1900
I don't want/
to empty shells,/
introduce/
you to hell,/
or a heavenly/
chorus./
I'm just a/
ordinary/
tortoise,/
with lightning quick/
brainstorms,/
that torture/
your auditory/
orifice./
I email you/
details of what/
my cones and rods/
retrieve./
Forward it,/
so you can store it;/
I also give/
sneak peeks/
to what God sees./
From His perspective,/
I should wish/
Godspeed to my/
enemies,/
instead of a/
slow death./
It's hard to/
imagine me/
quote less./
Puzzled jigs/
have no answers;/
they only have/
hopelessness./
Their quotients/
only cause division./
Their remedy/
isn't focused/
on most folks./
If quotes were coke,/
I'd be a coke head./
Moral of the/
story is.../
These lines/
are dope, though./
Sniff the info,/
as your heart beats/
to a fast tempo/
of my mental's/
instrumentals--/
playing in the/
key of life./
I unlock the/
doors of your mind/
when I write./
These rappers/
hold no power/
like some Amish/
and Mennonites./
Looking for a/
horse on my carriage,/
and a key/
for my whip./
My brain/
communicates/
what's in my/
spirit's script./
I jot these/
excerpts from my/
autobiography./
Gas, I spit/
while holding pens/
with flaming tips./
Spit, I'm raining this/
on heads./
Grab an/
umbrella,/
young fella./
You've been in/
the desert too long--/
on edge;/
tense and irritable/
over the/
rap tunes you're/
listening to./
I rap moons/
around rap dudes/
without/
glistening, too./
No sweat./
Watch the literary/
vet./
Rhymes taste great./
Their flavor (rhymes)/
isn't bitter/
as berries, yet./
I litter/
every set/
with heavenly/
bandannas/
and plot lines/
to increase your/
stamina./
As an animal,/
with pitbull- like/
mandibles,/
lyrics sink deep/
like teeth./
There's no need/
to screech./
Pump your brakes./
Reckless words/
I don't seek./
Crash into my/
thought patterns;/
get thrown head first/
into my speech./
Peep my/
under armor/
as I reach/
for Saturn./
Vulnerabilities/
leak into/
notebook sheets,/
and bleed/
through my/
physical/
imagery./
But, ignore it./
Stories are/
euphoric/
and historic../
The stanza's/
panorama/
is first person./
Be the third person/
multiplied/
to observe/
written legends--/
urban./
I inscribe/
inside your mind;/
hide behind/
these lines/
I design./
I spew jewels/
for fools./
I spit bits/
of carats/
in rhyme form./
I chew food/
for thought,/
just to/
regurgitate/
in your mind's forum./
Oh My!/
How's the time gone./
I watch the clock/
like the time/
on my arm./
I see the dots/
and visualize/
the lines being drawn/
to my/
destination./
Heavenly/
ideas take shape/
in your/
imagination./
I play/
well with others,/
just give me space/
in my/
play station./
But anyway,/
this paper/
I stay blazin'/
with the pen./
An arsonist,/
I beg your/
pardon with/
flammable spit/
that keeps/
the city/
or forest lit./
Topically,/
I'm all over/
the place./
Like an ointment,/
spread this/
over your/
joints. Its stiff./
Outgrew this gig,/
so it, I split./
Lit spliffs/
used to have my/
mind in a mist./
Now, it's just/
Satan's myths./
I give/
Christmas gifts/
when I use my lips/
and kiss your ears/
with adjectives./
Magic/
isn't averaged/
when I/
practice this/
wordplay among/
savages./
They act as/
cash registers/
and tell me my/
value./
Well, I'm worth/
about as much/
as a crutch/
to a leg/
injury./
To a/
solar panel,/
I'm about as/
important/
as the sun's/
energy;/
about as vital/
as the/
efficiency/
of my progress/
to the enemy./
As we approach/
Halloween,/
I won't scream./
You fake monsters/
are nothing/
but howling/
wind to me./
If it's a/
distraction,/
then it's nothing/
more than a/
sin to me./
The content/
in my poems/
is its own/
entity./
What I compose/
is like a/
long, winding road/
to my senses/
symphony./
Mozart,/
when I make/
descriptive/
written words/
look like art/
to your inner/
vision./
I drop ish/
over your head/
like pigeon's./
I keep heat/
like kitchens,/
or any/
Charles Bronson-type/
that's death
wishin'./
Splatter your brains/
at point blank range,
with ink stains/
I'm drippin'./
You know/
it's murder/
he wrote,/
when the ink's red./
I'm saying/
"deuces"/
and "toodles"/
to you fools./
This won't be the/
last time I've/
graced the stage/
of your pupils./
Jesus, take away/
my headache/
like I just/
popped 2 pills./
I prescribe/
sick gals and guys/
a piece of my mind./
I'm full of wise/
raps and wise cracks./
Street hustlers/
feeding y'all this/
cheese and mac,/
and tell of their/
adventures with/
fatback./
Your heart and/
arteries/
don't need/
all of that./
I've written/
grilled chicken,/
with a smidgen/
of lemon/
pepper./
I roast most/
like diced/
garlic/
potatoes,/
by/
what I say though./
From my/
larynx,/
comes/
asparagus./
Alkaline/
water,/
I spray though,/
washes away/
dirt like soap./
Smirk at the flow./
It currently/
may not/
bring in the dough./
My currency/
will drift in/
from what I wrote./
Just as alarm clocks/
my memoirs/
has the world awoke./
Follow the/
labyrinth/
of the pen's/
arrogance./
It leads you/
to my world,/
and what I'm/
imaginin'./
