excerpt from dated emcees

8/16/2019 Excerpt from Dated Emcees

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dated emceeschinaka hodge

city lights books | san francisco


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Copyright © 2016 by Chinaka Hodge All Rights Reserved

Cover image: Papercut portrait of the author by Miriam Klein Stahl, based

a photograph by Scott LaRockwell

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Dataon file

ISBN 978-0-87286-702-4eISBN 978-0-87286-725-3

City Lights books are published at the City Lights Bookstore261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133www.citylights.com


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5

dated emcees

on a fall evening in the early aughts old uncle rappulls up his gut, inspects the waistband of his trackpants, catches his reflection in a dull passing train,decides it is time for honors, decrees let us throw a party,let us invite some children, tell them of the days goldenand silvering our hair, someone, book the venue,roll the linoleum, rig a streetlight, polish some statues

— and it was done.

bet, so, first fall in the new millennium, i’m invitedto rock for the legends at this party. i’m eighteen,gangly and in an impromptu cipher of washed uprappers, finger-dead can holders, uprocking oninflamed knees, asking what to do with the next decade,these medallions, felt caps, izods, really, still izods? okaysure whatever, old dudes rocking old fits in new york on thisthe twenty-third day of autumn smoking loosiesand spliffs outside the stage door of symphony space.you know. high. art.

nobody does today’s mathematics, the last night of hip hopas they know it and they don’t even know it, college drop

out ain’t dropped yet, auto-tune forthcoming, commongot a record out everyone hates; it’s a circus of miserableelectric clowns.

so okay i shit you not the first nword to size me upappraise me as sex-able if perhaps groupie, knowsi’m too young for his music, probably never heard

of the guy, definitely don’t recognize him, is someone


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6

round greying in a shirt that came with the pantsand a pair of gazelles actually older than my father.he hands me his business card and real talk no need

to shit you as I said before it reads across the front

positive k: rapper.

on coke white mid-grade stock & he like you shouldcall me sometime & i’m like i don’t think i can &he like why not & since this is probably the onlytime i’ll be able to land this line, walk this way &fuck it he’ll probably get a kick out of it

he like why noti’m likei got a man.


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7

title track

no jazz men left: i date emcees,tries to rehabilitate them,into honest, working stiffsi foot the bills, handlethe losses they comeloud leave softlyfall short break

daylightgone

say word i got a million of ema queue of emcees so letteredcredentialed craft me vacantscalped me naked nearlytook my head and rantowards the hitthere’s the groovein the heartcrushed coldgame

i confess i love fast dishonestwords, thoughts, childish aliasesmen who changed their names, forced rhymedivulged they governments,and then forgot minethe lames i held

on too longway pasttime


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time. again. first words penned since the spurn,scents of sweated-out perms and burnsher panties. my pillowcase

apologies on waxforgive the toneso overunderyou

i date lushes faded like grandpopswho crawl sixteen bars and get twistedthey run tabs more than they spitswallow fake beautifulshen and mott’s applejuiced stuck slurs stirsone fingerskyward

blurred

but if a rapper treated me sweeti’d break him for shits and snickersthere i said it. truth. uncut.ugly, buck ass naked

late night videovixen oversexed vexed writesbook sellsout


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call me karrine steffans. you know, uhsuperhead, you know uh, dirtydrawers aired in mixed company

read me. tell all. real talk.fucked a few maybesucked em off goodsycophantgettingpress

real talk i don’t even care no morei hear the speakers age poorlysee their cables get frayed, fadenothing worse. a washed outmonitor lapsingsqueaking feedbacknothing new

high-pitchedwail

and whose fault is it this time reallygot to be a record don’t itagainst logic and reason

i’m in the studiofour a.m. red bullchina shoppingmarried tosame oldacts


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small poems for Bigtwenty-four haiku for each year he lived

when you die, i’m toldthey only use given nameschristopher wallace

no notoriousneither b.i.g. nor smalls

just voletta’s son

brooklyn residenthustler for loose change, loosiesand a lil loose kim

let me tell you thisthe west coast coast didn’t get youillest flow or nah

had our loyaltiesno need to discuss that nowthat your weight is dust

that your tongue is air

and your mother is copingas only she can

i will also saythat i have seen bed stuy sinceb.k. misses you

her walk has changed somethe rest of the borough flailsweak about itself


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middle school studentsnot yet whispers in nine sevknow the lyrics rote

you: a manuala mural, pressed rock, icon,fightin word or curse

course of historymost often noted, quoteddeconstructed sung

hung by a bulletprepped to die: gunsmoke gunsmokeone hell of a hunch

here you lie a boytwelve-gauge to your brain you can’t

have what you want be

what you want youblack ugly heartthrob everconflicted emcee

respected lately

premier king of the casketpauper of first life

til puff blew you upgave you a champagne dietplus cheese eggs, welchesyou laid the blueprint

gave us word for word for naughtcan’t fault the hustle


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knockoff messiahslanged cracked commandments and sawno honey, more problems

whole borough recoiled,stillborn blacks, mourn genius slainthe ease of your laugh

the cut of your jibunique command of the roomtruthfully biggie

what about you’s smallno not legend, not staturereal talk just lifespan

yo, who shot ya kidnypd stopped searching

shrugged off negro death

well, we scour the skywe mourn tough, recite harderchant you live again

of all the lyrics

the realest premonitionrings true: you’re dead. wrong

excerpt from dated emcees

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