"Rappers," A Poetry Post

My brothers,
you don't have to wear a dress or
stand before the prosecution or
peddle designer drugs to
spread your love of verse throughout the world.

There are messages that
you can write down and
spit through the mic
that will let you maintain your
integrity and identity.

You don't have to kiss your manager on stage.
You don't have to cuss out somebody's mama.

You don't have to let your
contracted producer
bring cameras into your house
and record the dark corners
of your private life.

You don't have to beef with strangers.

You don't have to make any compacts with
devils or demigods or demagogues,
or call yourself god to
rain down fresh manna from heaven.

If you have the gift,
the rhythm of your with-it-ness will
pervade the atmosphere of
every place you enter.

The beat will drop with
every footstep you take.

God will give you audiences and
microphones beyond what you could
ever dream.

It seems like, my sisters,
some certain persons have perpetrated the
untruth that
if you don't be found buying
thousands of dollars in sex toys or
laying down with dope boys or
showing the world all your glory through
body stockings and
schoolgirl uniforms on
primetime television,
then you can't move the people
with your anointed oil.

But you don't have to
become a modern Geisha or
be some fool's trap queen or
wrap yourself up in nylon and
nipple daisies to
shake the universe.

We been shaking the universe since
chicks didn't show their hips or elbows,
since skirts weren't allowed above the
tops of bobby socks,
since shoes on teenagers had to be
concrete flat.

It's about time that rappers
remembered themselves.

The rap game didn't start with a small revolt against
police brutality.
The rap game didn't start with
a people's desire to recreate their own
culture story.

The rap game is as old as the earth and it
can be heard in the rock slides,
can be seen around the fires of
indigenous tribes,
can be found
in the taps of African feet,
can be felt in the thunder.

The sunshine has
got more game,
now that we have allowed ourselves
to
preach falsehoods and
become the world's goods.

Rhythm was made to
lubricate productivity.

Rap was made for growth
and not death.

Where are the
real rappers
now?

-T. D. James-Moss