i believe in the power of the composer
the freethinking proposer
of openhearted rhyme.
the blank-verse relater of the time-
honored tradition of the story.
around the midnight fire blazing red alive in the
of a million
relating tales of won love, lost wars
and women with exotic names.
or chilling on the stoop
doing a play-by-play of yesterday’s hoops:
chronic versus matanuska thunderfuck.
upping the volume when the pimped-out truck
with the fly chrome rims
and the boy in timbs
and i believe this
in the class that lives by tips
trying to believe i’m not vanishing
bit by bit
as the business man in the grey suit in the
corner licks his lips
and imagines what it’s like to go slumming with me.
hell no, motherfucker; i may be poor, but my spirit is free
and there aren’t enough bills in your fold
(shaped like a playboy bunny and plated in gold)
to buy me.
belief is invaluable: it has no IPC,
price tag, or bar code.
and the truth of my theorum is infallible:
that my freedom lies in integrity
to the beautiful miracle force
that put me
alive and dreaming onto this course
of fight and flight;
of an everyday war against mediocrity where my insight
is not to become complacent or jaded
but to raise the bar on a life where might
is undeniably wrong
and only the poet warriors who flow is strong
in words of inspiration
of the space between you and i and where we overlap
can battle—throw down gauntlets like a medieval glove
to hash out how best to make us work as one
hegelian dialectics to make a determination
of how to survive when we’ve all done
finding our voices and identities without
of anything vital to anyone’s spirit.
and yet come together—sing a song
for all to hear it:
we are free and we are strong
and i believe,
not in this dream—in this reality.
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