Blog Archives - Bulls Bard--The Verses

Game 45

1/29/2016

CHI 114 LAL 91

Dedicated to Magnolia Miette Roland Myers
born January 27th, 2016

We are all Kobe Bryant--
It’s biology.

Eventually,
Legend turns to legacy,

And today
Becomes tomorrow.

Tick-tock
Says the clock.

The team gets younger,
As we grow old.

Predator
Becomes protector.

And our warrior cries,
Guiding whispers--

Secrets passed on
To our children.

Game 44

1/26/2016

CHI 84 MIA 89

Argue all you want about time--

You will still get older
And eventually
Die.

Just ask anybody.

I get it--

Time is just a word.

But so are god
And love
And chaos.

All words
Are just words.

But here’s something true:

On my thirtieth birthday,
Jeff and I went to shoot baskets.

I am on purpose
Not saying play basketball,

Because we didn’t.

We took shots.
Got each other's rebounds.
Hit each other in rhythm.

On the five block stroll back home
My ankle started to bother me.

And it went on to hurt
For a month and a half.

Limpingly so.

I didn't do anything to it--
Not really.

But it sure as hell hurt.

Frustrated the hell out of me.

Since then,
I have grown accustomed to this phenomenon.

When I wake up these days
With a sore back,
Or knee,
Or neck,
Or ankle,
Or whatever--

I don’t even ask why.

Same reason as always:

Time.

Game 43

1/24/2016

CHI 96 CLE 83

I’m going to say it plain:

I am glad my life has been hard.

It has made me stronger
And smarter
And better.

I am the pig
In the house of brick--

A semipermeable
Storm-shelter
Where my family
Seeks refuge.

People who came up easy,
Surrounded by gifts,
Still gotta live
In the same cold world
Outside that door.

I am the man
Who gets popped in the lip
And comes back
With forty
In the second half.

Not the boy
So upset by a no-call
That his coach
Needs to put him
On timeout.

Game 42

1/23/2016

CHI 101 BOS 111

This music
Came like an invitation--

Hand-written
To each of us.

Please come
Home.

Sincerely,
A Tribe Called Quest.

And everything about it
Felt so warm
And welcoming
And right.

Like the gurgling of the coffee pot
Or the running of the Rainbow
Over Sunday morning sleep.

The familiar greeting
Called from the door
After a very long day.

But actual home
Is complicated--

More complicated
Than feelings of home.

Much messier
Than the scrapbook--

Corrupted by humanity.

Game 41

1/21/2016

CHI 94 GSW 125

My homeboy Vince
Used to work for a rock star.

Spent most of the year on the road.

And when he returned
We’d gather around
To soak up his warmth
And hear his stories.

One time,
Travelling through Europe,
His rock star pulled some rock star strings
Resulting in this rockstar thing:

A game would be played.

Each team had some
Premier League professionals,
A couple guys from the band,
And a few from the crew.

Vince was in heaven.

He stood guard
In the goal.

They played for hours
And no one kept score.

V lights up
As he tells this story.

He is time travelling.

We are all time travelling.

And then,
As the sun began to set,
One of the pros called out
Next goal wins!

That was all it took.

Certain people
Have a switch,
Flipped by the word win.

Vince shifted his weight to his toes
As the Chelsea player
Lightning bolted
Down the pitch
Towards him.

He guessed right
And dove left.

The ball blasted-off towards him--
Smashing through his arms
And into the goal.

Perfectly timed.
Perfectly placed.

But it didn’t matter.

These guys are the best in the world.

The bruises lasted weeks,
He smiled--

Looking at his forearms
That have since been tattooed.

Game 40

1/19/2016

CHI 111 DET 101

Nat Alexander

Was my friend
When I was small.

And then he vanished.

Years later,
My dad told me the story
Of the accident
That killed him.

Details so vivid
I can still see it--

Nat’s father,
Drunk--

The red convertible
Spider--

The swerve.
The screech.
The impact.

My only remaining memory
Of an old friend

I haven’t seen alive
Since I was four or five.

Stories
Are crazy.

Game 39

1/16/2016

CHI 77 DAL 83

Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Leaving the yuppie bar
Where I’d been writing raps
And drinking tequila.

Skinny side street sidewalk--
Headed back home.

A couple about my age,
Early twenties,
Approached.

Lost in eachother.
Laughing.

I moved aside
But just barely
Brushed her shoulder.

Sorry.
Excuse me.

She looked up for a second
And smiled.

No big thing.

But three steps later
I heard a voice.

Yo, what the fuck man?
You just gonna bump into the lady?

It took a second to realize
He was talking to me.

Yo.
What the fuck?

I turned around.
For real?

I tried to explain:

It had been an accident.

I had already apologized to the lady,
And she seemed fine.

I glanced over at her.

She didn’t really seem fine.

She seemed embarrassed,
Like this had happened before.

She stared at the ground
Blushing and disappointed.

I felt sad for her.

She had looked so happy
And in love
Just seconds earlier.

They both had.

And then,
Just like that,
The boy swung on me.

Grazed my jaw.

And I don’t play that shit,
So I swung back.

Knocked his ass out.

Anger and fearlessness
Are sometimes disguised as
Righteousness and gallantry.

Even within ourselves.

I’ve been there
Too many times
To count.

She quietly knelt down
To deal with him--

An old woman
Sitting at her husband’s bedside.

Unsurprised.

I’m sorry
She whispered to me.

Me too
I said.

And I turned
And walked away.

Game 38

1/15/2016

CHI 115 OT PHI 111

My friend came by
To help me build a baby bed,
And he stayed to watch the game.

We used to work together,
Before I left that struggling school
To go somewhere
Easier.

We are both
Teaching Hamlet
To our Seniors this semester.

Hamlet is hard.

I kind of hate Hamlet,
And I’m not exactly sure
Why I’m teaching it--

I probably won’t next year.

But my friend Alex--
He knows exactly why
He’s teaching it.

Why he’ll continue to teach it:

We live in America.

And in America,
If you’re poor
Or your skin isn’t white

You need to be
Way
Better
At the game.

Otherwise,
You will never get to play.

Game 37

1/13/2016

CHI 101 MIL 106

Some winners love to win
While others hate to lose.

I wonder if the same principle
Applies to losers.

My mother worries
My brother and I
Are afraid
To win--

To outplay our father,
The dead homeless schizophrenic.

That we are being held back
By a Freudian phantom
Buried in our psyches.

Symbolic betrayal.
Jewish guilt.

But I’m not afraid of success--
I love winning.
Winning is my favorite.

Honestly,
I’m not even afraid of failure--
Not really.

I don’t expect every shot to go in
Or every ball to bounce
My way.

I get that’s not how life goes.
My heart can handle it.

Truth be told--
What I’m really afraid of
Is becoming my father.

This man I’m so often compared to--

Who I look like
And think like.

So Smart.
So handsome.

I’m afraid that the doctors are right
And that craziness isn’t craziness at all.

It is illness.
And illness is often hereditary--

Genetic.

Like looks
And intelligence.

What I’m afraid of
Is a tie game.

Game 36

1/12/2016

CHI 100 WAS 114

The Earth is always turning
But rarely do I notice.

Watched this one this morning--
Early.

Like 4:30.
Skimmed through it.

My life is changing
All the way,
And it’s real,
And I’m starting to see it
In little things--

Like basketball games.

I’m going to miss many more of them.

4:30 will be for sleeping
And feeding.

I accept this.

I am ready.

Too bad
This one wasn’t
The Warriors.

Who better
Than Steph Curry--

Player slash metaphor.

A baby
Coming in
And changing the whole game.