Monday, April 6, 2009

Grippin' the Mic

Grippin’ the mic
And rippin’ the stage
Sippin’ on hype
But hatin’ the taste.
Starting at the back wall (or: Staring back at the wall)
And imagin’ the haze
Where is my microphone?
I’m forgettin’ the pages
Suckin’ in all the hyper-tones
Just like a microphone-phage does
Yet spittin’ up
Yet spittin' up
Yet spittin' up all these hyphied flows
And still tryin’ to amaze us
Stuck on ideals but “Oh, to be famous”
You’re glad I so unfocused or I’d be contagious
Never knew this movement could ever be contagious
Wait a few more bars and you’ll find I’m sensatious.
I see that these mind peels keep flaking off the paper
Let me keep rhyming, let me just keep rhyming
I’ll show you a savior
With coked out behavior skipping beats like a broken CD stuck on repeat
Yet still on the stage giving you savory delight
Let me write, let me rhyme
Let me wrong, and let me write
Let me write and let me rhyme
Let me lead ya through foggy nights
Get me to the light
As the spot checks me to make sure me be doing it right
Just get me to the light
Up up up and outta sight
[Something brilliant will go here.]
Because I’m graciously gleaming off the wings of an unctuous being
Though never retreating, I try as many lines in the time it takes me to grab my nine
On my hip, which doesn’t exist
While all minorities in the room shake their heads with a “tsk, tsk, tsk”
Maybe I’m over-directed, a lil’ misunderstood.
Maybe I’m over-corrected, I should just tell ‘em I ain’t from the hood.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Truth Stripped of Its Cloak of Time

It took me ten years to truly comprehend how TV twists and turns truths to fiction and fictions into realities and realities are turned into memories embedded within the sheets that keep us firmly cemented into temporal safe-havens that warmly cuddle and muzzle our fears from screaming, seeming to blur the lines between what binds and what reminds.

Though unknown to my mind, I knock the dirt out of the holes as I dig for memories in the rain. I slosh & buckle under the pressure, mistaking my own digging for a purposeful end where I shovel for the future, for the enlightenment of ages to come from unearthing the unknown. I pause. In the darkness, I see nothing but the inconsequential incontinence of a continental paradigm shift that moves, not mountains, but foam thrills. And through the darkness, with the sight left to those who have indigent sensations that float forward into a rush of air, I see my homeless feelings are tired of flittering toward a misplace metaphor that you can’t even pick up from the ground.

I dig for the memories in the dirt with nothing to pick up and loose rigor to unearth. Digging for memories at a time when I forget my own name, when I callus in my head, and when I only remember the inane.

Now back to the rain pit of despair where I dig up new earth simply to sink to the bottom and realize this new birth. Digging for memories through the rain that unwelcomingly satiates new seasons as the cause and effect of these unfurled reason, as an unattended scene ends with a framework most undoubtedly European. Digging through all the useless things that enclose a precious memory that makes me feel alive and sane, through feelings cemented in my brain, the ones that are to blame.
Truths are turned to fiction by perverting the true representations of reality. TV is but an abstraction of the reality representing it.

So I dig for the future, using the past to produce a more fruitful future. Moving earth with brute strength in order to disclose what’s buried there. Rain only complicates the matter, like emotions do, blurring the lines between what binds and what reminds. The rain seems to muddle our perceptions so that we must reason our way to what we see as our own veritable “truth”.