Category Archives: rap music

Resistance is Poetry

Resistance is Illegible

Resistance is illegible/
No agenda to fulfill/
It is screamed to re-used beats/
& spray painted on public streets

Resistance isn’t public yet/
It’s outside communication/
Strangers’ loud dissatisfaction/
Mumbled in different versions/

Resistance has no address yet/
It couch surfs those acquaintances’/
That know things could be tolerable/
In alleyways and cubicles/

Resistance is inchoate still/
It is Demand’s Sticky Fetus/
Gestating in Discontent’s womb/
Demanding its right to exist/

Resistance has no sacred text/
It’s not been articulated/
Once described it’s deconstructed/
Resistance is just existence/

Resistance lacks halls of power/
It has no expressive clothing/
It doesn’t wear expensive suits/
Resistance sits on public streets/

Resistance’s unrecognizable/
It fulfills no stereotype/
It is not white, Black nor Colored/
Resistance is unknowable/

Resistance lives everywhere/
Dressing in the local clothing/
Whispering “things could be better”/
Try to listen to her grumbling/


Kids, Culture, Commodity and Identity Haikus


Kids grow digitally

1. Watching friends’ kids grow/
On my kids Facebook pages/
Makes me more grateful/

2. Gothic tragedy:/
Predictable reaction/
To suburban living/

3. Accepting blonde hair’s/
Identity erases/
The soul within you/

4. Rejecting image/
Society gives your hair/
Needn’t include dye/

5. Your spirit can make/
Your appearance transparent/
If you live your Soul/

6. transforming your hair/
Is primitive camouflage/
Lacking any verve*/
#haiku *depth

7. We are struggling/
Towards our identity/
Against our culture/

8. Smart people see roles/
Ascribed to physical looks/
As diminishing/

9a. So “goth”-“thug”-“punk” kids/
Have figured out culture’s lies/
And bought rebellion/

9b. So “goth,” “thug” or “punk”/
Kids Have figured out culture/
Trying to fight back/

10. But real rebellion/
Cannot be Internet bought/

11. Prefabrication/
Of rebellion just rejects/
Superficial styles/

12. “Deb” or “thug” or “punk”/
or even the “Anarchist”/
Leave power’s power/


“The Message” (For Class Thesis Development)

The Message

Granmaster Flash and the Furious Five. 1982. The Message. 12-inch single (Sugar Hill SH-584).


Broken glass everywhere
People pissing on the stairs,
You know they just don’t care
I can’t take the smell, I can’t take the noise
Got no money to move out, I guess I got no choice
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back
Junkie’s in the alley with a baseball bat
I tried to get away, but I couldn’t get far
Cause the man with the tow-truck repossessed my car


Don’t push me, cause I’m close to the edge
I’m trying not to loose my head
It’s like a jungle sometimes
It makes me wonder
How I keep from going under

Standing on the front stoop, hangin’ out the window
Watching all the cars go by, roaring as the breezes blow

Crazy lady, livin’ in a bag
Eating out of garbage piles, used to be a fag-hag
Search and test a tango, skips the life and then go
To search a prince to see the last of senses
Down at the peepshow, watching all the creeps
So she can tell the stories to the girls back home
She went to the city and got so so seditty
She had to get a pimp, she couldn’t make it on her own

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

My brother’s doing fast on my mother’s t.v.
Says she watches to much, is just not healthy
All my children in the daytime, Dallas at night
Can’t even see the game or the sugar ray fight

Bill collectors they ring my phone
And scare my wife when I’m not home
Got a bum education, double-digit inflation
Can’t take the train to the job, there’s a strike at the station

Me on King Kong standin’ on my back
Can’t stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac
Midrange, migraine, cancered membrane
Sometimes I think I’m going insane,
I swear I might hijack a plane!

My son said daddy I don’t wanna go to school
Cause the teacher’s a jerk, he must think I’m a Fool
And all the kids smoke reefer,
I think it’d be cheaper
If I just got a job, learned to be a street sweeper
I dance to the beat, shuffle my feet
Wear a shirt and tie and run with the creeps
Cause it’s all about money, ain’t a damn thing funny
You got to have a con in this land of milk and honey

They push that girl in front of a train
Took her to a doctor, sowed the arm on again
Stabbed that man, right in his heart
Gave him a transplant before a brand new start

I can’t walk through the park,
‘Cause it’s crazy after the dark
Keep my hand on the gun,
‘Cause they got me on the run
I feel like an outlaw, broke my last glass jaw
Hear them say you want some more, livin’ on a seesaw

A child was born, with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smiling on you but he’s frowning too
Cause only God knows what you go through
You grow in the ghetto, living second rate
And your eyes will sing a song of deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alley way
You’ll admire all the number book takers
Thugs, pimps, pushers and the big money makers
Driving big cars, spending twenties and tens
And you wanna grow up to be just like them
Smugglers, scrambles, burglars, gamblers
Pickpockets, peddlers and even pan-handlers
You say I’m cool, I’m no fool
But then you wind up dropping out of high school
Now you’re unemployed, all null ’n’ void
Walking around like you’re pretty boy floyd
Turned stickup kid, look what you done did
Got send up for a eight year bid
Now your manhood’s took and you’re a may tag
Spend the next two years as an undercover fag
Being used and abused, and served like hell
Till one day you was find hung dead in a cell
It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young