Love Beats Rhymes Page #6

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Or when she called down to me from

the project window for dinner, no.

We spoke a more

Southern-fried English.

I am a be-hyphen-ginner and my

moves shall remain inadequate

until these hands can rip the

skull from out of my lips

and hand deliver you perfection.

Brown body collapses like

cardboard across the dance floor.

Sarcophagus unlocked.

Blades reveal,

blades reveal these bones.

My Swiss army skeleton.

Skull, Flathead screwdriver, finger

bone, switch shoulder, switchblade

switch rib cage keys cords cage.

The b-boy's spinal cord is key

to pandora's cardboard boom box.

Click and rewind. Click.

They scared o' you, black boy.

Do you see how they shiver

when you speak, young man?

How they speed up when you walk

behind them in your crown.

When you become a king and point

your notebooks at their temples.

When you rob them

of their knowledge.

When you carry your backpack

more than your basketball

and pull your jeans

up off your boxers.

When you put down your gloves

and stop fighting.

When you pick up your gloves

and keep fighting.

When you put a rod in your spine

and proclaim

you ain't ready to die.

Take your place

as the chosen people.

We have a 9.6.

And we got an 8.

We got a 10.

I want y'all to give it up

for Derek Morris, y'all.

Um...

Sounds of

apologetic hearts breaking

have been my life's anthem

since I was 16 years old.

Cultivating the platform for this

now 21 year old monument of a man

who's afraid of commitment.

I saw it first in my father.

When I realized

that he was afraid

of heights midair

of jumping the broom.

Attracted to women quick to

tie knots like boy scouts.

While simultaneously

making ones in the womb.

These were wavering women.

Willing to

compromise their morals

for the maintenance of morale.

Wailing women who viewed my father's

infidelity like a crucifixion.

I wonder how god felt

when he saw his own son die due

to a flaw within his own system.

Or how my father feels

when he sees his own son

strive to be nothing like him

so therefore

resembles his victims.

Do either of them live vicariously

through their children?

Or look away as they

go through hell and back.

Thank you.

Loved the poem,

hated his delivery.

Are we havin' fun

here tonight or what?

All right,

I wanna see some scores.

8.2.

We got a 9.5.

We got a 9.

And we got a 6.5.

She took him out.

Oh, damn.

Remember,

for the next two months

the winners of each weekly slam

will compete for a spot

on my 5 boros slam team.

Representing New York City

on labor day weekend

in the national competition.

He didn't mention

anything about that.

And tonight we have

our first finalist.

The winner of this weekly slam.

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