Still Sludge on My Reeboks

“Some intelligence survives by hiding.”

Procuring education

so I could fulfill my destination.

Psychology and patience.

Reflective writing—

to tame past anger.

Power Ranger—spin the block.

Hop off the bike: hit, kick, dip.

Jail was a punishment.

No real friends.

No real bids.

But sitting in that place was strange.

I didn’t like any of them.

I needed another plan.

Deal with the demons.

Heal.

Fuck it.

It’s eighteen months or bail.

I didn’t know what to do—

my mom was at work,

and we weren’t really cool.

Why didn’t I finish school?

Socially awkward.

I didn’t want to walk like them,

talk like them.

My mother told me I was original.

I looked it up:

Something born at the source.

Not borrowed.

Not echoed.

Not traced.

So why did originality

keep me so self-contained?

You always say no.

I don’t even know

what yes feels like.

I was prescriptive.

I didn’t want much.

I became self-disciplined—

more constructive than destructive,

productive.

In class, disruptive.

I already knew the material.

I had to pretend I wasn’t smart.

That was hard.

I’ve been through the mud.

There’s still sludge on my Reeboks.

If I Wasn’t From There

“Environment teaches faster than school ever could.”

My hood traded

ABCs

into

Audis,

Benz,

Cash Money.

One K.

Ten K.

All black—no play.

Guns, no masks.

All day on that corner.

Weed smoke rose like clouds in the cold.

Everywhere else felt foreign.

If I died today,

I’m coming back a yardie still.

Up and down Third Street Hill

just to watch the god bodies build.

How traffic moves when you got crack on you.

How the police don’t give a fuck

unless you sell to one of them.

The armor was proof.

That’s why I don’t wear tattoos—

I protect my temple.

Plus I get bored looking at the same shit anyway.

Doors kicked in.

Police raiding.

Helicopters landing in the park.

You would never think it was hard.

You would never think it was hood.

Forever up to no good.

But if I wasn’t from there,

I wouldn’t come there.

Destined

“Everybody doesn’t make it back.
I did.””

— J. Elahi

I’m destined to live the dream

for my peoples who—

didn’t make it back home

like I did.

I felt left out, like a kid.

I thought we was about to ride around.

You dap me, said, “Jhust, I’m out.”

“Tighten your hoodie up.”

I turned around, you nodded, said peace.

Two weeks later, the news said homicide—

but the driver still managed

to drive to the hospital.

You was shot nine times before—

c’mon, you can make it.

The news said

y’all died in the car

at the hospital.

All we did was play Driver

on PlayStation 2.

My whole crew died

like Juice.

And I don’t have no proof

that I’m the last one left—

still alive,

still standing.

So I’m destined to live the dream

for my peeps

who didn’t make it.