CHALLENGER'S RAP

• took a seat near the rear of the 32 route, shoes still damp from the dew on the curb
• mood brewed low from a brutal view that skewed my the whole afternoon, the dude two rows up kept scrollin’ through news
• and the fumes from his food were abusive, like tuna with blue cheese and some lukewarm stew
• refused to include in my usual thought loops, a rude manager, two texts and a clue that I’m due for a change
• not just new shoes or a few days away, but somethin that proves i’m not glued to what i grew into
• truthfully, this bus seat is the only booth I’ve had lately where I process the truth
• with a passion that’s practically patent, with the ladder and cash in, slappin your fandom back to the attic
• you’re panickin, actin like grapplin hands from a match just snatched at your jacket and fractured yo ass again
• snapped in the fashion of Bas Rutten laughin in back of the van with a cam that captured the aftermath
• slappin you flat and i’m smashin your stance while you’re standin in half of a track
• that collapsed like a nasa pad, back at the lab with a can of the gas they hand out at demolition matches
• handle it like after a fast collapse in a half lit alley, draggin a trash can packed with the ashes of rappers
• who yapped at the wrong one and vanished, i’m dashin’ through brackets with accuracy fast as McNabb passing
• bashin you while you’re flashin your shit like it’s magic, you crashin, i’m blastin through plasticky tracks
• i’m back and I’m badder than battles in backyards with batons and jackets of black and red flannel
• i’m jackin’ your traction like amazon snatchin the package before you could unwrap it and brag again
• the second I hover you stutter and buckle, your cover gets smothered, you clutter your punches with nothing but mumbles
• constructed like bunkers, i’m double the pressure, your number is up and i’m lungin’ for lunch with a custom agenda
• your function’s bug ridden, i crush it like plumbers with rusted equipment, you struggle to muster a gust of momentum
• i’m thumpin through bundles of diction and uppercuts pumpin your structure, i’m uppin’ the budget
• a buffer that ruptures your comfort, i’m thuggin like Butcher, pushin’ a button to summon destruction
• jug after jug like a flood, i’m subtle as sucker punches in public, you’re stumblin, juggle a couple of knuckles
• i’m flushin your plug with a plunger from Home Depot, I’m the whole depot, unloading the function
• and dumpin the junk you constructed with duct tape, strolled through the lot with a tote from trader joe’s
• and a note folded inside that quoted an old voicemail about exposure to mold spores
• cold shoulders from checkout folk, motion sensors broke so the doors stayed closed
• holes near the shoulders but I rolled with it solo, headphones low, caught my reflection in a soda machine
• below the no refunds sign, folded receipts from Cold Stone creamery poking out
• like a confessional in slow motion, motioned for the uber but the road was closed
• went for the metro, phone at 4%, no charger, and i’m told by folks that the road home ain’t shown on the normal route
• pouring soda into cups that overflowed, and it showed, shoulder cold, forehead against the remote control