Hip Hop and Modern Fiction

The beats are rhythmic in my ear:

bom-bom-bop-buh-bom-bom-bop

The words are comedic to my eyes:

“You wanted to hear the alcoholic Indian father jukebox.”

 

I read a book that won the Faulkner Award for Fiction

As I listen to music that I first heard while sitting on dead grass at midnight.

 

Maybe I’ve been watching too many Hamilton interviews

But the two things pair well together

Like red wine and bread —

Or white wine and summertime.

 

Maybe because they’re both saying the same thing:

“The next day, the first Jesuits walked into a Coeur d’Alene Indian fishing camp.”

Says the book.

“I ain’t never ran from nothin’ but the police.”

Says the song.

 

Or maybe I’ve just been watching too many Hamilton interviews.

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