His layup starts from mountains 
not with landslide, rumble or some gorgon clash of titans, but as shadow-fall across stream 
some thief in the night black Christ 
type stealth. 
In the nights before this,
his name, whispered in small circles, muttered by demigods and goddesses, spread rebellious,
rough on the tongues of whores and queens,pillows pressed between thighs, moaning. 
Men will call him father, son or king of the court. His stride will ripple oceans,feet whip crack quick, his back will scar, hunched over, a silent storm about him.
Both hands blurred, scorched, bleeding;you see nothing but sparks splash off his palms, hear nothing but breeze beneath his shuck ‘n’ jive towards the basket carved of darkness, net of soil and stars.
Fearing nothing of passing from legend to myth, he fakes left, crossover, dribbles down
the line, soars an eagle chained 
to hang time. 

Inua Ellams

via Basketball, Poetry, and the Union of the Two