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2003-06-18 4 10:08 a.m.
raindrops cluster upon the fingertips
or
early morning traffic on
sometimes the lines just come --
the stress laden working man
the highschooler on his lunchbreak --
the weathered old bird in
sometimes the lines just come --
sometimes the lines just come --
i curse my vices w/ more passion
down...
down the skinny arms of
down...
down the rustling, crackling
& down...
through the cracks of the
that we are spawn from the
i left sch around 4, 5pm on monday while it was raining rocking my brand new triple5soul hoodie (thanks Patrice) & decided 2 check in2 the bookstore 4 a bit. @ least 'till the drizzling became no more than a trickle. i had the 1st paragraph of this bouncing round my head, & felt like jotting it down 4 further ref but when i went in & fished sum paper (the back of a photocopied article on Hedonistic Materialism) out the backpack, i started scribbling & didn't stop 'till maybe 20, 30 mins later. this is the "finished" work i guess. i'd been a bit worried cuz i wasn't writing anything full-sized 4 a minute there. plus it's more my original style, than the precocious & alienating swagger i seem 2 have adopted w/ my pen. i like it.
i think i'm in a better position having dealt w/ my problems spiritually, instead of swimming in worry & anxiety. the dean is saying if i dont take summer sch, i may not come back 2 sch in the fall. i need 2 make up 10 credit hrs -- @ 800 per hr, if i even took a single class it'd cost us 24 hundred. been running back & forth 4 answers & getting none, so my head's been on a frickin' ledge like whoa.
the scabs r peeling & i haven't put any new ones on there. the scar furthest down the arm is abt 3 & a half inches from the wrist. Nug says i should keep it that way. @ this pt, i'm inclined 2 agree...
spent maybe 3, 4 hrs w/ Dre just parked in his car bumping 2 beats & hearing him freestyle & spit writtens. it was ill 'cuz he was more open than i'd ever seen him -- just laying his heart bear, & i got 2 realize how much hurt duke carries around on the daily. i guess it's easier 2 assume a person's fine, than assume responsibility 4 helping 'em out.
i'm learning what it means 2b out yr comfort zone these days. i'm being real -- i haven't been real in such a long time, it's almost a foreign feeling & the reactions u get from cats almost makes u wanna go back 2 the masquerade. but nah -- i seen 2 many idiots claim "political incorrectness" b/c they cuss or speak on "risque" topics like their explicit sex lives or their hate of others. dude, how abt u be politically incorrect b/c u're real? cuz u're frank? cuz u're candid?
niggas kill me, man.
"sh*t, i been hated since the 5th
of generous & accomodating trees,
jostling for space & supremacy
like...
proud & pompous volumes on a
busybody's bookshelf
the A-train;
cousins in calamity,
souls sold for a 3 by 7" obituary.
intrusive & unbeckoned, as i gaze
in the faces of people i pass:
w/ the furrowed brow
& the weight of worlds watermarked
in his filofax for further ref.
battered lunchbox &
curiosity in tow...
coke-bottle eyeglasses w/ a
thousand stories to tell & a
thousand grandkids under her belt.
intrusive & unbeckoned as
i gaze into the faces of
people i pass --
pedestrians, whose feet
beat the pavement in startling unison:
the sidewalk symphony
of shared enslavement. i write to
free my wrists
of these shackles...
i write in inkpen
for those in solitary in
pen-
-itentiaries,
those strangers i never met,
yet whose hearts mention me
for the sentinels & centipedes
who keep watch over our
comfortable chaos.
& i stuff them in trench coat pockets
for next time...
zip them behind the lint-lined
compartments of
this hoodie,
that raincoat &
those carpenter pants
'cuz, just like the people i pass
pounding the pavement; i am an
everyman & i wear my wrinkled face
w/ as much pride as any of them.
than necessary & open my mouth
to receive
the distilled essence of God's
gilded wine glass as it tips...
running, in an overflowing
carpool of clutter
(penitent) bushes,
mesmerized & steeped in their praise
raincoats -- ludicrous & unashamed
in their primary colour rainbows...
concrete we pound w/ hurried feet
& build fairweather dreams on.
we ourselves are raindrops;
each one of us jostling
for space & identity...
oftentimes forgetting
same wine glass --
a veritable vineyard
of extended family, arms upraised
in riotous praise.
grade/that's why my best friend's a
tre pound, a icepick & a switchblade/"
-- lloyd banks