... game day; another game face...another mirror smudged too blurred, him not giving a damn about reflection just waiting to save and get saved it’s the grind in the game; the game in the grind a playmaker's mind straight through to a happy ending an upending where he’d be one of the heroes this time ...like other times the whole game had already stolen the ball stripped...another bad call spittin’...nigger who? nigger you.. it’s the ball he believed he’d been having where his thinking; it goes shameless...kunte’ in kente’...him still going nameless; setting out to tame this.. toby playin' at kobi; his self mockery looking for its rage writing it out; the application of ink hits the page a full court press onto the paper testing himself; pushing...screaming then whispering; the messaging of honest perceptions
he’s the playmaker yet he goes untitled.. unrivaled and it's part of the act...it’s a matter of fact his game is a bit too abstract to see it straight it’s a square crowd’s fate; perhaps his world is too round the foul play consistently playing too foul the vertical...inna horizontal zone an intuitive vision leading him to react yet pimp smacked by his own peripheral vision got him looking back...back from that edge out on that ledge slightly off course wherein he gets taken taken back to that same spot going in circles.. where everyone knows...a 360 minus a 360 equates to zero so here’s your hero...the jumper leaps peeps and takes a look; a real hard look where here in the aftermath it’s a trapping defense wherein heaven & hell together both double clutch on the eeriness & suspense but none of it really close enough to feeling important
he opts for that requisite that time out to pause; to review the by-laws then its back to the grind...the game.. that court where his court is marginally on that edge and he’s again at that line...left to write again taking another shot banking off the bored he’ll produce another wilding out a bailout; his own maybe even yours or he just might bask et al into that round file call it...“still working on his follow through; his free flows” tossin 'em up until the gym is closed remaining just a few drops a few drops short of any pertinent inking just keep the game from sinking and perhaps his pen would again talk trash as he half smiles then arcs lofts the crunched & crinkled pulp; the fiction & fact the posturing poetics arcs ‘em; as he just launches watches the pulp crash & burn...now tell me? what did we learn? ..g’wan now
Subject: .:Naseer's Gumbo [The B-Ball Metaphors]:. 
Thu Jul 23, 2009 8:06 am
