Gotham

My Essence

Who Am I, Really?

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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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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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Wild Boar

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Awash in Emotions

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Life Began in Brooklyn (The Birth of HymnAgen)

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First They Came...Again

Why should I be made to feel

like my ordeal is somehow not real –

as if it lacks validity.

Look, I don’t need you to pity me.

I didn’t make this sh!t up!

Is it ignorance, stupidity,

or moral insensibility

that won’t let you wake up

and smell the danger?

Instead of shaking your head

at me when I take to the streets in anger,

why don’t you ask me

if it’s true that the police harass me?

Why don’t you question

cops need for military grade weapons?

Who knows you might be the next one

to endure their wrath.

You might be the right race,

but damned sure the wrong class.

Sometimes the only thing keeping them off of yo @ss

is having blacks and browns around to pound into the ground.

Ya dig? Or did you forget about those

Occupy Wall Street kids already?

-HymnAgen

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The Park Bench (PS127)

I took my seat

on the painted split wood.

A chain link fence

near where a tree stood.

Broken glass glistening at my feet.

The weak scent of piss

from where two walls meet 

behind the school on the air.

A 40 ounce cap

repurposed a blade

to gut a Dutch Masters

on the ground lays

near a pile of tobacco.

Ever present, the sound

of basketballs dropping

through hoops to the ground.

The slap of pink rubber

striking concrete slabs.

The sound of young children’s

giggles and laughs

suspended by chains

and stainless steel boards

as they swing ever higher.

Their feet reaching for

the heavens.

Memories from a

bench at P-S-1-2-7.

-HymnAgen

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