A. You know this man. Game and heart so cold/wrist so froze/a bop in his stroll just a gansgsta, hustla, playa he suppose, juxtaposed to people in struggle.

All in the DNA and his pores, angling, settling plus looking to score.

Coming up, unseen invisible hands of market determinism, tried to keep him down so what he do?

He got fly that’s what.

Fly in his vines, the pieces of armor to step and project essence of iridescence reflect in the darkness and cloudiness and dank pothole puddles.

The city, the hood, the housing the block an open air cage, menthol smoke tinted shades to hide the rage.

Look here slick.

What you know about fine tailored silk suits, shark-skin pants, the finest butter leather this needed dough can buy. You ain’t ready for this gabardine cardigan and these alpaca sweaters, pocket squares so sharp you can line a beard with them.

Get a load of this Super-100 plus wool thread count, this chinchilla, this sable, the camel hair, of course this mink, cuff links on a sea island cotton shirt to hide the hurt.

Thorough in the fares, master of the fair one, thorough with the flair, thorough with a glare, thorough with the thousand-yard stare.

On Filmores and Foothills and Centrals and Slausons, South Shores and Jeffrey’s and Islands that’s Stony.

Grand on the Concourse with Nickel plated Pathos - different avenues from Lenox to Venice, the mamas, young and old they say that he’s trouble.

Can’t get to close to him, can’t stay away…..they say…


REFRAIN: Gator Boots, Clockin just as quick as he can.

Gator Boots…Boppin slow and thinking real fast.

Gator Boots….Master Plan…That Contraband

Gator Boots….Buckin, duckin all the laws of the land…


B. Oh yeah you know this man glidin’ and swerving in a deuce and quarter down to 40-Duece, then hold up at a table in dark room bluffin’ hard with dueces, club, heart, diamond all deuces.


Sipping on a deuce deuce, pearl-handle deuce, deuce in the wasteband.


Duece for double consciousness, a smile to where you can’t tell if you’re his best friend in the world or if he’s gonna take your life right here, right now.


Switchin up broughams, whips and G-rides on ‘em between pit stops.


Bending blocks and corners like dimensions, defying quantum physics, the neighborhood’s very own Robert Moses, Kenneth Hahn and Richard M. Daley in one.


Only thing more thrilling than the ice cream truck to the children --- walking with a limp on his shoulders what atlas holds up, pockets full of silver dollars, franklins and jacksons at the center of the band so he can peel off washingtons from the top and say….


Next time, youngblood I wanna see your report card. Funny how the real ones always want better for you.


Gettin’ his because he heard by any means necessary somewhere permeating from echoes of gunshots in a ballroom.


Conversely, it’s hard to know, hard to understand, hard to fathom that he had a dream too.


Couldn’t tell because he was apolitical.


A political pariah


A political liability to the bourgeoisie


A political statement made everytime he got up out of bed


A political slogan: Law and Order, ready to do him in.


That’s why they say….


REFRAIN: Gator Boots, Clockin just as quick as he can.

Gator Boots…Boppin slow and thinking real fast.

Gator Boots….Master Plan…That Contraband

Gator Boots…. Duckin, buckin all the laws of the land…


C. You know this man. And this is not nostalgia. This is the numerated denominator of previous centuries of long division, this is America.

He barely touchin’ the steering wheel turning the car with his palm.

In caddys and cuttys and chevys and lincolns and mercs.

This is not a glorification or a glamorization, this is the shame of a nation.

He was, is the flashy reminder of what you get when you go from emancipation to great migration, to integration, to stagflation and stagnation…..with no relief from discrimination.

Most people only know him now from something called Blaxploitation.

But this is not a celebration… this the body that truth built.

And it goes a little something like this…

Redlining, oil embargos, factories closing, cointelpro and dopegame.

You know this man…..maybe he’s your dearly departed, maybe he cuts your hair, he might be your pastor, he could be the minister at your mosque, perhaps he switched to corporate suite and hides as a Jedi in a clone’s body.

Maybe his suit is orange and will remain in the belly of the beast for the rest of his days.

Could be he just sits and watches the ballgame without much to say anymore.

Somehow, somehow, you know…

Somewhere in the closet, the garage, in the attic, out at the storage unit.

He still got the shoes..

He still got the shoes…

Cuz… he’s the only one who could ever walk in ‘em.