Belov-ed Patriarch

Closest Friend

Beats-N-Rhymes

I use to love them

Equally.

(They) shared heart space

and abode in

equal shares of my devotion.

Inside both,

I placed my hopes and

those dreams they worked toward

with me.

Forming chapters of my history,

explored unfolding mysteries

in threesomes’ burning passions.

Fruit bearing interactions -

creative juices splashing

with fertility

to ripeness.

Until one produced a likeness

not my own.

What once was righteous

now was blown

all to hell.

A deep betrayal felt

within my bones.

I was compelled

to leave alone

that Jezebel.

Gave her share

unto the other.

Made it clear

I could not love a

infidel with changing colors

while her sister bore me art.

Sweet melodies

became a part

of all we did.

Be still my heart

that skipped

‘pon Jezebel’s return.

In a café on Fulton street

she spoke

of how much she had learned.

Showed me she had grown,

how maturity had burned

her conscience with

a true responsiveness

to our deep concerns.

Welcomed back into our fold

she filled a slightly different role -

putting words to the emotions

emanating from my soul

over rhythms her soul sister

and I lovingly composed.

Jezebel, was once rap lyrical

now Jezebel is my prose.

-HymnAgen

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East River Winter Love

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Homeless

Homeless

Sometimes I feel alone

As if I’m out here on my own

Abandoned. No guidance

or old companions

It all feels wrong

No connectedness for which I long

No place that feels familiar,

that feels like home

Even home don’t feel the same

Been gone too long;

everything’s changed

I’m from a different time

that only lives inside the minds

of kids from my generation

before being overtaken

by life I had to eat

in a concrete jungle.

New York streets

had no mercy

Rents absurdly high

even for efficiencies

Had to slide

Detoured to B’more with my B.K. Kats,

but they up in the traps

Couldn’t fuck with that

Had to stay legal

Owed it to my people

Pops sacrificed to much

‘fore his life was snuffed out by that cancer

It took Moms, too

Burned their coffins

Made me and Sis orphans fighting over debt

Wished it was a check

We cool now, but I digress

Always out of place

It’s written on my face

They see it in my style

So many outta state Kats in Harm City

sharing the same fate

Always an outsider

I blame my New York state of mind

My closest friends all hail from outside Maryland

North Cackalacky, ATL and a chubby African

Though I visit, it just feels wrong

I can’t go home ‘cause I don’t belong

I don’t fit in anywhere anymore

I guess I’m homeless.

- HymnAgen 

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My Brotha

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Wutz Next

Did you mute the RJM Lounge Player first?

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The Stoop

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The Kool Kat

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Hell's Angel Cake

Hell’s Angel Cake

When I was younger

I had a hunger

for the sweets

of hard streets.

Spent countless hours

learning flowers

sometimes sprout

in concrete’s grooves.

I was drawn to their

no-bullshit attitudes.

Tongues sharp like thorns –

natural defenses forming strong

armor (protection against the

wrongs of snake charmers –

those predisposed

to overpower any flower.)

Fiends always scheming;

plotting to devour

the petals of these ghetto blossoms.

How I reveled when I got one –

in the savvy of her game –

in her tactical maneuvers

through her hostile terrain

that filtered out the losers and the lames.

Proving my significant difference

by not calling her out of her name.

See those “Hey shorty!”

and “Whaddup Ma?” dudes

could never ascertain

the secret that she held

of being an angel in this hell.

Her true identity hidden

behind her shell of wolf’s clothing,

but I chose to see her deeper

than her outward appearance.

Her door knockers and gold teeth were

just running interference –

a diversion for the dawgs

who only saw thick hips at which to paw.

She could tell I saw much more

than the bounty of her drawers

because I spoke to her as such.

So we broke open a Dutch,

switched the contents,

took some puffs to lift us up

over the nonsense.

Shared our dreams and our ambitions

of rising up from our conditions.

I could see that she was digging

having a brotha actually listen

and retain what she was kickin’.

Explored the chambers of her brain.

Opened doors to her heart’s core

and let her passion pour like rain

in our interactions

without judgment or embarrassment.

And just as sweet for me,

was being free to drop my guard

so our spirits could interweave.

It shouldn’t have to be so hard,

but we both came from places

where having your trust misplaced is

a welcome sign for predators

where the adoption of stone faces

is so often ones best first line of defense.

The freedom felt with her

made me feel much less tense,

but much more pleasant to be with.

I discovered her presence was needed.

Oh yes, this woman was needed.

I’m so pleased she was willing to feed this

younger man’s hunger.

- HymnAgen

I Got That Work (Legacy Pt.2)

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Legacy (Pt. 1)

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I Don't Believe the Hype

CoIntel warrior

under duress

goes one hundred

ninety-nine miles

to express

outrage

Conveniently leaving

in his wake some verse

When pigs fly

I’ll believe

this man was not coerced

-HymnAgen

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Boiling Blood

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Life Began in Brooklyn (The Birth of HymnAgen)

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