It’s 1993 and this is how we chill...
’Til infinity.
I’m thirteen with a skateboard, the wheels go click-clack
Like the sound of a lock unlocking
So let freedom ring
over buckled pavement
Oakland streets
Not the flats, but I’m still Town-bred.
It’s 1994
And Outkast has everybody on that player vibe
I’m fourteen and can’t play my way out of a paper bag
much less juggle puppy-love affairs
But at least the peach-fuzz on my chin is legit.
It’s 1995
And the transmission
blows on the bucket
in which I’m practicing
just before I can take the license test.
I’m discouraged but I’m sporting
a tangerine-colored
Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Warren Sapp, Number 99
football jersey
So you can still see me coming
even if only on foot
because that orange hue is crazy.
In a Major Way
I’m taking the BART train
out to the suburbs
Because word is there’s a couple girls
out there who want to lay me down
But like most things when you’re fifteen
the plan fails to come together.
It’s 1996 and it’s
Me and You, Your Mama, and Your Cousin Too
Autumn of junior year.
Forties downed at school picnics.
Drunk as hell
Eating barbecued chicken
and chatting up teachers
Who somehow fail to smell the alcohol on my breath.
It’s 1997
Put your hands where my eyes
Can see...
I can see the finish line
while I cruise in my buddy’s
Super Nova
Me and J...
It’s 1998
And I’m fitted for my cap
and gown
Two years left
until the world ends
so they say.
But I can still see the finish line
and This Is How We Chill Til Infinity....
