This dirt underneath my fingernails speak for itself

The li'l homie and I are holding each oher down this weekend. We've already had our litle run-ins, but we've made it this far. Plus, it has come to my attention that the gear that I copped for him last weekend at the outlets 'fo cheap' was apparently discarded in this past week's trash. Insert gasface here.

In this jungle, wilderness, we was raised
by the wolves and the scavengers, instincts like a animal
But it toughened us, put a whole lot of thug in us
-Prodigy, "Y.B.E."

So anyways, we had some good breakfast at Mike's, where I haven't been in a while. The grits and pancakes were doing a brother's stomach good. We also hit up a peformance at the Origination Cultural Center in Eggleston Square. The event, Mayllenium, was put together by my man VCR and was hosted by none other than the ill homie Big Brother Sadi, my personal favorite in terms of local poets and a good dude overall. Did I mention he's also an engineer and fellow NU head? Caught the ill freshness that is Miss Letia Larok rocking the mic yet again, linked up with some teens I was checking for (no, not in the R Kelly way), and got blessed with a closing set by Azizi the Poet. Since I never charged her comission for the free marketing strategy provided last summer, I'll just say we're even. Because suffice it to say, she has this one poem entitled, Boston, that resonated with me. It eeriely has a lot of subtle messaging similar to my next to last post. Peep it. And give her material a try if you're into exploring new shT like that. Somebody's gotta support all these young black entrepreneurs. Nahmean. Put your money where your mouth is, dukes.

Boston
By Azizi Carle

Boston the inner city
Color roaming the streets
Plenty of sorrow and pain
If you don’t have the cheese

Crowded streets of people
Thinking this is it
They give us dirt to eat
With no dreams or means
Where’s our motivation

Grab the paper from the Black Muslim
Seven dollars labor mommy
No desire for education teens
Lies, lies, lies, over and over and over again
The same ones, why do we believe them

Camera, lights, action
Let the news in to tape our bad apples
While the viewers ruin the bunch
Dudley street man, you own this block
Named after a slave owners spirit
Hovering over us, making sure our minds stay in
Slaverrrrrrrrrrrry

Bus our children to METCO schools
Black sheep in suburb wonderland
Stick them out like a sore thumb
So maybe they’ll question there own self-identity
So maybe they’ll be corrupted into wearing
Black ties and roll up their sleeves and bare
White souls

But, Boston public schools read old books
Lies, lies, lies, lies over and over and over and over and over again
The same ones, why do we believe them
With screeching black boards with white letters from
Suburb white teachers, who never seen the lights
Of our city streets

The slaves said, “Up north is freedom” Boston
Then second class, now second-class
My man was refused a job, again
Sit anywhere on the bus
Just not on theirs

But what’s truth color of Boston
It’s embedded in our hearts
That we are somebody
So don’t let the project high rise block your sunshine
And don’t let the trash on the streets clutter your mind
Time has always been on our side

But those lies, lies, lies, lies, lies
Over and over and over and over and over and over
And over and over again
The same ones,
Why do we?
Why do we still
Believe them"