I Am Hip Hop
The never-ending drum loop of my internal breakbeat
thumps along: the alternating turntables in my mind,
the eternal reverb of my lungs. I am a deft arrangement
of samples. I can pop and lock wide open through scores
of homemade mixtapes. I fling noise through otherwise
quiet neighborhoods. My existence is so bass-infused
and remixed. Trust me – it is lonely to be the only man
in town with a boombox for a soul. I always savor lyrics
with my hands in the air, pick up new slang like dice
on concrete, understand rhythm dwells in the space
between notes, freestyle my way through each workweek
just to revel in the electric hallelujah of Saturday nights.
Mama was a microphone; my father, a scratched record.
One night they came together, and soon after I was born.
Adrian S. Potter
Review by Jacob Moran
The thing I find wonderful about this poem is how the conception of Hip Hop is happening while you read. It isn’t until the last couplet that you realize there is a story being voiced.