Coolie

He walked eleven miles each day to the train station drowned in oil stains –
Even though God never smiled his way, he trooped faithfully and remained,
A stoic soldier, without one complaint –
If you see him at first glance, his curt demeanor would make you hate him –
You’d make him do all your work and he’d be lucky if you paid him –
But he waited, until you chose to deny or embrace him –
Either he had the persona of Satan or the saint in him caused outsiders to forsake him –
You see, he got jumped like a rusty car battery in a 93’ mint green Dayton –
He did bids like rich alcoholics made em’ –
And kept to himself like a monk on a deserted island off the southeast coast of Asia –
So you’d be inclined to do all you could to save him –

His preteen, post-adolescent frame and age could not fade the heart he carried in his
ribcage –
He stayed awake for days –
In and out, like the flow of passengers in the subway –
Back broken, no home owning, sleeping outside in the pouring rain –
Anything for some change in his pocket to lock it down for the next few days –
You’d be crazed, dazed, and confused if you had to live one day in his shoes –

His feet were crusty, callused, skin split –
Walking down the rocky, dusty road, ‘I quit’
Was not in his vocabulary –
Always very hard at work –
Sharp stones made his open sores shed red tears just before they mingled with the ground and sucked in dirt –
It hurt to watch him troop along the everlasting broken down platform –
Where you were rewarded for you wrongs –
Where the locomotives sang songs –
About how you end up where you did and for how long –
And where you choose to be and where you belong –

And he trooped –
Barefoot, flatfoot,
While the crooks in the alley peeped the scene with their gangsta lean –
Looking to see how much cash they could lift quick –
All depending on my Jordache kicks –
His throat was slit even before he cashed in –
He was robbed, way before he did his job –

But he trooped –
With two metal suitcases on his head –
The old school ones you’d stuff with all your lifetime paraphernalia just before you fled –
Two more embedded, just above each tricep –
And two more in each hand, gripped so tight, the outside of his fists were white, no longer red –
Back-hunched, grit and grime under his toenails, all while he bled –

Think about that, next time your man don’t talk to you in bed –
Or don’t pay you no attention, be so quick to get upset –
Keep in mind all the baggage this kid dealt with instead ~  

When It Rains

Everyone looks down when it rains-
Little do they know grace is falling all
around them-
Swarming appreciation touched by blind
resistance-
Dancing on the sidewalk before it swims
and anchors-
In millions of tiny, orgasmic movements,
they kiss and tell and kiss some more before
they sleep-
You see, it rains when you sleep too,
And stops abruptly when you awaken-
Tell me, who am I, anyway, to be telling you this,
expecting you to believe me-
I’m a product of you, of her-
she who sleeps when it rains,
closing her eyes to the raining bliss, missing the rainbow’s performance
and the encore of the sunshine-
She who undeniably tells you to tell me to
stay awake and take in everyone else’s
reality while she sleeps, only to keep dreaming-
                                    Covered by a thin film of wool,
                                                Like the slick sidewalk when
                                                            it rains~

Bits and Pieces

If being idle was illegal, I’d have committed mad crimes –
Pop 2 or 3 Percs and keep staring at the time –
Impossible to unwind with a 1/5, an 1/8, and a bottle of wine –
I can’t seem to fast-forward, only sit back and rewind –
Forget Jersey and New York, I’m in a poverty stricken state of mind –
Watch my past replay as my eyes go wild –
Slow motion, freeze frame, absorb every clip for a while –
Until I can’t physically take it no more –
I want every bone in my body to rejuvenate the last 4 to 16 years of my life –
Eliminate the strife –
That I try to deduce, but like Pinky and the Brain,
Never win, always lose –

I got bats in the attic, cobwebs in the belfry –
And nothing else but a notepad and a rusty mechanical pencil –
And my dreams you can’t see -
And if you can, you’d be looking through the naked eyes of a blind man –
Invisible, painful, and hard to understand –
Or if you could, my friend, you’d be a better man than me –

You ever toke away the pain just before you lay down?
And choke your soul to sleep to maintain your sanity –
Probably –
I know I ain’t the only one who doesn’t welcome slumber or the setting of the sun –
Would rather be out at Razzle Dazzle off of Route 1 –
Counting down time like it’s the last day of the last month of the year –
Wasting away in the midst of twilight crack kingdom –
Like the fives and ones I’ve been burning on Destiny all night, son –
But she’s a loner –
Been steady dedicating, credit, debit, cash money, a victim to payment plans I can’t even pronounce –
Said prayers, did personal favors, worked for my wages, wrote her papers, her thesis, 45 fuckin’ pages, and flat checks so that they’d never bounce –
And after all that shit, I think it’s safe to say I barely know her -
You can’t set your sights on a prize you want as your own -
If you can’t recognize her when she’s right under your nose –

So I wake up ten to four, with a faint vision from the night before –
I try to ignore all the soreness in my body –
See my car’s in one piece, so I thank God that he’s looking out for me –
Dehydration’s taking over so I let it be –
I close my eyes and try to sleep a little more –
7 winks and 4 snores later someone’s knocking at my door –
It’s Destiny in all her glory –
She said her name was Fate, but it was too late –
My pockets are empty,
Like a 40 on the corner of Essex and Pulaski –
And just like the night before –
I couldn’t recognize her face ~   

An Ode to Dope Lyrics

I heard life of the chant can be stopped by accident when you’re trippin’ –
I heard mixin’ Hen with Bacardi Dark will get you slippin’ when it kicks in –
I heard stoned is the way of the walk and that tweekin’ is the only way to start every freakin’ weekend off –
So go ahead –
Keep sippin’ on your sizurp, sniff another line of snow –
Keep the coke bottle cold, invite my boy Captain Mo –
Have fistfuls of E steady running from some rum –
Have a tab of Sunshine, Triple Dip, or Hitler’s Last Revenge be a blessing on your tongue –
While the yayo left-strokes right through the nasal hole and blows past the barrier embedded in your dome –
Fire up that rock that you just copped in Chrome –
Take 40 rounds of Colt 45 to the head –
Stick a needle in your vein with some H-laced meth –
And hear your last words just before you go deaf –
So I can burn your eardrums with my turpentine flow –
You see –
I want you to meet that brother in the attic –
Scratch it –
I wanna be your pusherman –
Funnel you paradox mixed into a sonnet -
Have you remember, never forget, how I pulled the life out of you, you never knew you had –

I heard ice cubes in glasses continuously clink-clinking –
I heard Alkoholiks in the place say, ‘It must have been the brew that I was sipping’ –
I wanna disconnect dependency for some independent, self-motivated, moment of clarity, next level thinking –
I want my contradictions to churn all the acids in your gut –
And burn my last cynicism, content, like you ate way too much –
But still hungry at 12:30 like you had Chinese for lunch –
So swig on my synopsis and resuscitate your buzz –
I want my simile to caress your spinal cord and have you smile on the inside –
Try to visualize my allusions as a part of this confusion and fuck you up in your mind-sweep land-mine count to say I’m afraid –
There was nothing found at all in the Middle East terrain –
Cause these weapons of mass destruction are embedded in my brain –
And I strain real hard when I think, but when I spit I unhitch my jaw and unleash acid-fire rain and watch it stain the domain that I reign over and maintain verbally –
Proclaim to transfer my wrath hard-knock school style –
Deep into the minds of hard-head fools while I spew forth meteors, hot golden-blue -
Pile sharp rocks on the masses so my point gets through –
Dusted every Friday like Smokey in a chicken coop -
Wild child, illegitimate, neglected by the two cloudy vials next to him -
One cocaine and one mescaline –
Put me on for two trials, I’ll double jeopardize the crowd -
And have them stagger out the court clutching onto their chest again –
While the fingers of my bold words stranglehold their necks and then -
Shock em’ back to life, like tequila spiked rum –
Snaps you out of your hypnotic, catatonic slumber, but nasty to the touch when that shit hits your gums –

So inject my main point into your arm and loosen up the tourniquet –
As the madman breaks loose and has you overdose on this rhyming couplet ~

Embrace the Grey Area

Hurry to the South-
The warmth’ll keep you safe from the cold, bitter reality-
Subjected to forced opinions lacking hospitality-
Keep your mind set straight, your opinion is your soul-
There’s a lot of gray area from the North to the South pole-
Sacrifice your thought and you lose recognition-
Blurry faced and you don’t know whose life you livin’-
What you were given is gone-
A shingle in the storm-
Like sand through your fingers while the dune’s at your feet-
Crimson death marks stain the concrete-
Birthmarks obsolete-
Mutilated wisdom-
All around anarchism-
When all you wanna do is spark a little izm-
Lights out, champion-style, welcome to prison-

Come inside, choose sides to your fate that’s the beginning of the end-
Again-
Comprehend-
Free will can’t compensate-
Reasonable doubt may force you to debate-
Negotiate-
As you lose the race, drop to your knees-
While the war breaks through, blue in the face, I thought you knew that there is no gray area-

They implicitly hate what I explicitly can’t state-
Comprehension being key, bridge turbulence over the sea-
Chaos among the masses,
Land-locked, minds blocked to the truth they can’t smell-
Lock the gates,
Welcome to hell-
You’ve reached South~

Evolution to an Empty Chamber

I was drafted a sacrificial lamb to a god that didn’t exist-    
And if he did exist, no one knew his name-
I stood there, frozen, in front of a man who drafted me with an empty chamber-
I was one among many insignificant lambs,
To be sacrificed without purpose or plan,
Waiting for the F bus in front of Au Bon Pain, by a man who held an empty chamber-
Why was I shook-
Pissed off at the god that didn’t look my way-
Fear pouring off my face-
Saturating by backbone-
Causing my posture to droop, dripping onto my overdue library books, by a man who carried an empty chamber-

It was the look in his eyes that spoke…

Welcome everybody to the world of A.K.’s-
Bazookas paved the way-
M-16’s running rampid-
Wreaking havoc where they haven’t-
Static breeds click-clacking-
Slap a clip in for the active militant who hasn’t planned out repercussions for any of his actions-
Delusioned to blast sons and daughters in the backend of the café-
Insistent only this mass sacrificial act can grant him his long overdue right of passage-
Might as well leave these strategic warfare tactics in the hands of itchy trigger finger crack-addicts-
Freshly set free from a nine-week detoxification rehab and strapped with semi-automatic shotguns –
Saw it off–
It ain’t about living –
It’s not being soft- 

Evolution is the name of the game-
From the reign of the tech, Beatnuts, Beatniks had it right from the jump-
To the way of the gun-
Shogun samurai swords slashed through the flesh-
Hold the hilt of the metal right stab in the chest-
But cuttin’ won’t cut it kid, we gotta make it quick-
Now skins explode with deafening sickness-
Bless me lord, word to death, cause that’s all I have left-
And the faster I crash, I burn that much less-

So the fact of the matter was he toted a loaded gat-
Strapped with C-4, head to toe, front to back-
And 3 high-powered grenades clipped to his hip that detonated on impact–
But the reason he had me shook was because he had an empty chamber~

Memoirs of a Gambler

I won the lottery last week-
Yeah, I’m a millionaire-
Tell you the truth, I don’t even know what I’m doing here right now-
I should be out planning on where to get that new TL with total suede package with sub-woofer and custom designed glass rims-
Or the Denon 5000 turntables with personalized custom mats-
Or a big ass Victorian in Georgia for my parents-
But I can’t-
Because I didn’t actually win the lotto-
But I almost did-
Not almost as in I lost my winning ticket or didn’t play the winning numbers-
But almost as in-
Okay, well maybe I should say I really felt that I won-
I mean it wasn’t just wishful thinking that everyone feels when they buy a lotto ticket, but I really felt it, deep in my bones-
Like this ticket was meant for me-
Cause my hope superceded everyone else’s hope by a landslide-
My hope wasn’t hope, my hope was the truth-
Reality-
It was like Charlie, who knew deep inside that his chocolate bar held the Golden Ticket because he wanted it and he deserved it-
Yeah, yeah, I know-
Everyone wants it and everyone deserves it and my chance is just like everyone else’s-
One in 2 billion, 635 million, 537 thousand, 7 hundred and one (I didn’t make that number up, it’s right here)-
But that one was for me, solely me, with desperate finality-
Like trooping through Death Mountain when Link got the Lion Key-
Like the perfect diamond hidden through the ages by the Illuminati-
Like leaping off Kilimanjaro into the Dead Sea-
Hoping to scavenge Sea Scrolls deep within the reefs and swimming 10 miles to the surface just in time to breathe-
I need it-
It was for me-
It had to be-
The first number was the license plate of that car on 287 in front of me that stopped short, rearranged-
The second was the last two digits of the serial number of the car-jacker down the street, so it had to be played-
The third was how often that day my little old auntie prayed-
The fourth was how many times lazy I was portrayed-
The fifth, simple, my mom’s birthday-
And the powerball-
The sixth-
Is the five fucking digits I cannot part with-
That I wrote this page with-
That I grope hair crazed with-
Misanthrope phased with-
Slit her throat or stay gripped-
My sanity consistently slips quick as I daydream and nightmare to try and get clean or remain in a constant need of repair-
My 88 Cutless didn’t care, why should I?
Saying there’s a thin line between love and hate is kind of like a line between wishful thinking and a delusional state of mind-
You’ll find it in the DSM IV Manual classified under perpetual-loser-itis-
A sub-affliction of skews-the-truth-and-loses-focus-
A bona-fide psychological diagnosis-
These aren’t memoirs, they’re actually repressed memories I forget every morning when I wake-
So it’s hard to say how many check-raises I faked-
Or how many sorry-ass loser horses I staked so far-
Or how many transactions firepay-dot-com had to make before my bank account called me up and said, ‘Hey Dave, I can’t take being raped like this anymore!’-
Or how close I came to having my cake, of which I can’t imagine the taste, cause I never ate it-
And probably never will,
At this rate~

Rapid Eye Movement

I wake up paranoid, at a quarter to 2-
Completely void of the pacification a night of sleep gives you-
Quickly size up my room just in case there's a maniac strapped with a Ginsu-
Flip my K-Swiss over, shake it, there could be a scorpion in my shoe-
Tip-toe to the bathroom-
Cause I don't wanna wake up the skeleton under my bed, the monster in my closet, or the demon in my mind-
Take a fast ass shower with the curtain open-
I ain't no fool-
I've seen psycho nine times-
Never wash my face, so I don't have to close my eyes-
I think it's wise just in case Freddy, Jason, or Michael try top catch me by surprise-
Don't wash my hair, so my vision's not impaired-
And I'm alert, ready, and aware of the people under the stairs-
Don't care much to clean, anything below my knees-
For fear I may topple over, crack my head on the tub, and bleed-
Cause all the time, I got the feeling that, "Somebody's watching me"-
My computer's still in the box, cause I think there's a ghost in the machine-
My TV is never plugged in, you saw how that little girl got sucked into the screen-
I wash my hands every five minutes, in case I touched something subconsciously-
I buy the paper every day, but never read-
Cause Uncle Sam controls everything and his only goal is to brainwash and mislead-
So I believe nothing I hear, and only half of what I see-
Leave an hour-and-half early, no matter where I need to be-
Irrespective of my destination's proximity-
Drive fast as hell, not one mile under 80-
Cause I ain't about to slow down or stop and get car-jacked because the guy in front of me can't switch his Mitsubishi from gear 2 to gear 3-
So even when the light's red, I convince myself that it's green-
I'm scared to death of VD's and unwanted pregnancies-
So I always triple-bag my piece-
Have the girl pop enough pills till she covers next week-
And make sure I come undone-
And skeet unseen-
I pack up my shit and leave town when it's close to Halloween-
Cause I don't wanna deal with trick-or-treats, toilet paper in trees, or rotten eggs crusting up my window screen-
I don't wanna be near these crazy-ass kids wreaking havoc on my street-
Or end up like Bushwick Bill with my hands all bloody from punching on the concrete-
I just wanna hide out in my bunker I built in case there's a nuclear war-
Lock all 30 deadbolts that I got on my door-
Nail it shut with 6 inch thick wooden boards-
Tilt a chair under the door-knob in case that shit don't hold-
Sit in the corner with a blanket over my head because there ain't nowhere else I can go-
Ensure myself that I can endure another day because I've done it before-
That my roof will hold if it hails, sleets, snows, or pours-
That the temperature will remain constant at the earth's core-
And not cause plates to shift and tremors to rip apart my bunker floor-
And I swore I wouldn't think about that whore I scored four days before-
The one with 1 tooth, dirty cooch, and mouth covered with open cold sores-
But when the sun goes down, sweat seeps out my pores, and my heart starts racing, that shit's impossible to ignore-
So I put my head on the pillow, and try to get some sleep-
Real hesitantly-
Beg the lord for mental peace-
Just in case today repeats-
And traps my paranoid ass in my dreams~

Southern Comfort

Southern Comfort-
Porches, patios, backyard barbecues-
Green sticklebush flowers in the sun-
Golden thorns-
Uncut, unshaven-
Morning beer-
Morning cigarette-
Unpaved road-
Dusty feet, dusty sandals, dusty footprints on the moon-
Tubelight-
Twilight-
Mosquitoes in the dark-
Crickets-
Chirp-
Peace-
Quiet-
Cyanide in my heart-
Evening-
Gorgeous-
Rum and coke and dancing cigarettes-
Poison ivy, fireflies, awkward figure eights-
Empty walks-
Creaking fans-
Ceiling drips humidity-
Bare feet, sticky skins, stained wife beaters-
Ankles disconnected-
Toes escaping shawls~

The Other Side

The drum gets dumb-dumbs bobbin’ heads till their neck snaps-
They should be open like 7-11 in a round of craps-
With the button on or off, it don’t matter,
The pitter-patter of the bass has their frame of mind shattered-
Succumb to the baseline-
Imbibe all your wine-
Make sure your bling shines-
Walk the superficial line-
Decapitate your will to survive-
Travel to hell, not to heaven-
Remember, this is the end of the beginning-
They really need to feel you-
Open up your chest until it’s see-through-
Hug the thoughts that fly around so they can seep through-
And super-saturate your blood-
The gift of gab gets you out of tight situations-
Like a governor’s call during incarceration-
Fuck rehabitating slums and coagulative thugs with degenerative hugs before it costs way too much-
To-
Tab that shit on my see-through AMEX blue-
I’ve milked it to the max and my payment’s way overdue-
And my payback word has consistently been used and abused-
So my only resort left that I had to conclude-
Was to duck-tape your mouth no matter what you say or do-
I’m seeing rouge and gotta break on through-
To the other side-
Hit the bunker, 6 feet under, go run and hide-
You best to leave me and spare yourself the trouble-
Cause shit’s getting thick like morning after chin stubble-
Escape your land, with your life, while you can-
Cause the Maker’s Mark whiskey is thinning out my blood sitting in my left and right hand-
Now I’m not a self-proclaimed prophet cause he would tell you to do what you feel-
I’m cursed with the love of telling you to avoid the pain because I’m real-
And helpless-
Lord I’m helpless, yet I do what I can-
Push a $1.20 to $4.20 and roam the land till the man upstairs puts a noose around my neck and tells me to kick the can-
And so I kicked it-
And to my left there was Illicit-
Head tilted, laid-back-cat-style, you had to witness-
When he spit shit-
He shone brighter than the bling wrapped around both his wrists did-
Then the moon went down and the Dark Sun rose-
Spittin’ rhymes so fast he spawned a Twista of his own-
Then Drunken Monk swung out from behind a tree trunk and made you think of the shit you wish you would have already thunk-
The originator, none greater, Drew the pour-man-
Flung his cameo into the midst of the cipher and pour-man-
Not only served up anything from whiskey to Coors-
But he spilt the golden foundation upon which we all stand-
Poetic Assassin lay in the cut, it was hard to find him-
Sniper-style in a tree, just steady writing-
Shawn Love spotted him in the nick of ridiculous time and started climbing up the tree swinging from vine to vine and-
After he scooped him up and brought him down below-
All you saw was a streak of his jet-white flow-
Whitey started lying about how he loves his job-
I said kick back kid, grab another drink-
Ain’t no kitchen, table, or sink in sight-
There ain’t one dish your gonna have to order, serve, return, spit in, or wash-
Then the Night fell Silent and I don’t know who was responsible for the elimination of havoc that slowly led to silence-
Was it Iris scritch-scratching 2 crates of vinyls till carpel tunnel took over and got his wrists wrapped in iron-
Maybe that’s why he ain’t here tonight, don’t hold him liable-
I think its time, we all climb, up to the next level-
Yo C-5, show em’ how you can equalize the treble~