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I ain’t mad at ya’
I’m mad at the world,
A world gone mad for money.
A brash art form, born from the New York guts,
Scratches, cuts, breaks and DJs into the mainstream.
For what?
To dance? To sing a song?
To vent?
Yes, to vent?
Yet, now, even the black man’s rage has become a commodity,
Something else to be manipulated.
The stereotype, now iconic.
Remember when you first heard rhymes laid down
(It must have been summer – both rap and reggae hearts beat stronger
In the heat)
Remember the words spilling out, seducing not with music but with
Beats and rhymes, attitude, volume, conviction.
I remember Sugar Hill and its Rapper’s Delight, supplanting
Our local Go-Go music in the Nation’s Capital,
Inaugurating something new for you and me.
I remember the parade of young men – Latifah, Salt ‘n’ Pepa too –
Who added their love, their hate and their humor – LL, Heavy,
Chuck D and Flavor Flav, Houdini and Run-DMC, Will and Jazz,
Kid and Play.
I remember the glory years, when the novelty, the excitement was new,
Dare say it: Innocent.
Then the dark times came. I ain’t mad at Tupac – RIP – but
He and his West Coast comrades, with their wicked rhymes, sinister grooves,
And dark images, changed the game forever, for all of us.
But I ain’t mad at em’ either. Cause like they spoke from the beginning and
Like they speak now, them rappers, like all artists speak, from the heart.
I’m mad at the money – because money don’t respect – money just
Earns and bleeds, bleeds dry, til all faith is gone.
All rap today is noise – music with the marrow of integrity sucked dry.
Spring 2009 Poetry:
RAPPERS AND THEIR GAME by Michael Cromwell
EDITOR'S CHOICE: Three poems by Robert Flanagan
OCCUPATION by Elizabeth Pavlov
ONE BLUE SHOE by Barbara De Franceshi
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR by Jennifer Juneau
CASH CROP CONCRETE HOLLOW by Dave Migman
THE SWIMMERS by Oskar Hansen
MAUDLIN MOMENTS by Judson Hamilton
HORNETS by Christie Isler
BLACK MAGIC BOXES by John Tortora
