Beyond traffic.
Beyond cracked
lives. Beyond
bluesy attitudes,
polluted countries,
and silly white
genocides. Bones
don’t move for
plastic ideals,
shifty rhetoric,
and piggish
ways to prove
American vomit
is a gold-plated
crutch. Sunlight
breathes new
days. Moonlight
counts dollar bills
while the masses
stumble for food,
shelter, living
wages. Tap-dance
for a machine?
Why? Stick out
the chest. Support
the margins. Let
them people
see you standing
with ten toes
down in the paint
or in the pocket,
willing to lean
into this worth
less machine to
hustle a dream.
No country owns
a vision or a blue
print for flight.
I live for different
music, a dreadful
beat and a raspy
voice, spilling
them good rhymes
across the breath
of landscape that
stretches for three
and a half minutes.
Filtering ideas
strengthens the
resolve. I shovel
rage while stirring
natural sugar
into a strong
brew. Hussle
runs down a little
motivation for
the road ahead.
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