Fuck The Poli¢e
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I remember his beard. The way he smelled when he would walk by on his way to the stage, it would sting and start my brain. The altar, the podium, whatever; where he'd speak. His old ratty black faded George Foreman shirt, with George kind of grinning, thumbs up, one of his eyes long since flaked off in the wash. But his beard, it was like what a man could be. You could be that strong and that steady and that comfortable, and all you had to do was wait, and pay attention. He'd speak so clearly, like it were the easiest thing in the world to say even ten words in a row that made perfect sense, that didn't get choked up with hatred or sadness or blind fear. He would never yell, but it was so frigging loud. Deafening, almost. The kids next to me would have their earphones in, but you knew they were listening, you could tell by the way their jaw hung open like they themselves were speaking. Everyone listened, no one dared speak. And he would always start the same way, I remember it like it was church: "I want to say a few words to you now, and you know I mean them, because I speak from my heart."
(image of recalled Adidas)
(big thanks to Miguel Rivas for introducing me to Killer Mike. Miguel hosts a wonderful show in Toronto, Rap Battlez, where I will be performing (yes, rapping) this Friday. Please come, Jordan will be performing too.)Posted by Dan at June 19, 2012 3:51 PM