Still feeling weird so opted to hoop the other day. In jeans. I called my dad to chat about life. Lottery tickets, his car wrecks, my bum ass boredom... then I played some 2s wit some clowns. New York rules means who ever is loudest and least impressed is right, apparently. There were beautiful black kids all over this Brooklyn school playground. Playing ball, talking shit. A father played with his kindergartener son in corn rows, watching the tike take terrible shots that fall a foot and a half below the rim. I watch his dad joyfully feign disappointment. I remember those times with my dad. A loud mouth skinny Brooklyn guy, maybe my age asks if I want to run. I say hold on. I finish my call and hang up. My shot ain’t falling but who gives a fuck... I’m from Chicago... fuck these little niggas. Whooped that ass in jeans and a kangol. Me and a high school kid who never learned to pass or layup whooped these grown men. Once the teammates were fighting ...
Diatribes, Ditties, Draughts, Doodles and Drawings to map my mind.