Three Year Old Adidas
(Originally published in Citizen 32)
My Adidas are three years old - Saul Williams
Veteran of this class war
I wait.
Knowing the law of impermanence.
All that is permanent.
This aint gonna last.
This could never last.
I ask myself if things ever got this bad.
My Adidas really are three years old.
This aint no hip hop fantasy.
This is all american reality.
Artist I have always struggled.
I always got by.
Truth is I have always been too free
To be tied down to country.
But this is where I was born.
This is where I live.
This is where I break a sweat as I write this.
It’s been too long now.
Total state of confusion
Where everything you look at seems like an illusion.
No, Neo is not coming to save us.
President and Governor bush are gonna kill us with kindness.
My friend keeps asking me
How we are going to get rich.
Do I look like a man
That’s gonna get rich anytime soon?
Do I look like a man
That cares?
The fact is I don’t bow to corporate religions,
Or any other kind of rotten system.
Greased in the blood of slaves.
Greased in dollars and cents.
I was trying to explain to someone in class today
How that was not a real american flag
Because of the golden tassels.
He didn’t get it.
I didn’t expect him to.
You can call me a dreamer
Because I’d rather live in a world free of suffering.
Free of the anxiety of
Big Brother constantly watching.
Free of the violence of poverty.
Free of the violence of war overseas.
Free of the violence of fifty bullets through the windshield.
Free of the hypocrisy of governments
That say they were elected,
That say they serve the people.
Ars Poetica #6
(Originally published in the San Gabriel Poetry Quarterly)
Poetry doesn’t care who has the highest score,
The fanciest clothes, the coolest lines
Or who’s got the cool Hardy Boy’s hand gestures,
Poetry would turn on the TV for basic entertainment.
Poetry does not want fame or fortune.
Poetry just wants respect.
When I was living in LA
I had to take the Metro,
Sometimes instead of those
Ads on top of the window
They would have Poems there.
That’s what Poetry wants,
A ride on the bus.
Right there with the people
To be read by the poor and common folks
On the way to or from their miserable jobs.
Poetry likes riding on the bus.
Poetry thinks it should ride on the bus more often.
But all too often it’s read in stuffy institutions
By stuffy people, in stuffy suits
Reading stuffy pseudo Poetry.
Let the real thing flow baby!
Let Poetry run wild in the streets
And possess the hearts of the dispossessed
Give them something to believe in,
Give them Poetry.
Sean Sannemin told me himself
In Maurice’s front yard on a clear night in Glendale
(Every night’s a clear night in Glendale.)
“Go with your Poetry, nothing will make you freer.”
Since that very moment I have lived my life
To spread that message that Sean spread to me.
He bestowed on me this awesome responsibility.
To testify the word of Poetry!
And I won’t back down!
Poetry it liberates
It animates
Rejuvenates!
Poetry rocks,
It rolls,
It hip-hops over my soul.
Keeps me sane in an insane world.
Poetry is my soul,
My religion,
My deepest darkest secrets on a page,
And I’m not scared anymore.
Poetry is my flag,
My sovereign nation
And I will defend it
Until the day I die.
Poetry wants to be spread to the people.
Poetry wants to liberate the people.
The storm clouds are on the horizon,
The time is coming.
Set the mother fucker free!
Poem For My Mother
I thought I saw you
As I walked down the street.
Past the trendy cafes
That I cannot afford to eat.
There you were.
Face hard as stone.
Arms full of elegant dishes
That you could never afford.
Serving them to a table
Of pretentious women.
Who would never even look up to
Acknowledge your existence.
Age becomes less graceful.
You have learned that hard.
Toothless mouth,
Eating mush,
Can’t afford the partials,
Another day deeper into debt.
Message From Murder City
I escaped from Murder City.
Bodies piled up quicker
Than the days of the new year.
I escaped to nothing.
A shrine of consumerism
Masked as civilization.
Nothing to do but count the “dubya” stickers
As they ride down the road.
Nothing to do but wait
For the insomnia TV wasteland.
South Park at midnight,
A little Springer at twelve-thirty,
Then a full hour of King Of The Hill at one.
My girl just left me.
She says we’ve been living an illusion.
I say that it is not an illusion
Until one of us proclaims it one.
Oh but wait, she just took care of that.
I got a message from Murder City today.
Telling me I picked the right time to get out.
I worry about the friends I left behind.
I guess there are more dangerous places to be like Iraq.
If I know Murder City,
So proud of all it’s achievements
It probably wears that title like a badge of honor.
Michael Grover's myspace is here
Last update : 11-03-2007 20:58
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By: Marissa Ranello (Guest) on 08-03-2007 22:09