Dead Beat

Dead Beat©

by Ebony Isis Booth

he is so much more complex

than the programmed boom bap

synth clap bullshit you make him dance to

he knows it too

though he can’t figure out how you hung the moon

he is sure that such a feat could only be accomplished by you

so far be it from him to imagine why you can’t produce a better tune

for him to spin to

he is war and wonder

he is the first eight bars of the hottest sixteen

in the history of black boy resilience and flight

I am tuning the EQ 

anticipating the second verse

listening for the fire he will make by thirty two

burning candles and sage in hopes that from verse

to track to EP length

prescheduled play, prom, and graduation dates

he remains an original

authenticity radiates from his untrained up-rock

he does not employ parlor tricks

of repetition

he flips skateboards and rhymes in time with

drum kicks

this kid

he is not subdued

he will not be chopped and screwed

by you

accidental producer

prolific in half-hearted measures

to prove your ain’t shitness

fashioned in pirated versions of Fruity Loops

over borrowed bowls of fruit loops

from your new chick’s WIC check

you make no deposits

at banks

or in kitchen cabinets

you occupy a heart space

in an eight year old boy’s left ventricle

cavity and still can’t manage to ride the beat

you record regurgitated adlibs

and forced promises

he listens and nods his head

practicing politeness

every time you press dial

your voice is the annoyance of a ring back

when you don’t text back

the insufferable redundancy of your daft

attempts at parentage

make you a different kind of punk

he doesn’t know how great he is yet

but you do

and the ego has a funny way of destroying

the best parts of you

he is unconsciously dimming his light

concerned that he is too bright

and since you refuse to shine

perhaps if he dumbs it down

and meets you on a base level where

you two are the same

in the way that

DNA is indelible ink to his book of rhymes

and his magic is fire to your book of lies

maybe then you would want to collaborate

on the songs in the key of the rest of his life

you are a dead beat

you are forgotten tracks

scratched from platinum projects

shelved in cinderblock coffins

in Chicago basements

you are the unresolved verse

of an abandoned eight bar concept

you lack the fortitude for completion

he is your best work

yet you manage to piss away even the right

to a proper liner credit

he is incandescent

eight year old

saddled with the flaws of his parents

considering the sky

searching for a beat he can go off on

watching for his moon to crumble again

so he can pray for you to replace it

with no soundtrack

no spaceship

no lifeline

the whole time

you should be bumpin’ that hot shit

that makes him feel like the sun