The last of a breed cut from cloth intertwined with petrified lumber-wicker style like Raffia Hula skirts. Those who left urban jungles never traded the proverbial chip on the shoulder, but kept the chip and picked up bolders to cut and bag. The sticker read “blue magic.”
Chants of abracadabra could not ward off the hangover blues. And regardless of how electric the slide was the awakening to the reality outside the force field that was our village left us powerless. At least until we were freed. This freedom could not manifest in the absence of the forced confrontation- present versus past, 15 rounds for the undisputed heavy weight title. We youngins needed role models and that we got, just didn’t follow them past the block life into the street halls of fame, beyond the chains. The glory beyond the glory that never makes ESPN-E60.

There will never be another Lil George that despite days of intoxication still recognized lil cuz to offer help in case I had beef. And bought me Sebagos so that I could fit into the oxymoronic hood elite.

Big Trav is the last of a lost breed that is constantly challenged with what he perceives to be a trail of negative when the hood was safe as long as he stood in it. We all wanted to be Carters just to trod through urban jungles for the shot to trade chips on our shoulders for degrees. Guys allowed to stand tall in shoot outs knowing without straps that at his voice it all stops. And as hopeless as it seems our X-Men will rejuvenate and conquer the wiles of the present degradation with an intellect mingled with hard knocks. Respect to the survivors with flame tattoos from reaching into hell fires to bridge gaps from hopelessness to destiny.


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