Lamentations Pt.1...

Hear my cry oh God I feel so forgotten/grinding at the core of this Apple rotten/are my fears the target miss my dearly departed/Sunday conversation Mom's ya never forgotten/chilling in them Pearly Gates with crystal ceilings, gold streets, Ruby whips & them platinum buildings/I swear I got an angel she can show me the light darkest of night Green Lantern Stewart in flight/give me 10 Hail Mary's & a few Our Father's it's been 7 since my last confession killing these frauds/Life is a Bitch, Can't Knock the Hustle cuz the Smalls is the illest/microphone bully since Kimmy Arnold & Willis/Mr. Drumman in that limousine cruising for black kids to raise/wish he came around our way/I Need a Beat, Milky Cereal, You Jingling Baby, Beastie Boys, Afros, Ultramagnetic baby/it's the Culture that raised me/lyrics visit me crazy/floating trough my mind's eye while I'm changing the baby/Feather in my cap, nah that's the blue Yankee men-tal Last Dragon, Buddah Monk, Apostle Paul/Gen-tile/still in the hood a paradox/Cent-tral/Painted into a corner I'm soul to soul relatable/all praises due to Allah for a faithful few/my family & the love of my woman is what I'm grateful for/turned my other cheek to the the church is what I'm famous for...

M

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

Hold It Now, Hit It...

It felt like yesterday when I stood outside the church in New Canaan in the June sun about to graduate from St. Luke’s. Pictures with Lishnoff, the Caden twins, Jerry and Nicole. Four years just blew past. A minute ago I was a freshman in fat laces and mad open because I was cool with dudes like Dezlin and Gault. Shit, I was the Fresh Prince (with no Uncle Phil) before the show. I drifted through prep school. I think I filled out three college applications and had maybe two football offers from Division two schools. I did visit Middlebury and Plymouth State though. I had no shot at Middlebury, just went to party. Lived a lifetime since the Hopkins loss. The game was for a spot in the championship against Brunswick. Cried my eyes out on the fifty-yard line after the final whistle.

I had one good year. That’s it. I was stuck behind Bailey on the depth chart until my senior year. Hubbard and Bailey were the two best tailbacks in the league. Hubbard played for King, he was bigger, more powerful and Bailey faster with gazelle-like grace. They ran like Earl Campbell and Gale Sayers. My sophomore year Hubbard popped one up the middle and was in the open field. He looked at me apologetically then ran me over. I held on to his ankle for like seven maybe ten more yards after contact until he just tripped.

He got up patted my helmet and said, “Nice tackle, little man.”

I sat out my junior year but came back senior year with some shit on my chest.

After I snot blasted Trew in the Oklahoma drill, Coach Moeller said, “Whoa, we got ourselves a football player here.”

Coach Moe took over junior year, the team went from 2-6 to 5-3 and 6-2 my senior year. I started out fourth on the depth chart on some Tebow shit. Guidotti got bit on the hand by his girl’s dog, Pedrick fumbled too much, and some how I got ahead of Trew. All before we played our first pre-season game at a jamboree against Fieldston, Horace Mann, Bridgeport Central, and a few other teams. They called us lunch because we only had twenty-one dressed.

In the pre-game speech Coach Moe pulled a smashed cream puff from a crumpled brown paper bag.

“One of these squads has no respect for us, somebody left this in front of our team bus. Let’s show them what really beats inside our chest.”

We walked quietly to the field, played with reckless physical intensity, got back on the bus and bounced. Coach had all kinds of crazy inspirational pep talks.

Before the first game of the season against South Kent he put his massive hand on my shoulder pad and simply said, “Get ready, Baxter we’re feeding you the ball all day.”

I responded with a workmen-like twenty-five carries for a hundred and five yards & a touchdown. Should’ve had another on a reversed field six-yard run but, Lishnoff got called for a clip. We won 6-0. Had a two hundred yard game against St. Mary's on Homecoming that year too. My game towel had “The Big Payback” written on it. We played them for Homecoming my sophomore year, they housed us 44-0 AND I got blind-sided on a pick-six, knocked the fuck out on the sideline and everything. Should've had 1,000 yards my senior year. Finished with seven hundred plus and I gained most of that with three games to go. Wish I had another year with Coach Moe.

Wished I listened when, Coach Haven’s said, “ You gotta pump before you can primp”.

I should’ve done a fifth year somewhere.

When I was five, Mr. Renzulli took me to see Rippowam play Greenwich High. He was my kindergarten teacher's husband and the equipment manager for Rippowam. I sat in the locker room watched the players tape up, the coach give his pre-game speech and it was my very own NFL Films Presents video. I followed the line marker guys all game. They even made a tackle on my side of the field and we all had to jump out of the way. When your five teenagers look like the pros.

I swear Steve Young was the quarterback for Greenwich that day.

They all looked tough and that’s how I wanted to be. My uniform always looked pretty but I played tough. When I played city youth football for the Norwalk Rebels we’d host a team at the end of the season. We hosted one year then go out there the next though I always seemed to miss travel trips in favor of church functions. We played Jacksonville one year and the kid who stayed with me talked mad trash the whole week. The morning of the game I stubbed my pinky toe on my bed and broke it. I cried while I tapped it up in the bathroom and played the game. Scored two touchdowns, one was a seventy-five yarder on a power sweep. Broke my wrist in a JV game at Rye Country Day, tried to jump over a kid, just taped it up and went back in. Used to love that shit. But one day I didn’t want to play anymore. My Dad said I would regret that I never gave the amount of effort required to honor my gift and I would miss the discipline.

M

RIP, MCA...

I used to listen to that Red Alert & Rap Attack...

I used to listen to that Red Alert & Rap Attack,
I fell in love with all that poetry, I mastered that…
– NaS

He was right. I read liner notes, shout outs, production credits and listened intently on every lyrical journey. I wondered out loud about subliminal disses like if, Rakim threw shots and if, PMD threw ‘em back. I spent Friday and Saturday nights between Kiss and BLS with, Kool DJ Red Alert and Mr. Magic , completely captivated by the Bridge Wars. I remember when I caught Slow and Low on my favorite blue TDK for the first time. I saw Beat Street, Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo and practiced moves in the garage like there was a draft for the Fresh Fest Tour . I kept extra Boom Box batteries in the freezer. I had, Three Times Dope’s Original Stylin'. I listened to, The Great Adventures of Slick Rick and What More Can I Say every day for a year. Learned about Black Nationalism from, X-Clan and Poor Righteous Teachers. I lost my mind the first time I heard LL’s verse on ‘Rampage’. Like, Will Smith at Bel-Air Academy, my B-Boy dedication was serious.

“Hip Hop is my hobby.”

PJ moved to Sharrod’s seat and waved for me to cool off, “Why you always let him get you tight, son?”

“You right. Fuck that I wanna get back to my list. We covered G Rap, Rakim, Kane and KRS but that’s them dudes right there so I gotta just say their names again. But I gonna make a stop in Houston and pick up, Mr. Scarface your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper cuz I love that gangsta shit. Of course, Redman that nigga is ill and how nobody said, LL. How you gonna leave, LL off ANY list … or, Q-Tip.”

Boo’s grill lit up like the North Star on baby Jesus, “Q-Tip’s that nigga, D.”

“Hell yeah, Boo. Low End Theory is my favorite album. And my last one …”

“Baxter, what the fuck is you talking about?” Sharrod’s face was mad wrinkled, “Them niggas don’t give a fuck about you. Don’t your always late to class ass gotta be somewhere?”

“Why are you still here, Sharrod? Don’t you gotta pray to the west or something? You always trying to play somebody.”

He held his arms wide from his body, “Ain’t nobody trying, Preacher boy…” and I stood up from the table in response, “you ain’t saying nothing, son …”

“YOU ain’t saying nothing …”

PJ stood in between again, “Neither one of y’all saying nothing. So shut the fuck up and listen to my list. Y’all niggas can make out later. Both y’all talking shit after both y’all list like twelve names for your bullshit Rap Pages book report!”

“Nah, you right, P. But I forget to add, 2Pac.”

Sharrod spun back towards the table, “That nigga from Juice? Why, cuz you look like him, D?”

“Damn, Sharrod. That shit don’t make no sense.”

Boo slammed his hand on the table, “Word, son! I told you. That nigga ain’t wanna believe me. You look just like that nigga, D!”

“Whatever, man. I’m talking about, 2Pacalypse Now! The album. That shit was tight. Wasn’t nobody on up on that nigga.”

Sherrod’s face softened, we found our mutual messenger,

“What! Nah, that nigga, Pac is truth, what’s that joint”, he closed his eyes to channel Pac ‘… too many brothers daily heading for tha big penn, niggas commin' out worse offthan when they went in, over tha years I done alot of growin' up, getten drunk thrown' up, cuffed up, then I said I had enough, there must be another route, way out to money and fame, I changed my name and played a different game … ’ that nigga got some shit.”

I gave him a pound, “Yeah, Trapped that’s my shit, yo and Soulja's Story is my other joint, that’s what inspired me to start writing…” My transition was awkward but I wasn’t gonna play myself just because he liked Pac, “What about Nasty NaS on that Main Source shit, ‘Verbal assassin my architect pleases, when I was twelve I went to hell for snuffing Jesus ’ now that shit is ill.”

Our tug of war settled into temporary treaty as he sat and listened, “Or Chuck D because pick one, Yo! Bum Rush the Show, Nation of Millions, Fear of a Black Planet, Apocalypse '91.., shit, all of them were dope. That’s that hardcore, Black Panther shit like that nigga, Paris he make you wanna smack a white dude and shit”, laughter rang off the walls, we sounded like unorganized rebellion but this was our exercise in free will.

“Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dog and the whole, Chronic shit is off the hook. I’m thinking that’s the future.”

M

Rich & Black. A visit to the future...

Just a lil something to get our sea legs back...

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 ...

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

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

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

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

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.

Tical

What’s good Family?

As I hammered out the first draft of this literary novel inspired by events in my life naive confidence filled my imagination with all sorts of grandeur. Now, as I edit draft number six time is taken to dig deeper into the visions circa ’93-’95 when they flash throw my eyes. I particularly see those Grant Hill Fila sneakers (the kicks Meth has on in the first video below) and my old hood. Which at the time looked extremely similar to every other hood in Rap music videos because LES hadn’t yet been swept by gentrification. Stories fight for more clarity and words mature to fashion my depth of regret for opportunities squandered. So many wasted years wasted on wasted pursuits. I lived like a drifter because I never dropped an anchor or set sail.

Tical was probably the most anticipated album release of my Hip Hop existence. NaS’ Illmatic basically dropped out of nowhere like the best kept secret but Wu Tang Clan and in particular Method Man had been on the come up for almost three years. Meth trooped with me in my headphones, chaperoned by Ron G and Double R mixtapes to the LES and South Bronx then back to Brentwood, LI. His lyrics rang out on street corners, building hallways and project rooftops while we puffed stimuli. I scuffed my Tims on St. Anne's, Clinton, Stanton, Rivington, Sherif's Park and many others long before I walked those same streets as a youth development professional or youth pastor dude. There was a romantic aimlessness attached to that version of me.

I scrap to properly project the pictures in my mind as words on page. So i can share a portion of my complete angst with readers over the misapplication of time in an era long gone. Why did I take up residence in a world I vowed to never become a member of? Why did I trade in my precious road map for a cardboard cut out? As a child I was taught to look towards scripture for inspiration, instructed to study characters that faced similar life obstacles and survived. Like Moses, I killed too soon and found myself banished. At best banishment has produced ambivalence though I do carry the earmarks of solitary interaction with sheep (my kids). You can sense my persona because even if my worldview is large my circle remains small. I’m about the book because the book is about me. Blessings.

M

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

Can't Forget About You ...

NOTE: If you're reading this on Facebook please click this (http://marcusjsmalls.blogspot.com/)

What’s good family?

When my eyes opened this morning the front row of my imagination was jam packed with themes, ideas and Hip-Hop music videos. What’s new right?

My personal and professional life has gone through significant upheaval and transition over the past four years. I’d say I’m located in some vague area between pariah and phantom. Nostalgia is a hue I wear well. Whenever I think about perceived contradictions housed within a MC, Pac is the first name on my list. Because of the mountain of information via his music catalog, interview footage and the many college classes dedicated to his work Pac is now viewed through a nostalgic lens. But Pac was yet another young black man cut down in life transition. Pac much like BIG was hardly a finished product. Jay-Z and NaS are in their late thirties and early forties respectively while Pac and BIG are remembered on murals and RIP t-shirts.

From the moment I heard NaS’ flow on Main Source’s “Live at the BBQ” joint I’ve been an unabashed (minus Nastradamus) fan and supporter. The Illmatic release date was April 19, 1994. Now, I can’t call it. But I do know after I ripped that wrapper off the cassette tape (yes, I said cassette tape) it was played in every Sony Walkman or cassette deck I could bogart. The ability to simply stay alive has granted Jay and NaS the opportunity to mature in reality and perception. My life path has provided the same opportunities for lane merges and roadway transitions. From roof top blunt smoker into a church leader and back again. But this time I have slightly more than a pot to piss in and a family in my caravan to the promise land.

We’re in the double video bonus round today so we’ll focus on NaS’ career growth from crowned prince of the projects to the rebel voice of a generation. As you watch the second video “Ya’ll My Niggaz” visualize my words on page to be the kid with the headphones on in full jam mode. Like him my message is destined to ring in the streets.

M