just tryna get to school, damn

when concrete walls become the canvas of a broke(n) painter…when a freeway overpass is a headline waiting for a title…when alleyways look like outdoor galleries…the back  of buildings are silent screaming names and tags that no one remembers: I’m coming through mid-city, headed for downtown. And this guy. . .this guy is Indiana Jones, not Harisson Ford, but the actual Indie--as if he had been living a lie in LA and lost his treasures to drug addictions and sex scams. His beaten safari hat matches his tattered leather satchel and he pulls from it a box of matches and pulls from that, not matches, but a grubby plastic bag powdered with white.

            “you know way back in high school they didn’t give a s**t about s**t, you could snort stuff smoke stuff and no one would call the cops on ya and it was REAL good.”

His pocket reveals a coke pick so he bends over and huffs a quick two in his nose and sighs Ahhhhhh. He rambles off to no one or himself about LA’s disgusting beauty and shouts to the train that he needs a cigarette. He sniffles and hobbles out the next stop and I guess Jones is still out doing adventures. . .

 

I hop on the red line and snooze to studio city. I ignore everyone ignoring me with headphones so I put mine on and jam to beats and spit rhymes as I walk away from the station,

           

            “. . .it’s that city life,

                        I’ll f**k a nigguh then I’ll f**k his s****y wife…

            "anal paradise;

                                    suck my pair of dice,

                        for good luck and good f***s and, b***h, you swear it’s nice. . .”

 

I’m crossing over this bridge of an overpass and some tweaked out half-bum is face to face with the fence and he’s looking romantic at the growing traffic of the 101 and he’s smiling dirty. I get closer and see his c**k’s hanging out and he’s really just pissing a dark yellow waterfall over the stream of cars collecting slow in the pool of rush hour. He quick whips a an evil angry grin at me and, not even done peeing, he pulls up his pajamas and struts off real proud and real high. . .I just keep on freestyling,

           

            “. . .crazy a*s white bums smokin’ bunk s**t,

                        even if he offered, I wouldn’t take a hit.

            eyes like the devil, c**k like a monster--

                                    he’s just another rebel, composing his own concert . . .”

 

The sun is sitting low-orange and some cars have pee on their hoods and the bums are happy crazy, so I guess things are still normal in my city.