How many emcees (poets) must get dissed, before
somebody says don't fuck with dirtgod? Behind fine
brick paywall ivy MFA play-writers score
all the grants, all the fellowships; by grand design
system self-justifies by rewarding itself.
Dirtgods never get gold just pyrite, yet remain
guided by skylight not glint from atrophied shelf,
and got no time for wine-and-cheese readings - dirt brain
consumed with continuing the real work. Never
is the real work honored because that shit still seems
impossible. Traditionally wayed clever
emcees (poets) remain filled with insider dreams,
but fuck that, I sit amidst my junkyard lifestyle,
and keep scribbling impossible shit the whole while.
1 comment:
Love this.
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