Certain

[Certain]

Writing Challenge League
Record: 6-2, second place overall

Week 1: Double Letter Challenge
Task: L.N.
Posted on July 23, 2013
Result: Beat Gazette 5-2

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.

If Honest Abe's legacy now were based on truth,
it wouldn't praise the Emancipation as a slave rebuke.
Lincoln neglected those in states that had carried him,
leaving negroes embattled in Delaware and Maryland.
Let's now examine it a little bit closer:
If your boys were Union soldiers, your "boys" still had their owners.
See, letting nervous Kentucky whites keep their slaves
was enough to preserve the Union, if not the human race.
Leveraging noisy abolitionists with a sweeping gesture
was enough to keep the pressure off a peaceful measure.
Plus, those Southern "boys" could lead new militias vs. the Rebs
and leave natty plantation owners wishing they were dead.
This was level-headed navigation in leading nation vs. nation.
Forgive the latent narcissism of a vacant Proclamation.
See Honest Abe was shaping legislative napalm
and expecting us blacks to burn the motherfucking place down.

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.

Now, Lincoln left nothing changed for certain when he sprayed the curtains.
Later, nascent legislation nixed slavery with purpose.
But the thirteenth amendment left negroes starving on streets,
and Reconstruction left negroes wobbling from trees.
We lacked necessary tools to leverage new freedoms.
If you don't teach a man to fish, you damn well better feed him.
If you don't seek balance, you're walking on a tightrope,
so before long, blacks learned not to turn backs on whitefolk.
Learing nebulous through hoods with mouths, they retook the South
and leveraged negro families out of every wooden house.
Looking North for what was promised, the inner cities beckoned,
linking new populations to a world near Great Depression.
Listing nothing on a résumé ensured a life of labor,
yet the first generation gladly took it over slave work.
But the jobs left nothing, as we filled the prison slate.
First Louisiana, now Chicago — that's Illinois, Lincoln's state.

Lincoln never liked niggers. That shit was politics.
Lynch nooses never loosen, never lift from off our necks.
Lincoln never liked niggers. No signs of bravery.
We're left neglected, sentenced to new kinds of slavery.



Week 2: Diversity Challenge
Task: Mennonites
Posted on July 30, 2013
Result: Lost to Rawn M.D. 4-2

rumspringa /ˈro͝omspriNGə/ a period of adolescence in some Anabaptist communities, including Amish and Old Mennonite branches, in which boys and girls are given greater personal freedom and allowed to form romantic relationships, usually ending with the choice of baptism into the church or leaving the community.

Mary had this sly smile full of faded teeth.
She said she'd pray for me. She said she'd wait,
she'd brace herself for pain but stay for me.
We sat and sang and cried.
We played the beats that we had mastered line for line.
I told her I'd be back.
I touched her arm so gracefully
and sold her on my tact,
full-knowing I'd retract.

Jason had these deep eyes full of blue and hazel.
He'd loosely amble across the bar to the juke-box handle
and pick a tune to mangle in his broken Philly accent.
He joked that it made bad sense to hold me when we had sex
because the closer that our paths'd get,
the forks would sharpen more.
He'd shown me how to laugh and relax my hardened core.
We'd lapse into a TV binge, reality or sitcom,
Saved by the Bell and Flintstones,
everything I'd missed on.

Jason had this brown hair that curled in balls at random.
I'd twirl it all in handfuls
while he worked on drawing mansions.
The architecture firm was my ticket to the city,
and I enlisted in it quickly with a visage nearing giddy.
The internship paid shitty, but it gifted me with living
in a way I'd always dreamed
outside the prison of my pity.
And Jason was my tour guide. We watched the Flaming Lips.
We watched Freeway and Beanie.
We watched Journey and Kiss.
We took journeys and kissed, and our love flambéd the wicks
of the candles that were like a touch of home,
even as they bathed our sins.

Jason had a large nose that betrayed his Jewish heritage
and often came in handy when we fused cocaine and heroin.
The sex was looser, better then.
We'd rave, then use, then enter in.
But phases soon turn pestilent; escapism loses relevance.
The summer was ending.
I'd make my future evident.
I'd stay, refuse the exodus.

Mary had such perfect cursive, sans bumps and depressions.
I'd thumb through her letters
and wonder if ever she'd wondered if ever
I really could love her forever.
Her deportment stayed humble and measured.
I tried to harness the same but kept discarding my mumbling letters.
The targeted pain of hearts when they break
is enough to humble a hector.

Jason had a wilting grimace as he helped me onto the train.
Lifting my black hat to my head, he tugged it hard.
Then he waved.



Week 3: Hypothetical Collaboration Challenge
Task: CopyPat's "Mickey Deez Nutz"
Posted on Aug. 6, 2013
Result: Lost to Mike Wrecka 7-2

My topic is a Canadian talking shit about about popping clips,
when he'd be better off stepping soft, skating with a hockey stick.
It's obvious this imposter is no novice in
the form of ominous homicidal postulates.
Yet all it brings is moderate accomplishment in praise from peers
who haven't even slain a deer much less sprayed any AK's in here.
This isn't a phase, it's clear the game we play is based in fear.
Rap's backbone is a crack stone, but its face is the casing's steel.

The boom bap of the bass never upstaged the snare's weight.
But that doom clap of the stray-bullet gunplay couldn't tear fate.
Pursue rap with a straight face, and find dumb taste you can caretake.
This new crap they create ends up bumped out into airspace.

And who is the victim? The usual prison of youth in the system.
We're abusing the visions of 2Pac and Cube, bruising their image.
These crude indecisions lead us to fusing a spirit
of toothless offenses, not putting in context the fuel for their lyrics.
Step through all the pyrrhics. We've created a brutal appearance,
such that "Slim Thug" creates tunes for the children.
It's a brutal religion, but we're immune to its hatred and anger.
Engaged in the graceless disaster of rape jokes, we emaciate laughter.
Facing hereafter, we'll either straighten our act or
continue on clapping the nines and betraying our bastards.

Then again, let's play it all backwards and take in the facts first:
When we're spraying our gats and raping those fat whores,
we're faking. We're actors playing as rappers on an Internet site.
And if anyone doesn't vote for me, I'm ending their life.



Week 4: Legal Latin Challenge
Task: Sui iuris
Posted on Aug. 13, 2013
Result: Beat Innovator 7-0

I remember my first rape. She was 14.
Doused her with chlorine. Chemically burned face.
Pinned her shoulders, then entered and tore space;
I dismembered a poor, chaste girl,
rendered her whore's bait.
Her eyes, unblinking. Her thighs, unflinching.
She stared into the devil's heart. No hiding, shrinking.
And for a moment, as I came inside this victim,
I, too, saw Lucifer's silent grimace.

I remember my first kill, the following month.
We were just locking them up.
They'd throw their bottles and run.
Darkness. Street lights out. I throttled my gun.
One blast. Here was a father or son, shot in the gut.
My hands trembled as I swallowed the sight.
On his jacket was soldered a sign that meant I had collared a kike.
For a second, gave into an ominous pride,
but as the blood poured, I was the one feeling hollow inside.

I remember my first execution, firing squad.
Bind and cuff then line them up and consign 'em to God.
With any rise from the mob, we'd remind them to stop
by holding a gun to a child's head. Their silence was prompt.
As we expired the lot and shoveled their bodies to piles,
the others were sobbing and wild.
Mother despondent for child.
We covered the obvious, vile odor with cigarette drags,
but every exhale left every soldier to pick at his scabs.

I remember the aftermath, the broken illusion
of a man soaked and confused and moping reclusive.
I still think about it, after all the hopeless excuses.
I still think about it, about all the token abuses.
We were totally fused into a system of hate,
emprisoned by our own minds' impotent state.
But I can't gain forgiveness this late.
In all the mass killings and rapes, I wasn't the victim or prey.
I'm not a innocent scapegoat. There's blood on these hands,
death in these eyes in the disguise of a company man.
I'll carry my own cross. Let the wood splinter through.
My sins are truth. This is the price for a Hitler Youth.



Week 5: Constrained Writing Challenge
Task: No adjectives
Posted on Aug. 21, 2013
Result: Beat VERITAS 8-0

"There aren't words to describe us."

The story began:
Boy meets girl. Boy pursues girl. Girl likes boy and allows advances. Then it avalanches. Light cast off the moon. A shadow dances. Bodies dip. Water beckons. Tobacco flashes. Life spins. Life begins. Caught in passion.

The story continued:
Girl grows into woman. Boy doesn't grow into man. Woman quickly gets tired of holding his hand. Boy seeks help from woman — no, not that one. He hopelessly ran. Woman — ours, this time — scolded and banned.

Man:
Her words were barbells on trampolines.
The stars felt like vanity. Like tar melting. Answer me.
My scars swelled. She'd handed me the papers a year ago.
I could see him once a week at most and hope that clearance holds.
The tears had flowed, but my eyes now peered and probed.
My voice had cleared and grown. I hoped she'd hear my tone.

Woman:
His words were fingernails on chalkboards.
He thought he could swig an ale and talk more.
He figured sales were all forced. My purse is closed.
And as his nerves repose, mine swerve, explode.
He says I cursed his soul, but he's the one coughing swears.
I kick him off my stairs. Goodbye. Get lost. Take care.

Man:
Her words were icebergs set adrift, denying my cries of helplessness.
What's a father without a son? Wondering if I, myself, exist.
She's pelting sticks and stones with animus
as if she can handle this. As if she's not in shambles. Bitch.
I'll walk the path toward righteousness until my sandals split,
but I'd like my son to see me trying to be the man for him.

Woman:
His words were sequoias, deeply rooted in soil,
and though I used to recoil, the door opened.
Our future was spoiled, but perhaps he's earned a spot.
Besides, I work a lot, and no boy should curse his pop.
Has he matured? He couldn't worsen but may not deserve this shot,
and there's this lurch I got from the days of circle-dot-dot.

The story ends:
Boy meets man. Boy trusts man. Man loves boy, he claims. Man buys toys and games. Man rides joys and pains. But soon enough, man tires of boy and ploys escape. Man never confronts woman, trying to avoid the hate. Boy never sees man again. Boy doesn't know who's at fault. Boy first moves to call. Not answered, soon he broods and stalls. He cannot understand. Man never grew at all.



Week 6: Imitation Challenge
Task: Boredom
Posted on Aug. 28, 2013
Result: Beat Boredom by no-show

"boredom"
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i'm here because i've got nowhere better to go
settled and posted veteran prose, peddling flow
i like the sentiment, though i don't aspire to rap
i write to react, type an abstract for admirement, daps
when mired in crap, i try to relax, grab a beer or rum
pull on my dick till it's clearing cum and I'm tearing drunk
god only appears to the dumb, so i'm killing my brain cells
let loose of fears when i'm done with swilling some pain pills
a villain, an angel, but mostly a laconic waste of space
in my college-age malaise, i often chased a dame
but more often came up lame, so give a loser a hand
this job's for more than one sordid punk whose future demands
are stupid, unplanned and futily useless to man
any improvement's unplanned, as i'm stuck in a hamster wheel
there's nothing that can't be healed with a cup of some chamomile
and the touch of a spry female, but i haven't had that in months
my palms have scabs and bumps, my palms have had enough
so i'm typing some rap and stuff, writing on netcees
fingers light as they press keys, typing out text frees
and hoping to cure this boredom before it finally gets me
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"boredom is the root of all evil — the despairing refusal to be oneself" — soren kierkegaard

Week 7: Continous Task Challenge
Task: How long have you been here? Why did you come here?
Posted on Sept. 2, 2013
Result: Beat Defy Gravity by no-show

"Mom, I'm busy! How long have you been there?"
"Just long enough to see you tugging at your underwear.
I think it's time you and your father had a chat."
"Fine, later, maybe. Please get out of my room before I splat."



Week 8: Reflection Challenge
Task: Use challenges from the league to build a verse
Posted on Sept. 13, 2013
Result: Beat Mike Wrecka 2-0

DOUBLE-LETTER CHALLENGE: S.E.

Skipped stones eventually sink, ending their flight
by forming a scummy enclave at the pit of a lake.
Sentenced to write, I came hoping for writs with a stake,
but venting was nice, so eventually my membership climbed
and I was listed with taste, known to dispense with a rhyme.
Servicing entrants with solicitated essays meant to oblige.

IMITATION CHALLENGE: Mike Wrecka

certain found netcees when an old itch returned,
and he quickly developed a rep for his flow-rich reworks,
it had been years since he last champed a topical league,
and these days he was probably better off giving logical feed
but that never was enough for a competitive chap,
so he entered the first tournament he found to better his rap/

DIVERSITY CHALLENGE: Bloggers

I'm an Internet nerd with a Tumblr, Twitter and Virb,
and I criticize words others pour into with vision and verve.
It's just my nature. It's not that I think I'm any better
but I know they're shit is the worst, so I say it with heavy letters.
It's logical, see, and my goal is pushing y'all to improve,
and I'm still hoping to get to one thousand followers, too.

CONSTRAINED WRITING TASK CHALLENGE: No letter O

It'd been three years since my last written raps when I came here,
and I'm glad to change gears and write when I drain beers.
My typing will stay clear. My grammar is perfect.
I'll never be the deepest or best, but I can hammer the surface.

HYPOTHETICAL COLLABORATION CHALLENGE: Genocide's "The State of Text"

I've rhymed with Fracture and Corey. Y'all new text rappers are boring.
Quit you're yapping, I'm snoring, dreaming about the past you're ignoring.
PancakeBrah? This faggot is whoring and leaving me laughing with stealth.
This dude's from oil country, but he's fucking gassing himself.
Above The Rest's a joke concept, but even if I felt it were true,
Namix is above everyone else in his crew.
And zygote, you dingo-fucking bitch with your shitty league —
actually, I've enjoyed the ride these challenges have given me.

LEGAL LATIN CHALLENGE: trial de novo (trial anew)

I come before you today to appeal to your senses.
Reread my battles with Rawn and Mike. Then reveal your penance.
See Rawn came with a shallow verse, while Mike didn't touch the topic.
Don't rush the logic: I should be in the title spot by this battle's turn.
Here's your chance for amends, though: I'm balling vs. Wrecka.
With a verse that's honest and provocative. It's called introspection.
So votes for Serpent seem certain, but things won't change in the nick of time,
since this league was rigged for Mike all along with his simple rhymes.

CONTINUOUS TASK CHALLENGE: When will you leave? Where are you going?

My membership's served with a time limit, for better or worse.
I've already tested my worth against the best on this Earth,
I hope I've shown you a thing or two, but I'm an editor first,
so this writing thing's simply me trying to stay invested in words.
And I'm about to be stressing with work, so I may disappear.
But I want to thank y'all for all your greatness in here.