in this age...
The air stays wet during the summer nights. Noise and sound never really go nil. The streets are the streets. The hood is the hood. Worthy are we to live here while no where else will we be found. Stoops grow in with kids changing sizes, but still the sounds resound. "Nigga, Nigga, Nigga" First it was used to discriminate, now we use to empower. Funny the power of syntax and suffix. Funny how creative we as beings can be.
Brownstone to brownstone communication fills the days. Beats produce the necessary hum to keep the spirited energy of youth alive. Corner shops and bodegas have and will never change. These shops of convenience produce more saturated death than drugs or guns ever could do. Don't misread though, guns and drugs along with all other necessary evils thrive, but watch out for the apron and grill at the back. That nigga will kill you as well.
We live here, not as a single child, nor as a single-mother, nor as a brother, nor as a pastor. We are a collective. We are the fat, the gristle, the chewed up waste of a meal that is left to deteriorate once no more novel taste can be found. This is the hood. We throw dice, and we play ball. Spliffs and blunts you will see. Fights are our love language. Threats are just part of our alter-system. Treaties are signed in blood and colors.
Things may look different now. From the b-boy to the gangsta to the neo-nigga, the hood is still the hood. Once Slick Rick and Tribe now Bahamadia and Kweli. We're still shouting. We're still here. Store-fronts still conjuring alternative found in the precipitates of Martin and of Malcolm. "Holy Oils" of the one true God; Redemption from Christ will save you. The churches and mosques are just masks to hide the turmoil that will in the end destroy us. Our identities have been deciminated by ourselves. Where do we find unity? Our color, our skin; it no longer binds.
Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy
Brownstone to brownstone communication fills the days. Beats produce the necessary hum to keep the spirited energy of youth alive. Corner shops and bodegas have and will never change. These shops of convenience produce more saturated death than drugs or guns ever could do. Don't misread though, guns and drugs along with all other necessary evils thrive, but watch out for the apron and grill at the back. That nigga will kill you as well.
We live here, not as a single child, nor as a single-mother, nor as a brother, nor as a pastor. We are a collective. We are the fat, the gristle, the chewed up waste of a meal that is left to deteriorate once no more novel taste can be found. This is the hood. We throw dice, and we play ball. Spliffs and blunts you will see. Fights are our love language. Threats are just part of our alter-system. Treaties are signed in blood and colors.
Things may look different now. From the b-boy to the gangsta to the neo-nigga, the hood is still the hood. Once Slick Rick and Tribe now Bahamadia and Kweli. We're still shouting. We're still here. Store-fronts still conjuring alternative found in the precipitates of Martin and of Malcolm. "Holy Oils" of the one true God; Redemption from Christ will save you. The churches and mosques are just masks to hide the turmoil that will in the end destroy us. Our identities have been deciminated by ourselves. Where do we find unity? Our color, our skin; it no longer binds.
Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy