- Who am I?
- What do I choose to be?
- What shall I accomplish?
- What is the change you want to see in the world?
- Can your name evolve over time?
Car Confessions (Remix)
I ain’t told nobody this shit…
All you damn niggas better get it together,
already fucked and I barely even met her;
Black Cat or Mary Jane you know I let her,
drank in my cup and a whiskey sweater.
Jordan keeps it wet, but I like it wetter,
Hurricane Katrina, gonna need some shelter.
Don’t talk back, just return to sender,
oooh girl, you better watch that temper.
A-Rod in the house and my name is Bender,
don’t you worry girl I’ll be nice and tender,
when it comes to D, I’m a repeat offender,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
Best believe I’m gonna love you forever,
you my sunshine in this stormy weather,
trying to shake the weight of all this pressure,
oooh girl, you better watch that temper.
Momma calls me up and I can’t even help her,
the prodigal son named by the scarlet letter.
Quick on my feet and light as a feather,
fuck with my team and I’ll put you on a stretcher!
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!
You live under the bar while I’m a cut above the grade,
I got two years left there ain’t no time for silly games,
I want money and respect, don’t give a fuck about the fame,
Alexander the Great, put some respeck on my name.
Am I the one you want, the one that you long for,
the one you begged to stay, the one you can’t ignore,
the one you want at night, the one you asked for more?…
(Blowin’ up the phone of this light-skinned Moor.)
Poetry on the page, man, your writing ain’t the same,
yeah, Joker on the beat now watch me go insane.
You made a box and I checked it, bought a Jag and I wrecked it,
brought into this life to be selfless, I eat y’all niggas for breakfast.
I’m a raging bull don’t be coming down my lane,
yeah, purple on this prince, now watch me make it Rain.
You better watch who you fuckin with,
water under the bridge and I’m over it
actin’ like you innocent, RBF like Maleficent.
I’m hungry for the glory, so pass me a Snickers.
The taste of that pussy got me feeling bitter…
I’m the perfect mix of nigga, nerd and hipster,
white, tall, and male, so I was born to be a sinner.
What was I to do? Is this a path for me to choose?
These drugs got me feeling good and now I’m all confused,
I was born to be a king, what else is there to prove?
Got you in check and I dare you to make a move!
Growing up in a broken house as a child of abuse,
best believe I shoot first like my last name is Booth,
silly me, you want a piece of me, you can’t fuck with the Truth,
got my Ph.D. in debauchery, and I’ll send you to your doom.
Yeah, fuck with me and I’ll make sure you end up on the news,
make all your fam into Coltrane and have them sing the blues.
I’m a broken man with a broken soul, I got nothing to lose,
I didn’t have no fancy clothes, I didn’t have no fuckin’ shoes.
I’m barely ever sober, need call up my brother
and ask him if I ever failed the man he calls his father,
but I don’t know what to do…I don’t know if she loves me too…
and sadly, I can’t know if I’m spoutin’ lies at you.
Yeah, shoot ‘em up like the Mavericks, red skin like a savage,
uni-beam and flash cannon, lyin’ ass niggas I’m blastin.
Buckle up and fasten those nooses that you packin’,
DE and I’m sackin’, Degrassi Drake-level actin’, nigga!
Shawn Trenell O’Neal
SUGAR WALLS – ANTHEM (FEAT. WES B)
Arturo J. Aldama
El Howl1 or what if Allen Ginsburg was a “wet back” ?
The great minds of mi generacíon corren north, kicked south,
Or they are sealed in prisons,
titanium fortified bullet welded sardine cans that kill life with certainty
Inside grown men made pale by sunless days, wait till 3:00 am to cry small
soft tears at what could have been. . .
For those who walk on the cracked earth of Sonora’s desert paradise,
migra violence hides behind the false sterility of laser rifle scopes whose red light
burns spots on dark backs whose black shadows soften the cracked burnt
earthen caminos that carry the imprints of those whose quiet passing’s are
whispered by sleeping jacarandas . . . .
Meanwhile, minute men neo-nazi vigilante Barnett ranchers relive cowboy
and Indian games of hard biscuit and greasy gravy youth… john wayne wet
To “rescue” their ranches, they invite those who want to target practice on
live but not quite human game who snip rusty wires on land that was “Mexican
and was is Indian.”
And a botoxed brain semi literate, matron of prisons, pintas brews up and
signs laws to keep caged on their own land stolen from them by live wire
As consumers, meaningless crumpled green ofrendas are made to the wal-
mart church of the new millennium, whose cargo waste communions fulfill the
made in El Salvador, made in Pakistan, made in China mandates of slowly
breaking bodies . . . Their sudor y sangre colors will soon fade after a couple of
tumbles on broke down hospital-white dollar slot Westinghouse knock off
What child is behind your label? Does she hide in the warm brief smiles of
humility, with fingers crimped by premature carpal seizures?
I stand here jumping and yelling as mis lenguas —my tongues are cut,
scalped by a soft spoken technocrat whose gentle fascism makes the autohatred
in Latinos dance a macabre rhythm-less rumba to consume their inner psyches
and offer up their own corpse in song-less funerals,
cerrando con broche de nada the vital power of ancestor’s lost tongues,
L 2e ng0 u a s3,
Nahua Tztetal 0-0 double beauty path of justicia
songs of all of my relations
In LA, white shirt cholos run drunk with mólotov bristle in varrios finally free of
panoptic gun surveillance, speed pistol baton beats
They poach their small black and gray circuit boxes of the ameriKKKan nightmare
while red brick cinders burn white hot into dark nights,
Mariachi punk gritos of “horale it’s mine homes, its mine
Por fín something is mine… por fín . .
shrill into smokey loose nights
Camouflaged death tanks crush the reverie of these unleashed tigers.
The pot of social unrest and uprising is clamped for now.
While INS officers in medium starched uniforms bored at the San Ysidro-Mexico
line try to live their boyhood dreams of baseball
They practice their spin and curve balls on flannel shirt targets, not men, who
zigzag through the dusty brush of yesterdays beard in the mesa otay… the cruce
For these men and women who cross la linea rota, heart whispers to the Virgin
morena create invisible shells that sometimes deflect these crude baseballs, these
rocks themselves scream to be let back on the earth.
The tierra of the borderlands is where ancient runners: Pai Pai, Mayo,
Mixtec and the Tarahumara continue to travel to the cuatro direciones humble in
their love for the ancestors and spirits on land falsely watered by the blood
history of colonial cannibal violence,
When Chicanx gente howls, who listens?
1. Howl and Other Poems, Allen Ginsberg, 1956.
2. Proposition 203 an English Only campaign in Arizona that was funded by Ron
Unz and spear-headed by Maria Medina and other Hispanics who deny bi-lingual
education for Latinos and Native American children was passed in 2000
This was predecessor to draconian laws SB 1070 and the laws that ban teaching
Ethnic Studies in the classrooms
Our street lights came on
While holding down a progress of evolution
The Young bloods of Yahweh Created
While refusing to be casualty
Converted pain into platinum
Yawl call it rapping
A key for the shackles we were trapped in
Manifestation gain traction
we put love into action
And stop acting
It started a chain reaction
Hanging with stars
Moon walking like Michael Jackson
Filter our old ideas
Yah will never loose
Yashua light the fuse
Hard life as a muse pain into platinum
That’s called alchemy in action