Poetic Graffiti (Freestyle)

The ending is the beginning. It's easier to finish, or lose it before you win it. My mind is an apartment. And you're the tennant. The currency you pay is your attention when you rent it.
We're pretending that this pen's secreting black magic. Call it voodoo.
God said: "It beehoves you to let me choose you. I'll move you to do everything right. Versatile like JuJu Wright."
My ceiling is as high as the sky.
Believe the hype.
Thieves in the night pose as elitists, defeatists and non-believers. Toss you to the side when they believe they no longer need us. Stomping on your dreams with their Adidas. And bitter cold makes one scratch as if you're attacked by winter's chiggers. The rigors. A clerk checks my $50 bill. Made me feel like Mr. Nigga. Reality hits you with enough force to kill your sister. I review ways to find a way, listening to Blu who signed a deal with Arista. I'm your every man. Ambridextrous. I'll write with either hand. I'll be Ret(tro) like Eric or Perriman. And my cousin rocks the dreads. Likes to make his head rock. Plays music to make your head bob, grab your chest, calling for Beth. Randy or Redd Foxx. We're boys of nature, like Flair and the leg-lock or Fred in Bedrock. I stay up all night to write. I am so nocturnal. Angry flames make me hungry. Never pop the kernels when I burn them. I wear it on my sleeve. I bleed. My heart is external.

Focus on this, like the wall, when you're pausing at the urinal. Life is about so much more than just the booty. To dig deeper should your a duty. I know you're trying to screw me. But I'm not answering your calls. Sue me. There's no ugly found in beauty. Ugly is a trap. And the only beauty is in leaving ugly and never going back. I feel so proud. Legs tired, as if I've been running for miles. Scowls replaced with smiles. Yesterday ain't tomorrow and my time is now. Nobody ever said life was easy. It's never been a breeze. Forgive me for not crying. Can't feel sorry for you. They've never felt sorry me.
And it's been so hard for me. On the verge of rescue. No longer riding the pine. Mountains of doubt emerge and I'm trying to climb. Even my vocabulary's fallen behind. I won't look back, only forward, I have no time to rewind. Something's happening inside. Twenty-seven different ways. The right one I've been trying to find. It's the art. The love. It's yours and it's mine.
It is poetic graffiti.

---EOB.

Lesson In Logic No.24

He left him standing still. Blew by him as if he were the wind and his defender helplessly played the role of the stick in the mud. I reached for my cell phone and sent a quick text to a friend.

It read: "Kobe just killed J.Kidd."

Late in the fourth quarter, in a tight game, against the Dallas Mavericks, a Western Conference foe, Kobe Bryant was isolated against Jason Kidd on the right wing of the court. One-on-one, Kidd shifted his shoulders to the left, giving Bryant an opening. It was all Kobe needed. He took off straight for the basket and blew by Kidd. No cross-over, stutter-step or fake of any sort. He just blew by him---and scored.

But don't blame Kidd. His teammates couldn't do anything with Kobe, either. The Mavericks played him man-to-man, double-teamed him, triple-teamed him and mixed in a zone defense. And Kobe still scored, clutch basket after clutch basket.

The National Basketball Association is full of them. Fake super stars. False basketball prophets. They're up and down just about every roster in the NBA. They're the classic good-stats-on-a-bad-team type of player. Twenty meaningless points and 10 meaningless rebounds a game. Results without production. Style without substance. Their stats look great but their won-loss record fails in comparison. They're a piece, but not the piece. And it's not their fault. Being special isn't just a talent. It's a mentality. And either you have it or you don't.

I've always believed Kobe was the latter.

Not anymore.

Over the last few weeks, something has happened--something profound. And we're all eating our words.

We've heard it before. Many of us have believed it. He's a horrible teammate and an even worse person. He shoots too much and doesn't pass enough. He's selfish. Arrogant. A coward. Heartless. Great player-- easily the most talented in the NBA--but you don't want Kobe on your team.

He doesn't want to win.

For years he's heard the whispers and tried to emerge from the shadows. He's been running from his past. They still haven't forgotten about Colorado, his quarrels with Shaq and public persona. We all saw the three straight championships, the talent which seemed to come natural and the gaudy stats. The bar was set. For 12 long seasons, he's been trying to find his way and live up to what's been expected of him. And for 12 seasons he didn't know how. And we crucified him for it. He's supposed to be a leader. Leaders are supposed to shoot. So Kobe averaged 35 points per a game in 2005-2006 and 31 a season ago.

He shoots too much, is what we said.

Leaders are supposed to get their teammates involved. Leaders are supposed to share. In Game 7 of the first round of the 2006 Western Conference Playoffs, Kobe deferred to his teammates and attempted just three shots in the second half of a loss to the Phoenix Suns.

Now he doesn't shoot enough, we thought.

Kobe allowed himself to get caught in the trap. It's one many of us fall victim to. The trap of trying to please others. And in his attempts to prove them wrong, he became what they said he'd always be. He threw his teammates under the bus, asked for trades and sulked when it didn't happen. He was confused. Sometimes the noise--the voices of others--can be so loud in your head that it's hard to concentrate on what you're supposed to be, who you're supposed to be. And it's easy to forget what you were looking for.

He could have been traded, maybe should have. He could have had a fresh start. But sometimes the most progressive move is remaining still. Sometimes you just have to wait.

And the moment he's waited for is here. Standing at the free throw line with 9.4 seconds remaining in overtime, and the Lakers ahead 105-104, Kobe calmly sank two free throws to ice the game. He had scored 30 of his 52 points in the second half. He was balanced and determined. Kobe had done everything right. He became the deciding factor. No. 24 became the reason. This game had become a microcosm of his life. The team is winning and Kobe's finally at the controls. Dallas called a timeout and as he walked to the bench, you could see it in his eyes. Kobe's got a different walk. He even has a different number. He never knew what he was. He's fought to distance himself from what we've perceived him to be.

Maybe Kobe's figuring it out. Maybe Kobe's refusing to lose. Maybe No. 24's refusing to give in.

Maybe Bryant's become the leader many wanted him to be.

Maybe Kobe no longer cares what you think.

Maybe Kobe finally has IT. Perhaps, right has always been wrong, closing your eyes has become the only way to see and holding your breath is the proper way to breath.

Like the witches in Shakespeare's "Macbeth", life has its own twisted logic, a backwards way of thinking.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

--EOB.

Confessions of The Uncool: The Love of The Art

The phone rang.
I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cell phone and studied the Caller ID.
It was Dan.
"Hello?"
"You need to come by the house. I've got something you're going to want to hear."
"What is it?"
"Just come by and see. Whenever you get some time this weekend drop by the house. You're going to dig this."
It's a Saturday afternoon in the middle of the summer. I pull up to the curb in front of Dan's house in downtown Kansas City. There's something about the downtown area that makes anyone feel alive. The city is breathing. People--the blood of the city--keep its heart beating. They're walking the streets. Laughing. Talking. Living. Cars race down the street with music blarring.
And Dan is sitting right there--on the steps of his porch--taking it all in. He briefly watched me approach before standing.
"It's in the house. You've got to hear this."
I follow Dan into the house and we go up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stair case is a small hallway with two rooms. One on the left. Another on the right. We enter the room on the left-hand side. I've been told one can tell a lot about a person by studying their homes. In this room, I noticed something. Dan was a fiend. He was addicted--to The Art.The room was cluttered. There were stacks of records. The Commodores. The Jackson Five. Guns N' Roses. Cds were piled high. Goodie Mob. EPMD. Roy Hargrove. There were DVDs scattered from place to place. With the sound off, a DVD of "The Best of Good Times" was playing on the screen.There were two couches, one on the north and another rested on the west end of the room. I took a seat on the west, Dan the north.
"So I was at the music store the other day, leafing through some things and I come across this album I hadn't seen in years. I didn't know it even existed anymore," Dan said. "Found it in wax. I grabbed it quick, got a little excited. I bring it up to the counter and dude there is like 'What do you know about this?' I tell him I know just enough. I picked it up for about $10."
"What is it?"
"Art of Noise."
"Never heard of them."
Wearing a black baseball cap, Dan shook his head and smiled.
"Well you need to listen to this then," he said.
He reached into a crate of records, selected one and held it as if it were gold. Dan was six years my senior. He was nearing his 30th birthday. Dan had mixed feelings about it, anxious to crossover into another year but afraid of what it might bring. Dan was a mentor in music. He taught me to value different. He helped me find the art in genres outside of my comfort zone. Dive in with an open mind. Learn before I judge. Understand before I dismiss. Leave no stone unturned. Find its beauty and live in the experience that others often miss out on.
"I first heard this when I was 8 years old. This kind of takes me back. I was a little kid back then and now here I am knocking on 30," he said. "It was my birthday--my 8th birthday--and my mama wanted to get me something. So she asks me 'What do you want me to get you for your birthday?'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"I've got this high-pitched voice," he said. "Yeah, a high-pitched voice and I say to my mama 'I want Art of Noise!' She looks at me crazy because she doesn't know who they are. But she gets it anyway. All right, fast-forward to the summer. I'm at a family barbecue, right?"

"Right."

"And they've got the music going. People are dancing, socializing and eating. They've got the music going, rocking some Motown, r&b and funk. I've got my Art of Noise record with me. I make my way through the crowd and I get to my uncle who's working the record player. I look up at him. He looks down at me. I'm like 'Put this on!' It takes me some time to convince him but I finally get him to put it on the player."
While continuing to tell the story, Dan took the record out of its case. He made his way to the record player.
"They're all dancing and then all of a sudden my record comes on. And it's like the movies. Everybody stops on a dime. They're frozen. They're like 'What the hell is this? Turn that off!'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"But anyway, let me put this on," he said.
The needle hits the record and music began to play. Bongos opened and in seconds it was accompanied by the keyboard. They worked together like the Ying and the Yang. But they weren't alone for long. The bells came in, complimenting the aforementioned sounds. With forearms on thighs and heads down, Dan and I are taking it all in. And just when I think it's all the song has to offer, it all stops.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Like The Eye, it returns with more force. A melody formed by different sounds, which ultimately become one. A whisper enters the room. And in moments, the whisper is joined by more voices. I found myself knodding my head and listening. I took a glance at Dan. He was doing the same and watching me for my reaction. We're lost in The Art. Caught in the quiet storm. My eyes return to the floor. I study the carpet. It's brown. Sun rays peek through clouds. Rain stops. And we are immersed in The Moment. It seems as though time has stopped and all that matters is right now. For six minutes and 16 seconds, my mind traveled this globe. My thoughts wandered through time. I saw my past. With an aspiring eye, I witnessed my future and acknowledged the present. Lost in The Art. The not-so-hidden secrets.
When it ended, I looked at Dan. He looked at me. He knew what I was thinking, as if we were sitting in the classroom, reading the same book. Our thoughts were linked as if we were both born on the 23rd hour of the same day. At the same moment, we both spoke.
And we only had one word to say.
Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh!
---EOB.

A Plea For Pain

Apparitions create memories. They're taunting me. Voices sing sad songs to me. Some times I wonder if something is seriously wrong me. He's warning me. These faces are haunting me. I'm wondering why'd God take them and not me? I remain on the side of my bed on bent knees. I plead: "I'm not afraid to leave. Lord, please. Take me instead of She." And the value of life is realizing that it's worthless if you're not willing to lay it down for another person or a purpose. And if I say I want to leave does that make me suicidal? Progress and footsteps run together. Repeating the same cycle. These dreams tower over heads like the Eiffle. Dark in the hearts with no revival. Recurring nightmares leave them stiffled. Thoughts dancing in my head like recitals. Or battles you've read about in the Bible. Lucifer and Michael. With 10 erased, two await to judge a fate. Every step is followed. Destiny's lone disciples. This life isn't worth living. I spend it on survival. Words never said aren't the enemy. You're wrestling with the rival.

I've committed the unforgivable sin. My punishment without a sentence. Banished to a world within this, revealing a landscape of imperfection without a blemish. Amidst the questions, I'll suffer for you. I'll take the blame. Let me be your Rogue. Transfer your burdens, as I touch your soul.

Give me your pain.



---EOB.

Superman Is In The Building

On Saturday night he was a bird. He was a plane. On any other day he averages 21 points, 14 rebounds and a sickening 2.4 blocks per a game. He's 6-11, 264 pounds. And get this: He's just 22. He's Dwight Howard. And what you just saw wasn't even his best dunk in the Slam Dunk Contest in New Orleans, La. It's amazing that just four years ago there was a debate on whether the Orlando Magic should take Howard or Emeka Okafor with the No.1 pick in the 2004 NBA Draft. He's not Superman. But the man who wears the cape is the cornerstone of his franchise--and the future of the NBA.

--EOB.

Interlude Pt. 1

He's the greatest of all time. His name is Common. Forget everything you've heard. Forget it all, because it's wrong. Rhyme-for-Rhyme, Though-for-Thought, not many can touch him. G.O.A.T. One day I'll explain why. On second thought, maybe I won't have to.

---E.O.B

One Voice Within

I open my eyes, yet I cannot see. I am surrounded with darkness. The air chills my lungs. I am aware of my surroundings. I am in a room. I can touch. I can feel. I can hear. My heart beats.
I am not alone. Someone is here with me. The presence is frightening, yet I remain calm in the darkness of these four walls. Foot steps start. And they stop. The voice has a familiar tone. I speak out.

You've searched for me?
Yes.
And now I have found You.
I was never lost.
Why are You here?
To speak to you.
We have nothing to talk about.
We have plenty. For tonight I will speak and I will listen. And you will do the same. We have much to discuss.
Such as?
Why do you deny Me?
Because I am ashamed.
Or is it that you are afraid?
I am not afraid. But They are.
So you protect Them from Me?
Yes.
Why?
Because They will deny You.
And this makes you a liar. A deceiver.
Yes.
Why lie?
Because I wanted it to be the truth. Forgive me.
I shall. But first, you must forgive Them.
I don't understand.
Do you trust Them?
No.
Why?
Because They have betrayed me.
Do you trust Me?
No.
Why?
Because I have betrayed You.
You have failed Me.
I am not perfect.
And neither are They.
The battle will never be won.
And you're angry?
Yes and I cannot loose it. It is a beast I have learned to control, not conquer.
Why?
Because They gave up on me.
It has made you weak?
Yes.
But you are strong.
Stronger than They'll ever know.
Will you give up on Them?
No.
Do you believe in Them?
Yes, even when They don't believe in me.
Or Themselves?
Yes.
They made you.
And You made me.
Do you believe in Me?
Yes, even when You don't believe in Yourself.
If so, why do you fight Me?
Because I hate You.
Soon, you will learn to love Me.
Yes.
And She tortures you?
Yes.
Why?
It is difficult to say.
What about Her tortures you the most?
The fact that She loves me.
Do you protect Her from Me?
No.
Why?
Because She has searched for You. And I have searched for Her. She has seen You in my eyes. You cannot hide.

Your eyes are a window into your soul.

And a mirror, reflecting Theirs.

She is love.
I am war.
You are hope.
I am despair.
You are a curse.
I am a blessing.
You are everything.
I am nothing.
I am not who you say I am.
And everything I say You're not.
You wanted Me to stay.
Yet, I forced You to leave.

Your death will be defined...

By the way I have lived.

Your emotions have sabotaged Me.

My strength is my weakness. My flaws make me flawless.
You are a leader.
Because I have followed.
And you are...
Just like Them.
Which makes you different.
Help me.
Understand?
Yes.
If I offered My hand, would you take it?
Would You fight for me?
I will fight with you.
With conviction?
Know that when this whole world fails you, I will remain by your side. Depend on Me. Will you take My hand?
Yes.
Will you let Me guide you?
Yes.
I will take you to the light. Soon you will see. You are Me. And I am you. We are one voice within the room.


---EOB.