Before absorbing, you are born into

something, all tied to the someone

You came out of, a

little umbilical noose

from the family tree.

Branches of relatives, 

leaves of reference,

a tradition of breaking

tradition, lines

rules and record

scratchers.

The race to break

in, against

the pressure to make it

out, demands

break dancers.

Hips turned from

all form, the same 

tables hip hop had 

to turn, 

and atop

those turn tables, two

vinyl clocks spinning

side by side, beside a 

board of mixers

[not chasers or masters]

and a sloppy stack of

B-sides. 

We throw hands

where the DJ decides,

hands that run fades

and clock clock faces.

Knuckles that knock 

time out. 

We, who

For 

never

gives a groove, 

For

ever

gets applause.

Any emcee can bend bars, but 

sometimes it takes a beat

to break them. In rap, each take

breaks free

from style.

Look inside the whip

and it opens

butterfly or suicide.

The backlash is that

leaves drop

like hot tracks.

If you trapped

in this tradition,

you might not be

‘in it’

at all.