Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg
I dreamed I was dying and goin’ to hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.

Last night I was shot and arrived at hiphop heaven.
And you know who met me at the big bling gates?
The original kings of da hood themselves, Run DMC.
They said to me, they said, “Bro, the Big Dude of the
hood up here, has told us to show you around the crib.
So come with us.
Now standing on da corner is some of your favourite homies.

“**** I was glad to see them, The Notorious B.I.G. and the maestro of rap Tupac Shakur.

I dreamed I was dead in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.

They introduced me to Snoop Dog, and they showed me the Ghetto of Fame with all the gold chains and number one hits up upon da wall.
Then they said, “Bro, walk this way, there are a few more hiphop stars, that I know you’re dying to meet, they’re hangin’ for you.
“There they were chillin’ by the curbside and staring down at me - Eminem and AKA MCA.

Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg

I met all my heroes right from the get go
**** what a privilege to have finally met
Then I asked them, who else do you think will join y’all, uh, say twenty five years from now?

They handed me a book of sheet music covered with graffiti.
They named it the Hood 4 Life Book.
In it, were many names and some were already highlighted in black texta.
I began to scan the pages and saw names such as, Dolla,
Pop Smoke, Juice WRLD, Nipsey Hussle, Easy-E, Lisa Lopes, Nate Dogg, Lil Peep, Jam Master Jay, J Dilla, Proof, Soulja Slim, Big Hawk, Prodigy, Camoflauge, Natina Reed, Charizma, Bloodshed, Big Bank Hank and  Dav E Crockett.

***???
Dav E Crockett?
Oh, well, that's when I woke up, and I'm sorry I did, because

I always dream I’d end up in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it would be, y’all be knowin’ what I mean?

It’s funny how despite different tastes
we all have a taste for music
my life has never felt complete
with a soundtrack. A beat
as a kid I was told not to fidget
told to just sit still
but my person was anything but chill
I have always had a thing for rhythm
I felt it in the way people speak
the way a husband sneaks around
keeping his wife trapped and meak
whether it is weak or strong
I could always hear that drumming song
It started with a rap song I heard
Hi My Name Is by eminem
but then again it had always been with me
it’s the reason time scares me
because in the beating tick of those two drum sticks
I could see the sound of life wasted
and it made me want to get wasted
black out drunk at fatal altitudes
when I was in middle school
we were angry
and disrespectfully spiteful
so we rocked long socks and listened to punk rock
then It was about being a bad guy
a real force not to be reckoned with
so we wore black Tshirts depicting violent scenes
and joined the screaming heavy metal mosh pit
a place to fit for all the kids who didn’t anywhere else
as I got older I put the heavy metal on the shelf
if I’m being honest it was all just a little silly
angsty teens with lofty dreams which they told us
were unattainable so we went out looking for cheap thrills
rather than develop any marketable skills
The first time I felt marketable
it gave me chills
The National in Richmond Virginia
an old theatre
converted into a sanctuary for the sanctimonious masses
to forget everything they learned in their classes
a place where kicked *****
wasn’t always a bad thing
I remember I was there
in the tenth grade
to see the Atmosphere show
because the lead singer - Slug
was my hero
his words enveloped me in a bear hug
which said you’re doing just fine kid
and in that crowd of tattoos and hipsters
and the ghetto kids wearing chips on their shoulders
I was high
but not on drugs
I was high on expressionism and the loftiness of ideas
The men behind the microphone
wearing a costume of stage lighting and swaggering egos
made me feel at home
for the first time in a while
they said things like God Loves Ugly
and Every Day Can’t be the Best Day
and the DJ’s worked the turntables
like a good lover brings their partner to ******
I didn’t know anybody else at the show
but don’t think for a minute that I was alone
we were all connected as brothers by bond and spilled blood
of our heros who were cut short before they could say the things
which we all needed to hear
We respect the story tellers
because it is how we come to terms with tougher aspects of life
and I was flying high on the dreams of kids just like me
saluting the scarred, worn, souls who had made it
who were making the path that we would one day walk
with the cut of their jive and the strength of their talk
***** of the walk
chalked outlines of the end of loneliness
They called us hop heads
and we’d reply
you’re ******* right we are
hip hop didn’t save my life
it just stopped me from taking me
for granted

All the true talent is being impeded
Everyone seems to please the conceded
Narsasistic egos,why you gonna feed it?
Offer up your bank,so they can bleed it
Dry
Another sucka
Caught up in a game,your gonna loose *******
Collect up celebrity baggage and check out
Support the underground,fresh rhymes,no doubt
Real lyrisists with non generic beats
Making real music to be played on the streets
Not ******* hype getting sales from the tweets
Get down with real artists and support with your sheets

bindi's grace the top of her mocha forehead.
wrist draped with bangles.      African soul.
style so Afrocentric
             afro so black panther
fist high in the air she is black pride. she embraces the motherland with open arms and is proud of her heritage. music notes hidden in the blacks of her eye. she is music. hiphop and r&b.;
tupac's  lyrics ingraved on her tongue. words of left eye instilled in her brain.
              music gives her life.
voice of an angel yet  she stays mute. black ink at her fingertips and a notebook always at her side. she is a lyrisit. she is sassy. press the wrong button and she's gone for a moment but will soon comeback to earth. a beautiful quiet vibrant soul she is indeed.  stubborn and mean at times but still as sweet as the refreshing taste of lemonade on a hot summers day.
she is Africa. she is India. she is Haiti. she is black pride. she is music. she is poetry. she is wonderful. she is comical. she is lovely. she is classy.
she is my big sister.                                     O.Rob.

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Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!

Colorful banderitas drape
This town street.
Here comes the
Pagan parade
Going to the church,
Lead by gay majorettes
Flaunting their legs while
Blowing kisses to the priests.

There is a river
Of people each holding
A portrayal of the living God,
A glossy Sto. Nino statue
Dressed in peasant clothes,
A chef's uniform,
A crisp black suit,
A traditional Chinese costume,
And a striped swimwear even.

Some people are masked
As zombies and ghouls
Quite like Halloween in January.
Their face paints start to get
Smeared in their sweaty cheeks
In this scorching 2 pm sun.

At the middle of the parade comes
A pick-up decked with a stereo.
A portrait of lady in a bikini is
Taped on one of its speakers.
As the parade moves on
The kids moshed and fist pumped
To tribal rhythms and hiphop hits
With cuss words in every beat.

The sun is setting and
The celebration finally arrives
At the crowded church plaza.
People make their way,
Inching slowly to the grand church door.
The great parade ends in a bang, well
A slap rather.
A ***** boy hits
A lady's behind
In yellow micro shorts.

A brawl erupts
In the midst of the crowd,
In front of the saints
Petrified in the stained glass windows.
The mass starts soon after
As if nothing happened.

*Viva Sto. Nino!
Come let us celebrate
The boy Jesus
Our King, our Savior!

Med stigende uvidenhed skaber jeg mig gennem de sene timer som en teaterdronning
Taber min dyre cocktail i en rist, men køber bare lige en ny
for alle de penge jeg ikke ved jeg ikke har.
Danser som en kluntet prinsesse eller en elegant søko.
Skaber balance mellem komplet umulighed og overdreven lykke.
Hælene vokser med flydende magi og jeg nærmer mig jorden.
Med de aller vildeste hiphop skills som jeg aldrig fik lært,
bevæger jeg mig over dansegulvet.
Strutter med munden
kniber øjnene sammen
prøver at se sejere ud end muligt
kaster ikkeeksisterende håndtegn.
Snart må alle kongerne da kaste sig på rockknæ og bejle som svinedrenge til det vidunderligt dansende ego.
Med svindende tilstedeværelse
kaster jeg mig i ærmerne
på en ukronet fremmed,
mine døve ører dræber musikken.
Bliver ved med at vaccinere
mig selv
mod alt det jeg gerne vil glemme.