/sonin’ them young G's like my name was JC Williams/maybe a muthafucka might be safer walking the block shaped like a 'S'/can't rock a vest but could easily be this month's star bullet collector/minus the spotlight in ya vestibule don't grab your wallet or your testicles/fuck who you are when we snatch your manhood & dignity/whether it be PIG or your friendly neighbor hood-ass enemy/because everyday it's 96 degrees in the shade stuck to the wall naming shit like I'm Adam/thank God I still got the pen but ya'll don't hear me though/self-inflicted images of preg Jenny's, seeds in back seats on star trek runs & 40 yard dashes from Jake & the Fat Man/all before I hid out on Pastor Fast Talk for More Bucks Caddy/pulpit or the corner them niggaz men-tal's the same/never forget though corner boys pump project heat/traded my post as ignorant light post ornament for the mirage of my very own puppet regime/now every sentence is a penance asking the Father to forgive both sins/I live it write it down then watch it blow up/you know who I am/you read about my life every night/M

Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself …

While hazy greenery infiltrates my bloodstream/I see/plastic heart minions birthed from unchecked passions of an Ancient Harlot making moves in the name of the blood stained banner of Jesus/young broads with bodies built to lust for/C cup titties, honey-dipped thick, brown & round/graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21/yeh, I know, I be puffing a lot/as I live & breathe we’ve gone from/ez rock & base to pumping easy rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga/spitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla/the lust for paper will lead to/no hesitation in the disrespectful & brutal pursuit of respectability/please put down the pen & slowly back away/because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics/perpetually with my board in the shop/chopped from the frequent-high-flyer- mileage/like a decept I can transform from/cere-bral to bru-tal/producing 2 twin jet packs, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz & a rubber griped 9/supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other/when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture/biggin’ up my music birthed flow conduit/you ass salty, hatin' cuz my spit is foolish/so them rings and things you sing about bring em out/it's hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth/Biggie!

In The Ghetto ...

I thought the ghetto was the worst that could happen to me
I'm glad I listened when my father was rapping to me …
Eric B. & Rakim-In the Ghetto


As a kid my Dad was like a super hero to me. In each story he was the underdog in the fight of his life against the world and the hand life dealt him. As I got older he appeared worn from the battles and bent low by the immovable force of my mother’s remarks. “When are you going to stop this foolishness, Toney? The Lord has been calling but you continually choose to stay in the shadows. Only sneaky people stay in the shadows, Tony and I know you think you’re hiding but whatever is done in darkness will come to light. I’ve been in my prayer closet, the Lord has showed me things and all will be revealed.”

He was never holy enough for my Mother, he sought too many carnal passions and she never had time for that type of foolishness. Away from her, on his beloved long trips with Miles, Coltrane and Nat King Cole in the deck he was a different man. “Your Grandma Ruby was a domestic. She cleaned houses for white people downtown. It was good work for women back then, back breaking but steady work. She was able to bring us good food too. She’d wake us up, feed us lima beans and sausage or sometimes beans and rice. But she had to take the A train, you know the 8th Avenue line by herself all those years. I’d stay awake by the window every night until she got home. My Dad was a Pullman porter for the Pennsylvania railroad, so he was gone a lot my Mom said he spent most of his time and money in the parlor car. He was a frustrated man, you know angry a lot. I couldn’t understand it then. I just thought he didn’t like me. He was hard on me, yelled and hit me a lot. I tried to stay away when he was home, but the place was but so big. Being a Porter was hard but prestigious work for a man in our neighborhood to have. Everyone knew my Dad went a lot of places but he didn’t bring much back except funny stories and cool nicknames that made me want to be like the guys he worked with. He mostly came back with complaints about the white people he served. The shoes shined, beds made, pants pressed, toilets cleaned, and every time he had to say, ‘Thank ya kindly, Sir’. My father hated white people and that made him a bitter man to be around except for when he was drunk. When my father was drunk, he was the nicest guy in the room. He died when I was ten and I got locked up for the first time when I was thirteen. It’s funny how quickly life can switch up on you”


*Editor’s note: There isn’t a full version video of the “In the Ghetto” available so I had to chose another classic.

Bridging the Gap ...

Tony Baxter was born December 21st, 1931 right up in Harlem, U.S.A the second youngest of thirteen children. His birth certificate actually has him listed as “colored” that shit always bugged me out. I only met Grandma Ruby a handful of times before she passed away when I was thirteen. It’s like that with my Father’s side of the family we’re always reacquainted at funerals. I do remember the little sex toys all around her crib, my Mother’s facial expressions when she’d walk into the apartment and that we’d always stop at Junior’s to bring her a slice of Strawberry cheesecake. My Dad’s side of the family lived throughout Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. When I was a kid he’d take me with him on his monthly visits, every mission we’d locate an old friend and they’d retell the stories of a world filled with bittersweet.

“The family migrated to Brooklyn first from Georgetown, South Carolina, then to Harlem, and then my older brother, Harry, moved up to the Bronx. Hunts Point area but that was after, when he got older and knew Mom was okay. Before that, though, we were pretty much all together in Harlem as much as we could be. Around ten or eleven my older sister Ollie started to bring Billie Holiday around the house but I was too young for that to be a big deal. We had it all, right there in Harlem. As teens Harry, and I played for the Unknown Seven most of them went on to play with the Globetrotters. Your Uncle Harry had a good two-handed set shot, you know. You’d be hard pressed to find a better point guard anywhere in Harlem, better than Cousy too if you ask me but them white boys wouldn’t play us. I should have stayed with it, stayed close to Harry but it was easier to get caught up with everything that was going on. I’d hang out in the poolroom behind the Apollo during intermission and all the performers would be in there. ‘Cause, you know, they’d sell watermelon and crab cakes, man, those crab cakes were good. Slappy White was always there in the poolroom. Do you know who Slappy White is? Bill Robinson would park his shinny Rolls Royce right outside. How about him? Do you know who Bill Robinson is? Mr. Bojangles? He wore black face ok guess not. Pearl Bailey would always be in there too, She married that drummer I always forget his name.”

His eyes were far away packed deep with nostalgia back on his Harlem streets.

If it Wasn't for The Bronx ...

Under the ever watchful eyes of new murals of Christopher Rios I've seen my peoples use EBT cards for mint balls on they way to the Methadone program/while Garcia y Vega remains my personal Melrose corner store devotion/sometimes it's like walking past the Vivero when 2nd floor neighbor stays having the hallway smelling like ham hocks, lima beans & Monkey ass/which keeps the mood sometimes shitty like the sidewalks on Stratford/the wrong look might get you stuck like a wanted poster on Soundview & Morrison/they say I'm a classic like Mill Brook & Mitchell rooftops or tenement hallways on 135th & St. Ann's/got a spit game championship caliber 161st & River Ave/Ok/but why is Kurtis Blow's walk a fame block like a semi dead end/Rock Steady & Dr. Ruth on the same block/Hmmm/they stay fucking Hip Hop/get it/I'm reminded how hood my hood is every time I'm startled by a white resident/Boro certified like the Bx 41, 15, 21, 4 & the 5 trains/graffiti covered landscapes inspire my youngest to catch upski's all over our crib's wall/you'd think I lived on Beat Street/Hip Hop DNA like Cedar Park & Sedgwick Ave/deep memory like the old Mcombs ball courts where pops blew buddah bless in my stroller's face/you can still catch me in the hood like Calino & Barnes living 3 blocks from my father's sister & not knowing till the funeral/spitting back to back 4's like it's a Red Sox's wrap around series/tune in/catch me at the Armory in Piper's Pit with the championship belt across my left shoulder talking maaaad shit ...

Between us ...

You're light at the end of a tunnel/clear outta Heaven's sky you appeared as a gift/and you've heard these words back in our world but whenever I write, spit or spray on page our Love evolves/every smile is an intricate, elaborate cavern of laughs packed deep with nutrients/like, when my feet were mad cold cuz a nigga needed to eat/shit, I love you in a space where there is no place or time/Donny Hathaway blasting out the speakers of my heart zone coasting down the soulquarian expressway/this is most definitely the way a man should carry on/too tall too tough us two/back against the wall blowing smoke at the world us two/till we click up wit some down ass riders who be like/word me too/I call you Love because you are/the social network allows me to wish you Happy Birthday on FB, Txt & Twitter from my Blackberry to yours/our bodies twisted in bed cuz we got that Computer Love …

CT, NJ, Harlem, Q-Boro, LES, BX ...

Figured out I went the wrong route but now I'm back/alive on arrival/which simply means my pen game is hella mean/every time I spit a round I drop a pound leaving my metaphysical frame hella lean/that kind of shit makes me a Lion in the hood/with enough Grace to extend Love to the Lambs of the hood/converting raw materials into verbal gems/dumping ammunition like Popeye chewing bullets after a can of spinach/a peak into my imagination is like a Soul Asylum/Pop's shot dope, Mom's carried scriptures in a flask/thank God I got off at the Gateway/hood holocaust survivor/too many years & countin'/but me no slack a minute till this dark path of flat pockets is finished/ain't shit to me I bear my soul on page/in gladiator mode soon to release snap shots of the story on stage/could give a thousand explanations but truth be told I simply stayed way too long/in the title trace the trajectory of all the places I've lived/easy to see I was born to be free/my life is a mosaic of East Coast hardships dipped in luxury/not yet attained super stardom & real nigga quotes/story of my life in 22 bars/God Damn I'm dope ...

Pain ...

Smokin’ weed helped me take away the pain, So I’m hopeless, Rollin’ down the freeway swevin’, Don’t worry I’m about to crash up on the curb, Cause my vision is blurry, maybe if they tried to understand me …
2Pac

“Toney, please! Enough already, I heard you.” Her eyes rolled to the rhythm of my father’s voice, “You know, Jean, it really bothers me that I can never finish making my point. What, do you know everything? No one can tell you anything? I’m just trying to be on the same page …” With a wave of her hand, “And I said I heard you”, she turned her full attention towards me, “Hello, Donte, don’t mind your father. He’s in one of his moods.” “And your mother is impossible!” I couldn’t let them trap me back in their War of the Roses tractor beam “Dad said you guys wanna talk to me about something?” He took the cue, pulled a chair close to the bed and cut to the chase, “Yeah son, we think it’s better if you leave town for a while. Your brother and sister are still at home, the people you were in with might come looking for you and we can’t risk you bringing that type of danger into our home.” I hadn’t lived at my parent’s house in a minute so his start was mad fishy. “So we feel that you could use this time wisely if you were inside a structured environment. Redemptive Living would be a good place.” The beads of sweat started from the bridge of my nose again, “You wanna send me to the farm? I ain’t feeling being sent away, especially over there to that place. Plus I got it covered I already talked with Mom-Mom, I’m moving out to Camden.” My father’s face was as calm as I’d ever seen it and he spoke in an assured tone he rarely got to use with my mother around. “Look Donte, you don’t have as many options as you think”, it was a minor miracle she was still quiet. “We spoke with your Grandparents and they agree that under the circumstances you would better benefit from getting cleaned up first and then we think school is the best option for you but only after you graduate the program.”

My mother could hold her tongue no longer, “And the Lord has already showed you to me, Donte speaking His words of truth. Your father refuses to heed the calling so the Lord’s gonna pass over him and hand the mantle to you, baby. All you gotta do is grab it.” He knew she had killed his momentum, “Jean, is all of that really necessary?” My father’s face lost all the peace of the previous moment and they were at it again. I had almost forgot what it was like to be around them. They argued constantly and put each other down like two little kids out to prove the other is stupid. The block wasn’t even close to an option anymore, my parents had cock blocked the Camden move and it was obvious they not only disliked each other but their relationship was worse than ever. Redemptive Living didn’t feel like such a bad move, “How long am I gone for?” My dad stopped mid-argument, “It’s a twelve month process. If you’re serious I could take you up when you get out of here.” Twelve months seemed way too long to be trapped in Bible rehab and I wanted to angle for more time to think this all the way through. Like maybe things weren’t so bad that I needed to go out like this. My father sensed my hesitation. “You never know what a new start like this might bring your way. You’ve pretty much made a mess of things over here, and I don’t see many friends checking up on you. You might not get another chance. You probably don’t survive the next episode. The decision is yours but you really only have one choice.”

February 31st ...

Would be the exact date I'm fuckwitable/not shooting to kill just trying to maim so please remember my face every time you feel the pain/some words you wanna make vanish cuz of the violent threats you made/tried to bury a nigga kid you played like that high top fade/bitter lonely bitches still trying to battle but I see none/this ain't for you though/it's really a special middle finger to the internet gangsta trying to talk tough but count gum stuck to the sidewalk when I see you/the flock flies together so your seed's on probably her fourth Daddy/I'm pretty sure your fast ass never cracked the Tortoise and the Hare/so I'll spit it like the Cliffs and you can walk it out from there/don't play yourself/you know you love my style/closet full of bad decisions because I ain't return your smile in '94/would pull your file but it ain't that serious just wanna thank you for more wood to the fire/didn't think I'd see you kicking ya lil discrete shit tryin' to keep it a secret/you a fish, a bird & a worm/listen you East Broadway lame play ya self outta position and mention my name/I know what's what & I'll see all ya'll later/and still be just as nice & polite greet you with a smile throw up them deuces and shout out/hi hater ...

Ballad of a Broke Nigga ...

What's good cold world/it's your main nigga M/live from my hood to whichever hood you in/didn't plan to be a Vet but it must of been on the list/how do you explain pushing 40 still on the wrong side of the tracks with lean pockets & regular greens/caged up and ain't none of 'em fam/just hollow souls who'll stick your shit to the glass like Stevie Franchise/scheming tacatos kicking knowledge to wild ass seeds on the bus/plus them Cuban Linx niggaz quoting Nas, Mobb Deep & Wu/this is the life I chose or maybe it's just the life that chose me/phantom-like, black listed & part time black hearted/a brand new nigga or faded memory if you ask what's left of my peers/but shots follow the targets so I'll never have to chase ya'll/not sure what people know about out there but truth of the matter is shit's fucked up here/still plotting with mouse trap blueprints on how to snatch the cheese/wasted years due to fear stuck in a dead end career/didn't wanna make a scene but I had to get free/overlord in my kingdom of poverty belly of the beast living less than two blocks from Jake/Dragon red eyes that cry blood so let's celebrate and smoke an eighth of that potent shit/cuz we could trade places gettin' lifted in the staircases'/summer of '95 that was my favorite shit/inspect ya darts like I'm the New Wu dart inspector/God forbid I relapse to help them pulpit niggaz go and peddle they crack/deep inside my Soul swims the spirit of Leviathan/extended Grace to many who simply reciprocated with hate, ambivalence & fear/while I'm commissioned to check the condition of my battered, broken & suddenly bipolar heart/when the fridge & cupboards echo my demons of murder form a choir of screaming echo's singing fuck them, fuck that/trying to figure out why every extension of embrace is met again with silent echo's/still I write like the next word might change my life …

My Dialogue is an Alms …

Alms are the highest form of giving. It is the greatest sacrifice of all giving. It is giving from deep within one’s substance, a literal giving of one’s self. This giving opens us up to all the blessings of God. Alms giving are unto the poor who cannot give in return. Any return is directly from the Lord.

Walk wit me, don't run ...

From streets where kids play under hanging wire like it ain't there & throw dirty foam blocks at each other for fun/where future hood enforcers roll stacked deep/packed like rats back to back under a barrage of maternal annihilation & systematic paternal invisibility/a breading ground for fraternal homicide/a sorority of pussy & suicide
on the installment plan/like muthafuckaz is supposed to go from stroller to cell block/like the local delivery guy telling me Jigga's a sell out cuz he ain't put a gang of green in the hand of every weak non MC whack bar tossing nigga from the hood/like Hip Hop is the new Lotto-Welfare/lil cousin I'm tryin' to learn ya somethin'/take you down into the post locked on to the blocks wit it/ don't ever let ya' self get caught outta position on these streets/you know niggaz love chicken wings/Bob Backlund/for the convenience of cost your man'll bicycle the well cooked beef/seeds planted to produce the broccoli/ohhhh Rev ain't right they whole church ain't right/ya'll know we all saw what we said we saw when we told ya'll we saw it/but these fat cats is too gassed up on the GodFather & mini Jesus comparisons to cop to it/damn shame/niggaz bleed just like us/putting 'em on a pedestal denying intuition when you listen/BX NY nigga it is what it is/Chef told me niggaz die faster than a pastor fucks/they cake game tight on every corner you could even swing the EBT card like a spiritual bodega/don't mind me/certified OG CT born cursin’ & crusin' in a catatonic state/mind still fractured from code speak & double talk/high on a Hill like Cypress cuz Stoned is the Way of the Walked ...

Poinsettias on the Pulpit [Expanded Version]

Metaphorically speaking, I went from pitching on the corner to fucking with the heavyweight connect but it's more like Cutty's journey to find Dennis/and yeah, just like moms I've washed clothes in the sink on Sunday before school/that shit might not have been new at the moment but it was always brand new to me/so I took to hanging in lots & on corners with niggaz who hate cuz it's a chance to breathe & breathe for a chance to hate/flash forward/the fact that every tabloid said she smoked crack never mattered when her voice boomed Holiday praise to the infant King for Sunday tithes & offerings/No! She can't sing in the play about His birth. She had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and want to sing too. Can't you see? We have Poinsettias on the Pulpit/huffing & puffing like she's the big bad wolf/Bitch! Carnivorous, throwing shade towards every brownstone chick doing time in the hood/doubling down on the eye candy burden/self confidence & self-esteem killer, black face wearer, self-hate promoter/beat biter, dope style taker, tell you to your face, you ain't nothing but a faker/meanwhile I'm giving all praises due like Malcolm to Elijah Muhammad/hated by the shallow shadows for an effortless flash of a few soul deep scars/took a few chances before I spilled a few bars/blowin' down maaad trees like a muthafuckin' hurricane/call me/M breath EZ/figured I'd tell the story of how 7 shots missed me

The Greatest Rapper of all time died on March 9th ...

Enough said. RIP The Notorious BIG. We miss you, my nigga ...

Poinsettias on the Pulpit ...

The fact that every tabloid said she smoked crack never mattered when her voice boomed Holiday praise to the infant King for Sunday tithes & offerings.

No! She can't sing in the play about His birth, she had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and then want to sing too. Don't you see, we have Poinsettias on the Pulpit.

Hooked Like Hope ...

Cuz everyone of ya'll know no matter how smart, fine or on the grind
about his master plan and shit/don't none of ya'll want a broke ass nigga who's on the grind & ain't got shit/so I broke it down then called a favor to see if the hook up would still cook up/bagged it up too close to distrust/fell deep into concentration and inhaled the
earth's creation to clutch the figures my ego still lust-ed/stamped it for slaughter and pitched on the fiend filled block/a conjurer of word pat-ter-rens/could easily find some words to assign for rhythm & tone/but then you'd never see this as more than just a poem/it's the pain, fear & rejection ten deep in my dome, it's the procrastination
practice that kept my black ass far away from the throne/I figure why carry it wit me when I can spit it & shine/from the classic green North Face like a 5 year bid to/the best advice from a short life like BIG's/living life without fear, putting 4 krts in my Baby Girl's ear/Tell me your version and I'll work to believe but DAMAGED GOODS is
stamped prominently across my packaging/won't always be locked behind this self-imposed door/chambers are dark & ugly psychological affects on the terminal poor so we'll see what type of monster this cheddar breed for sure/acid dipped razor sharp words like hate saw the fork in the road went back & smoked a L /cuz I sling bars that get ya hooked like Hope/insensitivity at inception left me on the bench way past crunch time shooting prayers for an extra frame/just wanted to make 'em clap for this like Jesus, keep it real like Big Baby & prove to the Stained Glass Gestopo they could never ever stop me/constant evolution & perpetual motion all while perpetually blunted

I'm a Bubblehead, I Never Listened to Nothing My Mother Said ...

I passed out again on the way to the hospital and woke up in triage, “Come on, son, they’re ready for you. Take your time getting up.” The pain made me self-conscious of how I looked, “Name?” But it was the nurse’s pretty face and dreamy hazel eyes that made feel like a super-herb, “Mr. Baxter, I see you left the incident portion blank.” I looked like Martin in that Tommy Hearns episode, “Yeah, Ma you can call me D. I was attacked, but I’m not sure what happened, it all went so fast. Whatever went on I probably had it coming it’s a bit complicated, ya know.” Her head snapped up from the clipboard with a no your busted ass just didn’t look tattooed on her face, “No, I don’t know, Mr. Baxter, please do not refer to me as ‘Ma’ and whatever you choose to divulge is your business.” My father’s eyebrow shot up but my attention was still locked in on the nurse, “Donte, if you’re not going to say anything or file a report, I understand, but make sure it’s for the right reasons. Revenge will not fix anything and though you may decide to disappear, the rest of the family still lives here.” Revenge had never entered my mind. Who was I going to get enlist to fight this invisible war? “Nah, Dad, I know. I’m done. Really, I am.” My father nodded with a slight smile, “Ok, son. Miss, our family doctor should be here shortly. Appleby is the name, Dr. Appleby.” When the police came by for a statement they were clearly bothered by my lack of recall abilities. I think the taller cop wanted to spit on me as he left the room, “Son, I have some things to take care of back at the office. I’ll need to reschedule my donor meeting but I’ll be back to check on you. You think you’ll be alright? Do we need to make some other arrangements with the police? Maybe a guard?” My face felt like it would fall off if I laughed but that was funny, “Nah, Dad. I’m small time, that’s movie shit, stuff but thanks for the concern though. I’m not important enough to run up in a hospital for and don’t wet it as soon as I’m up, I’m outta here …” He stopped for effect, “Yeah, Donte. I want to talk about when I get back. Your mother and I have some conditions. Rest up though and we’ll discuss when we get back.” I didn’t want to make a fuss. I fully understood since they saved my life there would now be conditions attached to any future assistance. “Ok, Dad. I’ll be here.”

He exchanged smiles with the new nurse as she walked in. She was a gem, my face was the size of home plate and I still wanted to kick game. Pathetic. “Mr. Baxter, we’re going to need to get you up and out of that bed. It says here you need a second set of x-rays, so we’ll get you in this wheel chair and be off.” Fine and awesome customer service, “No problem” I figured she’d mistake my quite approach for maturity and see how far that got me. Visions filled sheets of mental paper and it seemed a perfect story for the Chronicles. And in a panic I realized I didn’t have my journal. That shit was at the lab and that couldn’t be good. Ebony was the only person who actually knew about, The Divine Sinner Chronicles. I started to write seriously in ninth grade after Mr. Carol compared my style to the Catcher in the Rye. That had to be one of the things they looked for because they didn’t take much of anything else, “Umm, is there any way I could make a phone call before we leave?” Her smile was like cinnamon toast, “Sure, Sweetie, we won’t be ready for another five or so minutes. I’ll come back when your doctor arrives.” It made sense that James was after the book. I sure he read it before he dropped off the map. Inspired by Tupac’s Soulja’s Story I stared to write about everything that happened since I moved to Boutin. My mind went into panic while I dialed Ebony’s crib, it rang forever, “Hello?” I knew she was scared, “Eb.” Until she heard my voice, “DONTE! What the fuck, nigga! Where are you? What the fuck happened to your place, yo? The cops have been in here and everything, yo, it’s serious.” “I know, Eb, that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it’s hot but I need something outta my place. I need my book, you know the marble one I’m always writing in?” “Donte that shit has been in my place for like a week now …” “What?” “Yeah, remember we got fucked up? We smoked like twelve blunts that night. No wonder you don’t remember.” “Ebony, I love you! Oh, my fucking god, you saved my life, yo. You don’t even know.” “Whatever nigga. I do know, and stop staying you love me unless you mean it. Where are you?” “I’m in the hospital. They fucked me up lovely, whatever my place looks like, I look ten times worse.” “Damn, yo, it’s like that? Should I be worried?” “Well, not really because they haven’t figured out if they need to be worried about anything. I mean it’s just my journal, you know, I’m just writing stories and shit. But that’s some snitch shit to them. I’m saying it’s not like niggaz be keeping journals and shit.” She paused for a while to process everything, “What floor are you on?”

Broken English Soufflé

Supremely decorated, part-time hated most faded/become a witness to life nostalgia reupholstered & non carbonated/the dude your pops warned you about mixed with the man your moms wants you to marry /adjectives & verbs my special gift to reverse the curse of life lived in neutral reverse/still hadn't grown up enough yet, learned enough yet or confronted the scars deep within my soul enough yet/just in the pews with gospel flavored candy ears where the Locus & Canker worm chewed me through/now I stay/ bent leaned back like rickshaws stomach full of growls like, fuck you nigga/everybody got they vice, mine is weed & the pen/learned at Pop Dukes knee the schemes to contemplate a veer from the razor sharp teeth of the Pen/though I could never smoke enough to fill the holes in my development/spit knowledge on project rooftops, beat boxed in tenement hallways and stumbled over punch lines in many corner store ciphers/Divine Sinner, yeah that's me, during the come up I make my home in the corruption capital of NYC/where State Senator & son throw tax payer’s paper like Puff on the boat in Hypnotize/CT born but I rep LES to my B Boy stop, till my mind don't plot, which means my casket, dropped