"reeboks" poems
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
like Magic.
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
Looks like he's flying too
straight through the glass
that separates me
from the virtual reality
I watch everyday on TV.
I know the difference between
what it is and what it isn't.
Just because I can't touch it
doesn't mean it isn't real.
All I have to do is smash the screen,
reach in and take what I want.
Break out of prison.
South Central homey's newly risen
from the night of living dead,
but this time he lives,
he gets to give the zombies
a taste of their own medicine.
Open wide and let me in,
or else I'll set your world on fire,
but you pretend that you don't hear.
You haven't heard the word is coming down
like the hammer of the gun
of this black son, locked out of this big house,
while ***** looks out the window and sees only smoke.
***** doesn't see anything else,
not because he can't,
but because he won't.
He'd rather hear me talking about mo' money,
mo' honeys and gold chains
and see me carrying my favorite things
from looted stores
than admit that underneath my Raider's cap,
the aftermath is staring back
unblinking through the camera's lens,
courtesy of CNN,
my arms loaded with boxes of shoes
that I will sell at the swap meet
to make a few cents on the declining dollar.
And if I destroy myself
and my neighborhood
"ain't nobody's business, if I do,"
but the police are knocking hard
at my door
and before I can open it,
they break it down
and drag me in the yard.
They take me in to be processed and charged,
to await trial,
while Americans forget
the day the wealth finally trickled down
to the rest of us.
5.2k
plug-in your head music
remember being young
on a pogo stick
a unicycle
with training wheels
under
sunshine of your
love
o’ shine on
you crazy
diamond
run in the
jungle
feel the rain
on sunny day
and let it be
misunderstood
stop your moon tears?
run in Reeboks?
come on
you painter of
words
chew
good & plenty
plant
lime lima beans
kaleidoscope kale
juicy fruit gum
harvest
magenta mangos
paisley peaches
or go to an auction
bid on
T-bone
bubble gum
sprout beans
Tahitian telecaster
pre-rolled wagon wheel
sweet sixteen candles
Hound Dog Taylor’s
Brownie McGhee loafers
no?
yes?
don’t change
your lunatic fringe
in twilight’s open season
read
The Hidden Singer
dance
boogie woogie
cha-cha-cha
outside the house of the rising sun
so turn it up, Mr. James
your big wheel
keeps on turnin’
groove
to the little bird
who sings and sings
© 2011 chuck a stetson
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC
**** blocked by
wannabe rock stars
in tube socks
standing on the block
like the 2001 Rock
ready to drop candy *****
and knock blocks off of
those who would mock
**** strap wearing
disk jockey’s –
cocky cockney Spock impersonators
lock glocks in boxes so the foxy chicks
won’t flock to the professed
smock of Sherlock Holmes
or dock their paper ships
on the jagged rocks
jutting up from the oceanic
tectonic plate –
frocks adorned with Reeboks
shock the locksmith
busily hocking his shops’
noxious fume makers
while the unorthodox musk ox
in bobby-socks
gently rocks
to the sounds walking out from
the talking box –
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
I never really learned how to tie knots
I never really cared
Now I am burning in the attic of desire
drinking by flames of doubt
wishing your image out of my head
and praying that today
I forget how you threw a pail of water on
me in the thunderstorm of 98'
and I remember those reeboks that were
kept closed with
velcro
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Well well well time to tell Pandora box sparked from hell fire at close range click this phat
trophy for ****** up the madness open up the flyn' rat-tatz! and they thought they can kick it like ol skool Reeboks
This be Monday
Slap that Saterday
It's still payday American Inkstuh
Pens be sizzling like grills muthuh fuckuh
Wait... this ain't no street talk
I be better than a heated ham hawk
Critics help the senile
Hey I propose to you a young poetic juvenile
I threaten what is bull ****
Woop that with BOOTS TO ***** like The Rock got tired of them candy *****
Fortitude is non if you don't have the move to walk it ***
I chew fiber from your brain
Drain the intellect like the blood from the brother of Cain
School you to respect
Peel truth from your two face tongue one layer at a time
Feed you a plate of broken glass
to swallow that crime
If you know better don't waist time
Because that lie gone sit on your chest in repeat till you die.
(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T. Parish
Rebel of Eden
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
From records to cassettes, CDs to Blu-rays.
Jam Master Jay to Jay, from NWA to Kanye.
From white tees to peacoats,
Nikes to Reeboks.
From durags on hoodrats,
From gang signs to hangtimes.
From brothers who spent time,
To those who spat rhymes.
Mad love to whose who spent time on their grind.
I'm part of the Foundation, they call me the blueprint.
You're welcome to walk the talk, if the
shoe fits.
No-one admitted to putting the game to shame,
So who did?
I'm asking one more time, so who did?
I'm trying to hack away the chains that bind so tightly to this game.
But when I'm done, someone else will put the clasp on her wrists again.
Feels like I need to get her sins pardon by the president.
Nothing has ever been
The same. Ever since
Hip Hop was incarcerated, I had been
grieving ever since.
She is on the death row.
Death crowed,
every night.
Scythe in hand, still by the window.
She ain't fazed, though.
Got jumped more times than a trampoline.
Point blank with a 5.4".
With her eyes closed,
She heard Icewater
in her mind, soul.
Her eyes watered,
as she let go.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
Thinkin you hot in hip hop playing skip it in the summertime
Thinking when reading the dictionary out loud everytime when you state in dumber “rhymes”
Spittin lethal when you’d get abused by thought
And forget the fruited wisdom cuz you’re too confused with motts
Thinkin you flowin when you ******* in the niagra
With all that power you’d think that you created ******
Forget your lefty made bout, cuz your rhymes be played out
You couldn’t even hip hop right even if your left knee gave out
My women call me Mc claps that I’m “eatin prego”
Cuz you receive applause every enlightenment down when you’re getting thrown at eatin everything from off the floor when you’re gettin thrown at from every freakin tomato
I left mousetraps around your bed to prove that you bomb cheese
The next morning after I stole all the mousetraps offa your mom’s knees
You’re only hip hop when rats are attackin your feet
To have you rappin and dancin when evading death to abackin your feat
Dig out your eyeballs and glued them to my God-blue reeboks too so that you can see walk
Might as well morph in-to a dictionary verbalized so that you would be talk
Get your **** tatted with my rhymes so that you can beat mine
And ********** to a dictionary everytime elementary to see rhymes
Intent in poetry id is the only time when you can see mine
Your poetry is better than smoking potent sleeping powder
Your capacity growth is better than your open reading hour
You couldn’t roll with these punches only when you’re swingin on rollerblades
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC