—for Jam Master Jay

you are flash in pan, and have been talkin’
“ish” since The Sugarhill Gang. Sugar who?

They will say, “It’s loud, angry in bumpin’,
and we can’t understand your words.” [The rule

of code switchin’ is to code switch: you must
trust true prophets spreadin’ good news]. Some will

say it disrupts mind to small silent hush,
and this disease can’t be saved with a pill.

Malcolm said, “I don’t know if I could start
a riot, but I don’t know if I would

stop one.” They will say rap lingo burns hard:
pimp, ho, bitch—our art and women abused,

and splayed like hot meat on a barbecue-
it-up-Saturday, when hangin’ with crew.

~~~

Your crew can understand, to a point, with
mess that’s on BET and MTV,

you might hear small requiem-side of myth—
a dead-end-corner slangin’ broke-back-beats,

not the pissed-off-to-all-pisstivity
of Chuck D’s 3rd eye. They want glamor’s rise;

Beasties not illin’ no mo’. We got peeps
who graduated Hollis, rock it like

this, who got Harvard degrees in puttin’-
it-on-ya. The HOT playlist so wicked,

spinnin’ butt-lick-flick-jams that’s cold dissin’
KRS1, and Bambaataa’s magic—

just gettin’ hip to ole school, think Common
on “new kick,” but he dressed-up son-of-Run.

~~~

All sons-of-Run tell it within hot rim-
shots like Kweli, beg for sunlight to shine

our foreheads. Under love from Lauryn Hill,
singing hopeful from death-boxes of pine—

feeds us hearty melodies. Sweet Jill Scott’s,
crazy crazy crazy—got much love for

little minds, while hyped Mos Def marches us
beyond bouncing black booties—airtime whores

for glitz, bucks, status—back into what is
hip hip-hop, where The Roots sleep and funk up

purity through bass, drums, and horns; all this
so Angie Stone can blow uncorrupted

over melody. Some will say, “this ish,
that ish,” but why the hell they in our mix?