molemen beat tapes

were copped from Gramophone.

cassettes jammed into a factory-

issued stereo deck of the hoopty

i rolled around in. a bucket. bass

and drum looped with some string

sample, fixed. a sliver of perfect

adjusted. the scrapes of something

reconstituted. there was so much

space to fill. an invitation to utter.

Iqra- Allah said to the prophet

Muhammad (peace be upon Him).

a- to b-side and around again. a circle

a cipher. i’d drive down and back

in my mom’s Dodge for the latest

volumes of sound. i’d stutter

and stop and begin again. lonesome

and on fire. none. no one i knew

rapped. i’d recite alone on Clark St.

free, styling, shaping, my voice

a sapling, hatchling, rapping

my life, emerging in the dark

of an empty car.

                                              •

there was a time when hip-hop felt like a secret

society of wizards and wordsmiths. magicians

meant to find you or that you were meant to find

like rappers i listened to and memorized in history

class talked specifically to me, for me.

                                              •

& sometimes

you’d see a kid whisper to himself

in the corner of a bus seat & you

asked if he rhymed & traded a poem

a verse like a fur pelt/trapping.

some gold or food. this sustenance.

you didn’t have to ride solo anymore.

                                              •

Jonathan was the first kid i met who rapped. he was Black

from a prep school, wore ski goggles on top his head & listened

to Wu-Tang which meant he was always rhyming about science

and chess. his pops made him read Sun Tzu. his mans was Omega

a fat Puerto Rican who wrote graffiti and smoked bidis.

& they’d have friends

& the backseat would swell

& the word got passed/scooped like a ball

on the playground. you’d juggle however long

your mind could double Dutch. sometimes you’d take

what you were given/lift off like a trampoline

rocket launch. sometimes you’d trip & scrape

your knees. tongue-tied, not quick. words stuck

on loop, like like words, stuck, like that. but break

thru, mind, knife sharp, mind darts

polished & gleaming we’d ride

for the sake of rhyming. take the long way

home or wherever the fuck we were going

cruise down Lake Shore & back, blasting

blazing. polishing these gems.

trying to get our mind right.