Tracing Nas

“Study is how vision sharpens.”

I used to trace Nas rhymes,

then say Nas rhymes.

I was ten,

going on eleven—

New York State of Mind.

Where I backflip

into eloquence,

elaboration.

My mind’s racing,

but I’m running with him.

This subsection of suppliance,

society’s survival surveillance.

I’m standing,

seeing everything—

4K enhancements.

Ain’t nobody fucking with him.

He got me picturing myself

in Timbs,

army jacket,

skully—

the way I wear it.

I’m stepping through

the fog of Queensbridge,

where all these niggas live.

Visionary designer.

New York State of minder.

That nigga Nas had insomnia.

It’s no sleeping.

Working With My Breath

“Craft begins where comfort ends.”

2Pac—mature.

Now I’m working with my breath.

Developed from sleeping on the floor,

reading with the book on my chest.

Pallets were plush,

but this notebook had me in a lex,

a plane—

a place I live in today.

No friends.

No shame.

So shameless.

Putting everything in frame

from what I’ve seen.

Extraordinary—they call me Jhust.

That’s how they labeled me.

That nigga crazy.

Little did they know

I’m insanely passionate

about crafting this caption

with power.

On Purpose

“Silence sharpens what noise dulls.”

Sophisticated and rude—

this is how I talk.

I don’t have an attitude.

I stay on mute,

observing how everybody move.

I’m on point

on purpose.

Mug meant.

Stance straight.

Militant with intent.

Don’t bet on your hands.

Your mans late.

Though I’m in my head,

it could get gingerbread

in a second.

Mask off—

these the ones who be stepping.

If writing was a weapon,

I would’ve outlived

a hundred sentences.

Heavy Now

“Weight teaches what speed never could.”

I come off intimidating.

My passion flows like menstruation.

Complex Simplicity!

I value patience.

I’m ready now — why wait?

I’m heavy now.

My fate.

Holding this heavy world,

my shoulders ache.

My imaginary wings grew to my shins.

SHEIN is not the brand I walk in.

Not much into fashion or talking.

I’m a gala dresser.

College professor.

Malcolm X in black sweaters.

Hood —

but when I’m good,

I relax better.

Tread Lightly

“My grandmother knew. She wasn’t stupid.”

My grandmother knew.

She wasn’t stupid.

I had girls in the house—

and some more shit.

Somebody told on you.

What you doing in Paterson?

In my head I’m like, oh shit.

I thought this was about

the girls in the house.

How you know?

Don’t worry.

Tread lightly.

(Kiss my teeth.)

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.

Life, Treated Right

I don’t need money or gifts.

I just want to experience life—

and treat it right.

Chill with Teedra Moses on the beach,

listen to her sing to me.

Experience that slow-jam party

transitioning with Lissa Monet.

Go to Jamaica,

listen to reggae.

Go to Brazil

to learn the Maringá.

Travel the shores.

Skydive out a plane.

Ride the longest train— (pause)

Nah fi hear no one complain.

Just In Time

Hello—my accent echoed.

“Where you from?”

(honey-bronze, brown skin, thick ting).

New Jersey.

“Oh yeah, what part?”

She seemed older—

and I’m addicted to older jawns.

Englewood.

“Oh yeah, my brother—

ATP!”

(This where I tune out,

’cause I don’t give a fuck.)

In my head I’m like,

I just wanna see you turn around.

“Oh yeah, that’s nice.”

“Hey, you live around here?”

Yes, ma’am.

“Hi, my name is—”

Wide hips,

ass fitting the ass-to-waist ratio.

I’m starting to get impatient though.

She seems nice.

Let’s bag it, wrap it, taste the moment.

“My name’s Jhusten—

just in time.”

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.

Go, Girl

I only know you

from what people say about you.

I don’t pay attention—

though I listen.

I can’t find a reason to hate.

I don’t know you.

I would like to.

But the people I came up with

don’t even like the sound of your name.

It’s wild—

same inside, looking out.

So I’ll say it clean:

Congratulations.

You go, girl.

You never heard this

from my mouth.

Unhesitant

“I don’t borrow confidence.
I bring it.””

— J. Elahi

You thick as shit,

and I ain’t hesitant.

Let them other niggas look—

I ain’t scared of it.

I like females that are feminine—

glasses, protective hairstyles,

moves with elegance, talks with intelligence,

corrects me when I’m wrong

or misspelling shit.

Makes me feel relevant.