I live it, write it down & watch it blow up...

Saturday May 29, 1993.

Game three Knicks and Bulls in the Eastern Conference Finals. The Knicks were up two games to none on the mighty back-to-back champs. 2-0! Held court at home and didn’t let them steal shit.

It was just about game time and we all had game faces on our section was mob deep with Boo, PJ, Tiny and every other New York cat in full shit-talk mode to the Chicago heads. And then Hugh rolls up in the spot with a Bernard King jersey tucked into his plaid shorts, house shoes, tube socks pulled up mad high and his ever-present Mr. Nice Guy-shit eater smile.

“Talked with your pops the other day, talking about his Knicks of course. That man loves the Knicks.”

Everyone knew Hugh used to be a cop and all the rules still applied so I answered him loud, dismissive and sarcastic. “Yeah, I know, Buddy.”

He picked up on my vibe and was eager to push my buttons in public so he got real close to my face, “He went to games one and two. Did you know that, smart guy?

His public display of aggression caught me off guard and scattered my thoughts, I lost my wind for a second and answered meekly, “No. I didn’t.”

His shit eater grin got wider, “Took your sister too. How about that? ”

“He took Tanieshia?” All those years I witnessed mediocre basketball with my Dad in the Garden and Tanieshia got the playoffs. My Dad knew he owed her for the Mets debacle.

“Yeah, he said he never heard the Garden so loud. The sea of white from the playoff towels, just some high caliber stuff. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”

Bob Fennimore a friend of my Father worked for WOR-TV back when the Knicks played on Channel 9. It felt like we were season ticket holders we went to so many games at the Garden.

“Nah, he didn’t mention it.” I tried to sound casual but it hurt to miss the games and it hurt more that I had to hear it from Hugh.

“Maybe he didn’t want you to feel left out and here I am blabbing away. Pretty insensitive of me, huh?

“How am I supposed to answer that, Hugh?”

He waved his long, ugly finger in my face, “Carefully. I remember when you used to go to all the games with your Dad. Now you’re here, with me”

We used to have floor seats behind the basket. Back when they were red. They became lavender seats when Dave Checketts and Pat Riley took over. We used to go when it was Red Holzmen before it was Hubie Brown before it was Rick Patino and the Bomb Squad. Holzmen was my Dad’s dude. Ray Williams, Michael Ray Richardson, Truck Robinson, Sly Williams, Rory Sparrow, Marvin Webster, Bill Cartwright. We were was raised on the Classic Roundball Revised logo with the Garden sound system on full blast ‘We are New York and we know basketball, we will win it all, cause we’re the New York Knicks.’

I was also a full-fledged tongue-out-the-mouth-long shorts-black ankle socks-Air Jordan posters all over the wall-kind of dude too. To be a Knick fan and a Jordan lover is pure self-hate. In case you wanted to know the last time the Knicks won the championship I was one. The Yankees and Giants have taken our team/fan relationship to its zenith. The Knicks have continually delivered heartbreak and disillusionment. But in the ‘92-‘93 season we believed in Pat Riley. They were 60-22, the number one seed and on a collision course with the Bulls who had knocked us out the playoffs three of the last four years. And just like Jordan had to go through Bird’s Celtics and Isaiah’s Pistons we knew all roads went through his Bulls. And of course in game three the Knicks shit the bed. The Bulls toyed with them. Just embarrassed and frustrated the Knicks. Of course John Starks got ejected when he went after Jordan. Like he could really even touch the franchise. The Knicks had TWENTY turnovers for the game! The Bulls scored sixty-two in the first half! Outside of Ewing’s twenty-one points nobody stepped up. It was tough to sit through. Most of the New York section had turned on the Knicks before the end of the third quarter.

“They suck ass, yo!” “What! I told you the Knicks suck, kid. Ewing is a dunking dummy, yo.”

I was quick to bring the glass half full perspective, “It’s all good. We’re still up two games to one. All we need to do is steal one on their floor.”

“You hear this nigga? D, you swear you suiting up next game.” “Word. Talking all that ‘we’ shit. You ain’t on the team, nigga.”

I just knew the Knicks would be fine, “Whatever. That’s fan speak. But y’all no team loyalty having niggas don’t know nothing about that.” But then I got all outside of myself, “All I know is I garuentee they’ll win out, wanna bet because you don’t know what the fuck you talking about anyway.”

In game three the Knicks lost by twenty, lost by ten in game four, lost by three in game five, and by eight in game six. Game five by far was the worst! All six-foot-eleven of Charles Smith’s-I can’t-understand-why-he-didn’t-just-dunk-it-ass got his shot blocked repeatedly and lost about nine pints of blood from the fouls committed on each attempt as the refs swallowed their whistles. It still remains in the top five worst sports Moments of my life.

M

Just Another Day...

I wasn’t prepared to think heavily about why I wanted to join. I needed to join a ministry seemed reason enough, which is what I wrote along with a bullshit sentence or two about how it was wrong for me to hide my light under a bushel. Mostly I wanted to find a place to spit my new shit because gun-talk still captured my imagination so most of my lyrics begged for the parental advisory sticker. Boo pushed me to write more honestly.

“Leave that whack shit alone, D. You ain’t shooting nobody, be you, my nigga. Talk about the shit you know. That other shit is glass, son.”

Boo was easily on my list of top five-never-got-a-deal-MC’s. The kid was born to rhyme. He always had his marble notebook, hard at work on his next rhyme, an inspirational work ethic and an ill spit game, he could’ve been on Hot 97 everyday that’s my word. He was the first dude I ever heard talk about Gospel Hip Hop said we could change the whole game. He had a name for the group, talked about heads we could connect with when we got out and had at least a dozen ideas for our Unsigned Hype demo. Boo put together the first Gospel Hip Hop boy band. Vic grabbed his clipboard and leaned against the table.

“Aight, you three are together, correct? Who are you and what ya got for us.”

“Aight, we PT. The Prodigal Tribe, I’m Boo, that’s PJ and D. We all was raised in church, raised on the Word, and know God has a calling, plan and purpose over our lives. But we went our own way like the Prodigal Son we know street life and have a perspective hood niggas understand. We ain’t super Christians and shit but we know church so dudes can’t run game. We’re a tribe of prodigals. Our name also gives props to, A Tribe Called Quest one of our favorite groups. I mean, I don’t know what else to say I just believe Hip Hop is my calling and rhyming is a gift from God. We don’t have no beats or anything so we just gonna spit it A cappella.“

“Good start. I like your conviction, you can go right in a row, show us what ya got.”

Boo was pure with it, words dropped in place and his words made you feel like you was there with him. I knew his and P’s rhymes better than I knew my own. I was the number one fan of our group.

“Aight, aight, check it, check it, check it, raised knee deep in these slum streets/wit hate warming my heart beat and blazed to the dome piece/living daily wit the pain of my church scars/beat into dreaming failure/saw my Dad leaning left wit the paraphernalia /Mommaz screaming get the fuck out and her pastor's praising her/saying her prayers, fasting & love is wasting her away not saving ya/bx nigga chin up & chest out have my zoo bang & job corp niggas stomp you ass out...”

I knew if I could get to the second bar I’d be all right and the rest would flow. The last thing I wanted to do was mess up and be on some let me start over, that shit would’ve been whack.

“Spaced out on buddah blunts mind trashed from sips of Hennessy/I pack the daily gat and cause ruckus to check the enemy/uhh, what, check it/A nigga like D zigs wit more presence than thick strippers at stags/laughing at you funny Sheppard’s mostly dressing in drag/you lame spiritual Dads/pontificating wit mental pics of her cleavage and ass/politricking on members who only spending that cash/building funds while you store front rent/bunch of clown niggas steady stacking that cash/ smack you wit the offering plate & stick my foot in ya ass...”

P was the closer his shit cut to the heart and inspired me to write more honestly.

“Woke up to a world so cold and lonely/twisted from spago & coke dustings/trying to remember me from before/broke Moms heart but hate pop dukes/wishing craftmatic you know the thirty gun salute/nigga sniffed the coach, TV & child support loot/looking for something higher to swallow this hollow within my soul/last prayer to God was a bargain for total control …”

Vic was in the moment and bobbed to the beat in his head, he looked over at his co-laborers who nodded back in silent agreement.

“I’m feeling that right there. Y’all got some fire. Not gonna lie to you though we’re gonna have to edit some stuff at first but y’all stay with it and we might have something.”

I’m not gonna front I was mad open and had a moment where I felt understood and accepted.

“We’ll post names on the main board tomorrow after lunch.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

Boo grabbed Vic’s hand and held it up high like we just won, American Idol. He almost tripped over the row of stacked chairs as we left the room with a buzz ready to relive every moment.

“How y’all think that shit went? I’m mad amped right now, my niggas, we starting this shit from the underground up!”

“Don’t get more underground than this.”

“You know what, D? Mom-dukes always says don’t despise humble beginnings. So what y’all wanna do, where y’all wanna take this? What’s up with your spot, P?”

“Nah, got two new roommates. Some holy roller fish niggas who just put the pipe down yesterday and shit.”

The buzz off the auditions still had me geeked. As we walked I jumped on tabletops, jumped over every big ass rock in the path and was an asshole to everyone we passed.

“Fuck that! I’ve heard enough light unto my path bullshit for one day, how about the downstairs lounge. It’s always on ghost town status.”

“Nah, D, that’s because them fucking rats is strong down there. Them shits will be sitting with us.”

After hours was the coolest time on the Mountain. Cats played dominos, ping-pong, read letters from home and talked Scripture. Rooms filled with laughter and debate and shine boxes and push-ups. Tranquil old men schooled irritated youth on the chessboards and everyone glowed with the victory of another day’s sobriety.

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.”

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 …

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

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

Countin' Backwards 2010 ...

Yesterday, while I walked down 5th Avenue this beauty, so rare walked past my ipod induced daydream but when I turned to see if she, was you, she vanished
(Ten)
I broke my neck to reclaim my unspoken desire and stumbled into a cloud of last Thursday’s fantasy
(Nine)
I saw rice and white dresses, picture bulbs flashed and our sister’s cried, friends laughed and well-wishers wished us well, our first dance and a champagne toast fit for two people blissfully in love
(Eight)
A subtle shove from a frenzied commuter invited me back to reality in the City’s busy streets but my imagination declined to take reality seriously, and I drifted into, stories of your busy day while on our couch in sweats, your pony tailed hair and face radiant from its natural beauty
(Seven)
The melodic sounds of your laugh while we surfed the net for vacation packages, planned dinner parties and decided what we’d do for the weekend, I know you’re not perfect, please don’t get me wrong but shit, I’d …
(Six)
Spend my life loving your wounds, bathing your soul and adoring your body but I might be speeding just a bit
(Five)
Your looks a gift from God but I’m infatuated with your heart,
just then a cabbie swerved, an interruption to my delusional journey before I witnessed your glow when you carried our baby, could there be a more beautiful, delicate pregnant woman?
(Four)
Birthday parties, sleepovers, family trips and school meetings, this ain’t about the here and now, some passé physical attraction, I’m talking soul mates, soul connections and soul survivors 10 year anniversaries and Hawaiian vacations
(Three)
To my surprise I’ve been standing on this street corner for the longest because the thought of you brings all possibilities to life
(Two)
That’s when I noticed that she, was not you, at all, not even close and I’m left with so much to say and only myself to tell
(One)

KNOW THE LEDGE

“Standing on shaky ground to close to the edge,
Let’s see if I know the ledge …”
Eric B. & Rakim

Hungry and still jittery my mind was on a shower, a fat ass blunt to the face to calm my nerves and some sleep, “Fuck the block, fuck the money, and fuck all them niggaz! Man, God what did I get myself into? I fucked shit up this time.” The first L only heightened my paranoia so I rolled up again in search of a more comfortable comatose. Smoker’s candles threw the perfect dim and furniture shadows danced as the cherry moved like an orange beacon through my heavily slanted eyes. After another deep, long exhale sent cumulous clouds towards the ceiling I listened for God’s response. “It’s not like I expect an audible voice and Shekinah glory mist from the heavens, just some help, to figure my way … “ the phone rang and almost sent me into cardiac arrest, “oh shit, Jesus, you on the mainline?” I answered with a nervous excitement “Hello” her voice was warm like fresh Pumpkin bread, “Donte,” with a smile that washed me with thoughts of safety and acceptance. “Mom-Mom?” I pointed towards the sky to show my approval in His method of answer, I consider my Grandmother one of The Kingdom’s best emissaries. “I should sound so surprised, Donte you’re a hard fellow to catch up with. You’ve been in my heart and on my mind for a few weeks now,” that I was on her prayer specific radar confirmed the amount of work my guardian angels had put in to protect me. “Yeah? Well, thanks, Mom-Mom I’ll never turn away prayer,” I wanted to tell her everything, all the trouble and how lost I was in one breath. “You sound tired, Donte. I know you’re a young man now and I don’t want to pry but maybe you should come spend sometime with your Grandfather and I. We’d love to have you.” My Grandfather’s voice called out in the background before she covered the phone, “hold on, say again, Jeremiah? Your Grandfather said he’d meet you at the bus station. Maybe it’d be good to take some time, clear your head and we’d love to talk with you about what we can do to get you back in school...” The line clicked for the door buzzer and my instincts said ignore it, “You know what, Mom-Mom I’m not even gonna front, you’re like an answer to prayer right now. I do need to figure some stuff out, get a change of scenery, ya know what I mean,” the buzzer clicked the line again “but I’ll call you right back because someone keeps buzzing my door, better yet I’ll call tomorrow so we can really talk and figure some dates.” Her tone became heavy with concern, she wanted to say be careful, to make better decisions, use wisdom. “Ok, I hoped we could talk a bit longer, I just got you on the phone and your grandfather is waiting to speak with you …”, wisdom begged for attention.

I am Lady Wisdom, and I live next to Sanity,
Knowledge and Discretion live just down the street.

On & On ...

When I turned eight we still lived in Queens with Bishop Masterson’s family and my mother planned to celebrate my birthday with an elaborate surprise party. She worked hard to make their separation seem seamless but we saw the cracks in our Dad’s countenance when we jumped back in the blue Buick and went home to sleep in our old rooms. She spun through the kitchen, not her favorite room like the Tasmanian devil in an effort to wipe away her mistakes with the same elbow grease she used on the counter top. After Tanieshia and I slid across the floor for the fifth time like it was second base she rushed us outside with orders to stay close. I had just convinced Tanieshia to follow me to Jamaica Park when I received news of my mother’s frantic eruption. She looked in the basement, attic, walked to each end of the block and was about to hit overload when she saw Willie Spence who told her I was on my way to the park. She fussed the whole way back about my hard headedness, how Tanieshia always got in trouble because she followed and how much time it took her to bake a wonderful German chocolate cake. I relaxed after I felt her hand motions were too slow for an unexpected smack and muted her after she said I’d get none of the birthday cake. It didn’t matter because German chocolate was her favorite. That day started a streak of bullshit birthdays, which wasn’t broken up until my freshman birthday season, my first as the mellow weed smoker with a cool sense of self. After a few brutal months at home because of deferred acceptance my twentieth fell on the first day of classes. I roamed campus free as runaway slave and happy to be far away from parental interference.

Finally with the college mix in full swing I planed to catch up with all my high school friends. The first trip without the click took me to the University of Delaware to check Courtney Smith. The initial road trip super excitement died as soon as we hit up his dorm. In typical white boy fashion bitter beer face delights Milwaukee’s Beast and Natural Light were ready for consumption. I was a lightweight all the way in high school. Any game with alcohol and me soon resulted in chunks everywhere. In Rowayton I still hold the record for most failed attempts at Cardinal Puff and most remembered for the night I had to be wrapped in a pop tart bag. But when they broke out the six-foot, fire engine red bong it was heaven. After they pulled the end table over for me to stand on filled with amateur overconfidence I gave the signal to light the bowl. I planned to smoke the whole thing but caught cold feet when the chamber filled. The rush of smoke knocked me backwards off table on to the couch wrapped in a convulsion of coughs. When they ran over to see if I was okay my tears made them look like Sleestacks. All I could manage between short little choke breaths was, “That shit was … dope … can I … try again!”

Like most kids I didn’t listen to my parents because I thought every word out of their mouth was sheer lunacy and lacked relevancy. For a long time I felt they wanted to change me because I was the defective version. Since I couldn’t understand the messengers I disregarded their message and missed out on solid parental wisdom that could have kept me out of rehab on my twenty-first birthday.

Today’s video package features Erykah Badu who is a definite top five on the all-time list of artistic evolutionaires (like that word, I just made it up). Maturation is the name of the game. Peace and blessings manifested with every lesson learned …

M

S*** is real ...

Peace & blessings family,

I know it’s a tad bit late but … Happy Father's Day!

Can you think of another awesomely under appreciated and hot button topic of a "holiday"? I think no other compares. On Father’s Day most Dads are sent to the background in place of angry and bruised memories of men who abandoned their post. Single Mother’s who carried the load are ushered to the front for a shared bill on the marquee. As a Dad I work hard to protect my son’s against swindlers and imposters that filter in front of their eyes. I know first hand how much time is stolen when it’s wasted in the procession of the unproductive.

My father ran a rehab center. 35 Chestnut Street was his first one. That was the house I came home to as a newborn. As I grew up I was convinced my life was void of adventures and empty of characters. I felt it wasn't as vivid as tales spun by the addicts who fought their way to recovery in my father's program. Back then I didn't see life’s contradictions and complications as a process towards my humanity. Time taught me that life is tragic, hope filled, explicit, and blessed. The Divine Sinner Chronicles is my Illmatic, Reasonable Doubt, Ready to Die, and 36 Chambers. It is the reflection from a sketch of my past and insight into my future. Some stories have been shifted to protect the guilty but it’s reality as I knew it and lived it.

So now more than ever the word of the day over my life from me for me for my life is ... Consistency. Consistency is the route from writer to author, tenacity will get DSC off of my laptop and on to bookshelves world wide.

Today as we delve back into the Golden Era I leave you with my main man Mic Geronimo. When this joint came out back in ’94 we still made gritty walk-a-bout videos with blunt guts and assault rifles for all to see without self-edited blur outs. Much has changed in Hip Hop but we must leave more for another time.

I roll up & park it like everyday is a 420 holiday …

Blessings,
M

Ill+matic ...

Hello family,

I'm back again. I won't bother us with hollow apologies because i have a legitimate excuse for my absence. I've put the pen to paper and finished the book. The Divine Sinner Chronicles first draft is complete! It's a novel inspired by true event in my life from childhood up to 1994. I took the Memorial Day weekend to celebrate with most of my family back in the hometown of Norwalk. It's been a crazy ride writing this book.

I've pledge to post daily (pray my strength in the Lord) to update the world at large about the process and journey of taking this book from my laptop to bookshelves across the globe. Dreaming big with flat pockets.

I've already finished the paper edit of the first three chapters, so I'm liking my pace right now. I'm also sending out the query letter. The query letter is the bane of my existence. I've worked it off and on for the past three years now ... it drives me crazy. I've purchased my copy of 2010 Writer's Market a while ago and got advice from my writer friends but I still can't say I feel I've nailed it. I know they'll like the book if they would only read it but the query is the bridge. It's like the first song on the demo tape. You're still alive if they want to hear the next joint. I know it's a numbers game so I'll remain persistent in sending five query letters a day in due diligence.

Now the reason Nas & Damian Marley are the lead on this post is because their new project. If you know me personally you know Nas is in my top 3 of artist in any genre of music. Illmatic is such an important album in my life. 1994 was an important time in my life, a crossroads and Illmatic was the soundtrack in my ears. '94 gave me a few classics ... we'll the stop the train here. I don't wanna give it all away in one day. Small steps, baby steps ...

Enjoy this piece about the Distant Relatives project.

420 is everyday ...

M

Listen very deeply ...

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 2

As an example of art, imitating life, imitating art let’s review a classic movie from the Black Exploitation or “blaxploitation” genre as it is better known, to observe this phenomenon a little closer - a personal favorite - SuperFly.

Priest, the main character, is the prince of the streets. He is a slick and charismatic pusher who dresses super-sharp and always plays for keeps. Priest wants out of the biz for good, but to buy his way out of the gutter he has to make one final score to earn him the cool million he needs. As he fights and hustles his way to his fortune, he must approach The Man, a shadowy kingpin who runs the entire rotten and corrupt drug trade in the city. When The Man wants Priest to stay on the streets and keep on pushing (because Priest is “a class A pusher”), Priest fights back, triggering an explosion of murder, revenge and double-crossing.

It is extremely interesting to examine how we, as African Americans are able to encase our protagonist in the vilest of situations, have them be devoid of moral repercussions, and yet still have them represent Justice. Symbolism abounds within this movie. The hero is a pimp. Though we never see him sending any of the female characters off to have sex for pay, he does interact with them as if they are the finest portions of his disposable income. The fact that he is a notorious drug dealer and murderer is credited to the circumstance of his condition, which has been created by The Man and is also in direct conflict to what he is really searching for, peace and freedom from the corrupt systems that birthed him. And if all of these symbols were not enough, his name is Priest while the character of The Man remains nameless, virtually faceless, and exceedingly contemptible.

I believe one of the major reasons this film resonates within the African American community is because of its complete inversion of positions held by the establishment and Black America. This inversion of power, interestingly enough could only be articulated in the person of a convoluted and troubled man, he had to have dirt on him in order to reverberate the reality of the Black Experience in America.

It is interesting to note that none of these "inversion of power" issues were even that relevant within the context of the older southern blacks because the word “Nigger” was like an atomic bomb to them. For them there is absolutely no mistaking or misunderstanding within the usage of the word, the convoluted and ambiguous nature of this words post 60’s Northern existence has absolutely no baring in this portion of the discussion; it was purely an act of hatred.

Ironically enough, even though I have no interaction with any portion of my family that might live in or come from the Southern United States this conversation with the older black men from the south was very much like talking with my own father.

My father - Rev. Alonzo J. Smalls - was born in New York City in 1932 during the tail end of The Great Depression, his birth certificate actually sates his race (Colored), so even though he was born in the North it was still a very oppressive New York City - with New York and New Jersey being the last two northern states to outlaw slavery - his experience as a “colored” in the “North” is eerily close to that of a “nigger” in the Jim Crow South. I use this example to bring out the point that geography plays a huge factor into - but is not the only factor when - investigating the views of this word. Up until about the late fifties and early sixties most African Americans had little use for any double-sided meaning for this word and I suspect the idea of a counter cultural usage of this word might have emanated from the radical West coast and Midwest Black Power movements. This radical movement, powered by the angry children of Jim Crow swept across to the Northern Ghettos of the United States where the idea of wholesale systemic change was not only conceivable but also absolutely necessary.