No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says
"Whatever tomorrow brings," just like Incubus said..
I'll still be that silk Snoopy boxer-rocking
Cheez-It chomping
Imbibing sparkling apple cider out of robbed-from-the-VIP-Club
goblets
Buffoon watching Saturday morning cartoons
Laughing when Bugs Bunny says, "What a maroon.."
I'll still be that uptown New Orleans hot boy with pralines
and
huckabucks
Talkin' bout, "Whoa, what's hatnin' witcha, bruh?"
Or, "Waaaaahhh, lil' momma, what's up witcha?"
I'll still be that Playstation One; VHS
Getting Extra Care savings at CVS·
I'll still be that front-row-at-the-hip-hop-concert verse
shouter
That asshole-curser-outer
That Broke Baller but every now and then splurger of dollars
That Saturday night Adams Morgan 18th Street cat
That East Coast poetry show road warrior
Rolling through New Jersey Turnpike tollbooths talkin·bout:
"Can I get a receipt for that?"
As sure as my best friends feet are flat
As sure as Cancer girls make me relapse (no offense, Tiffy)
As sure as song number six on Sweetback
Like Redman, "I'll BE dat.."
I'll still be that off-the-chain part-Cajun occasional ganja-blazing
5th L water main
As sure as Kom be the "Put It To.." Musician
As sure as The Dri Fish be the Out Of Water Experience
As sure as Native Son be on some, "ANT! Try again"
And as sure as Sir can't for the life of him hold on to notebooks
Or cell phones
Or women...
I'll still be Druid the Dark Lord from close-eyes to sun-up
I'll still be Cupid's dartboard
"Bullseye, heh-heh.."
That 10K jogging soldier
That pen-and-paper jotting loner
In the back of a seedy bar
Randomly repeating a CD of Nas
Society's peeping Tom·
I'll still be frowning at DC teens for making scenes at train
stations
I'll still be looked at crazy for speaking the truth in plain English
When called "insane", I appraise the name then make this strange
statement:
"What if I'm actually sane but just appear insane in this deranged
nation?..."
I'll still be graded/grated and judged
He-say-she-say-bugged
Mean face-mugged
A gentleman-flavored thug in a love-hate relationship with love
Doing danger drills in my Neighbor-ville
"Cut and Run"
"Duck and Dodge"
Onlookers laugh but offered no helping hands
When I was fucking robbed.
I'll still be writing "Jive" poems until these
women stop tripping
I'll still be bombing on Bush even if he does stop dropping missiles
I'll still balance hip hop with literary; ignorance with intellect
And if you cross me, yes,
I still might just diss you on the Internet.
(Sorry,
but the lesson here is:
DON'T CROSS ME.)
I'll still be part Pontius Pilate, part Apostle
Part savior, part scoundrel
Part celibate, part up for the down stroke
Just as prone to peace as war
Just as comfortable rich as poor
A balance of contradictions
Kindness and bliss and drama and mischief.
I'll still be I
That loved and hated, famous-infamous guy
Until pigs fly and the stars extinguish and spin from the sky
And like the chorus from my favorite song by Incubus, "Drive":
"Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there
With open arms
And open eyes.."
"That's YOU right there. That's your identity piece. That's who you are." - Sir, after hearing this piece.
© 2003, Drew Anderson, all rights reserved.