Rap # 3

-Kind of a flow in the Hip-Hop stile of the fact that I've been a lot of places and there doesn't seem to be much being said about things that need to be said. Perhaps that is just a criticism of mass media and television more than it is about people. But

Rap 3
 

My rhyme's proceed from the ground, I grab the mike for my mind to slow down. Look around, freedom blessed and bleak bends to my sound. I been though so many towns. Bin lonesome and cold when the wind blew me down. Down south with banjo strings, ice dips death north with blue rings, why am I speaking of  all of these things? We try to relate to the humanly possible, all subjects topical, we hungry from ice north to far kingdoms tropical. Grief rhymes reflect times of gunfire crimes, but I aint here to reflect on chalk lines. I've drank enough from the well of the blues, sold, smoked and drank what I didn't use. walked over souls with highway shoes, bin cold in alleys payin' my dues. You and me aint gettin' younger, when we gonna talk bout the world and it's hunger? Maybe that's why I wonder, I trace the earth with lightning and thunder. I speak revelation, meditate, ponder. Superficial, skin deep, what the hell we gonna do with all these sheep?  Who stars f**k when they on the creep.  My people- what do you take and what do you keep? Like a barbwire madman I'ma shout curse and spit, I'ma Carry a shovel to dig though the s**t. Mannequins full of paper stuffing, nobody nowhere sayin' nothing. Poker faced politicians, all the time bluffing. We got to buy our underground voice, power comes on drums from a dollar bill choice. We buy ideas sticky, shallow, and moist. Towers of power, built bottom line, don't get swayed by the lines of the times, my rhythm song, and jagged line- alternative to all a these nickels and dimes.  I'm talking life and death, quickness of breath, it's true that the devil is part of God's test, damnation, redemption two sides blessed. I've wondered deserts in the shadow of death. These symphony's of lead, who can speak for the dead?  There are hungry souls swimming in bread. I'ma stand here and say what needs to be said. Truth from a dime, check again son, flow with my rhyme. Though we can't and won't get a meeting of minds. Tribal revival is all that we find. War and it's lore till every-ones blind. But you don't have to worship all that whch shines. Truth proceeds from a source and God is the root  look twice before you shoot. What you have to defeat is the lie of the loot. My enemy is myself and I'm going to win, I wander and chew on the places I've been. I take and give love without sin. Lines around truth with bullshit borders. Murderers and soldiers just have different orders. Power trickles down from faceless holders. But claim your face, grace is grace, seize the truth and praise it's taste. I'm rambling though time and dipping though space.

 

Author's Note

Grammar problems? There might well be, probably is. Rhymey, well yeah it's a Rap.

Reviews

[Vlazuvius]

You and me aint gettin' younger

My enemy is myself and I'm going to win

I've always liked this one, because it hits that steady rythmic gait that while you call it a rap, sounds to me like the beat of hooves, and Jesus speaking to the redman in every tribal tongue. That specific flow, it's in most of your really good poems, in the same way you found Victor's attempt to get bar nookie very "Hot Taco". But I quote your poem above because it's our time. You've been to the desert, and I've been staring at the sun, but you're back in Idaho and I'm going back to the nights any time now, and we've been places, but seemingly learned nothing. I'm still trying to drum up some more original stuff for our next meeting, but I think it's high time we do as you suggested and start revising, maybe bringing revisions to the Writ. I need to do some serious work on the Taco before I go to book two (including completely changing the ending to the library hiest. I'm going to rewrite that entire chapter), and actually start thinking about paragraph formats and the rest. And I know you don't want to hear it, but if the WRW is really going to make some kind of mark on the world, you should start going over this and the other poems you feel are your best, and inflict some angry english teacher style grammar on them. Cause you're right, I look around the Cafe, and we do stand out, but we'd stand out even more on a printed page. And I'm not just talking a cheap zine page from the pouty Remix guy.

[D. L. Hutson]

very powerful. I loved it.

'Mannequins full of paper stuffing, nobody nowhere sayin' nothing. Poker faced politicians, all the time bluffing. '

so true.