James Lewis

Rookie (August 19,1975 / Newark, NJ)

The Art Of Storytelling Part 2 - Poem by James Lewis

Things are all slow motion like I'm Neo in the grid, just layin here and thinkin back to when I was a kid,
with plasma gushin out my lid, my lashes flutter tight, my 16th birthday 2K1 seems like the other night.

My Uncle Sal, a won'drous pal, my father's brother sure, was something like a Dad since mine was killed when I was 4,
the hurt my mother dropped was unlike anything before, I didn't want to listen but I had to find out more.

It seems like Moms and Sal were more than pals when Pops was gone, and when Pops was around of course you know they got it on,
now 6 or 7 months of this is nothing short of sad, cause Mom Dukes came up pregnant, didn't know who was the Dad.

The man I thought as Dad he came to find through late exams, that he could not conceive and thought himself a lesser man,
that's when Moms told the truth of she and Sal behavin foul, Pops choose to stay my dad and always went that extra mile.

He died when I was young but it's just better still to say, that he was murdered; splurtered goin 'cross McCarter 'Way,
they never caught who did it, only clue, the car tjey drove, an '89 Ford Taurus painted black and sittin low.

You hear these stories ev'ryday, hood fathers pass away, leave women raising men creating hood catastrophes,
my fam'ly was no diff'rent see my mother ran the streets, but me I ran with peeps who sowed it up, they ran with heat.

My Uncle and my Cousin Pop they had some brothas dropped, their operation spread like locusts on them other blocks,
the payroll boasted lawyers, judges plus some other cops, through years instilling fear they had the city smothered; locked.

My specialty especially was dishin out that weight, I'd ride around with Nate dispensing hate and bakin cake,
we had our)share to make and yet we always fought for more, we took the town like Marlo in The Wire's Baltimore.

My muscle Nate and I we held it down like Snoop and Chris, you give it or get got, there wasn't time for stupidness,
we revelled in the power dealing dope and coke provides, until that faithful day when buried secrets came to light.

This young'n by the name of Rich he banged and slang them bricks, for us he ran a corner off of Haynes Street in Da Bricks,
now homie was an alright sort just always late with it, til Uncle Sal got sick of it and told us 'hang that snitch! '

We scooped him up from Union out on East Route 22, one Friday night the time was right to do just what we do,
he had some chickens cluckin at the Garden State Motel, he knew why we were there and said 'Let's play some show and tell.'

We rode him to this storage spot, no way that he could run, with Nate up on the gun there'd be 2 shots and it'd be done,
that's when Rich opened up a unit, sittin way in back, a Taurus Ford that sat real low, oh yeah, and painted black
it can't be that......

To Be Concluded

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Poem Edited: Wednesday, May 18, 2011

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