The Dead Emcee Scrolls Read online

  of broomsticks. Over the floor. Marital law.

  The jump off movement. Movement: rhythm

  and blues. Hip sways, acoustic. Wind of the

  waist not want not case. Sign of improvement.

  Movement: grind to unwind. The muse of

  music. Even tonight, she moves despite how

  dark her blues get.

  Noose swings like a pendulum. Whip/crack

  a/cross back, again. Simon bids his help and

  then … DJs two worlds blend.

  CHAPTER 9

  Feel the music. Son, we got you programmed

  like a beat. When I press snare, Yo, guard your

  grill. Press kick, you move your feet. You can’t

  compete. Got my hydrants parked on every

  street. I’m federal, NGH. Son of Sun. Come

  close and feel the heat.

  I am the streets. The white lines only separate

  me from me. You hydroplane in false god’s

  name and still crash into me. Sign and tree,

  mountainside, guardrail into the sea. They

  thought they stole you from my arms then

  carried you to me.

  Here’s the key. DNA encoded in a beat.

  White rocks in a vial, NGH, ain’t got nuthin

  on me. BCH, I’m free. Ask these editors at

  MTV. Far as they know they’re publishing

  some new school poetry. Let it be. ‘Cause

  even that will do to turn the key. Doorways

  into other worlds. The truth shall set you free.

  You are me. I am you. But also I am he.

  Shepherd of a bastard flock that grazes in

  the streets.

  Feel the beat. Nod your head. Lean back. Yo,

  touch your feet. Let me see you pop that

  thang right there, girl, in your seat. Feel the

  heat. Count this page amongst your whitest

  sheets. Comfort in my every word. Slide under.

  Countless sheep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Hail Mary, Mother of God. Got the whole

  host of angels shuffling in my iPod. NGHs

  learned to raise their voices when I lowered

  my rod. Staff of Moses. Pharaoh knows it.

  Son, my word is my bond.

  Tune my heart with my mind. Speak my nature.

  Divine. Called this shit into existence back in ’79.

  With the future in my pocket. Tightly gripped

  like a nine. Keep my finger on the trigger. Waitin

  for the right time.

  CHAPTER 11

  Ancient NGHs align! Path of cosmic design.

  Blood of kings ‘cause Saturn’s rings don’t

  need no diamonds to shine. Yes, the reason

  for the season. Ornamented, divine. Coded

  language of the mystics with my fist

  in the sky.

  Keep your head up. We represent the

  real, my NGH. Dead up. Book of the

  Dead. History bled. This NGH fed up.

  Led us to despair, some into prayer,

  and they won’t let up until they got us

  worshipping them false gods instead

  of the realness.

  God of the streets. My NGHs feel this. We

  nod our heads and worship through beats.

  Go ’head and kneel. It’s the love that makes

  the cipher complete. And it’s displayed

  through the way the bass line marries the beat.

  CHAPTER 12

  Yesh, Yesh y’all. You don’t stop. I spill

  some liquid for my NGHs on the stop

  clock. Then shake the hands of time. I

  got him for his wristwatch. I got a second

  wind and shook him, like in hopscotch.

  Jumped the turnstile, turned, smiled, gestured:

  hand crotch. Double-cross a motherfucker

  ’fore I get got.

  Caught in the crossfire. Brought

  over seas, you were caught in the

  crossfire. Down on your knees,

  you were caught in the crossfire.

  Yeshua, please help us out of the

  crossfire. The cross fire.

  Caught in the crossfire. The KKK

  had you caught in the crossfire.

  Prayed every day, you were caught

  in the crossfire. In Jesus name, you

  were caught in the crossfire. The

  cross fire.

  CHAPTER 13

  Get up and walk, NGH. You the one

  we was waitin for. Way before dem

  Latin books bastardized the sacred law.

  Made a NGH question. Mark of the beast:

  deceased. Guess what’s in-store? Wait for

  it to register. Now, empty out that register, NGH.

  And keep your hands in the sky. You the money

  and the power. Get that green out your eye.

  Oblivious. Hoodwinked back to black. These

  NGHs wearing crosses. The shirts off their

  back. Pay cash out your ass for that diamond

  crack. Smoke rock-roll away or your money back.

  Whipped and burned. NGH, you done

  carried the cross. Made Milano a fan.

  Black Madonna’s the boss. You free.

  Half the cost. Grace maze. Now you’re lost.

  Man-child in the mirror. The picture’s getting

  clearer and it’s you.

  I crossed that bridge in ’72. JB played

  the funky drummer. Now these fools playin

  you. A lie preserved in stained glass doesn’t

  make it more true. Survey says, the little

  drummer boy be drummin for you.

  CHAPTER 14

  Newborn king. Your moms: that fat lady that

  sing. His eye on the sparrow. Point blank,

  through a barrel. You bad to the bone. Cancer.

  Sir, your marrow. I ordered the monkey. We

  back to the barrel of laughs.

  These NGHs God-body tryin to be golden

  calves. Five percent on the corner of pure

  science and math. While the eighty-five divide

  their time between dead end paths. And the ten

  percent have spent their rent on wars fiery wrath.

  Dead Sirius. Waitin for damned self’s return

  to true self. True health. True school. New book

  on old shelf. I, self, lord and master. Choose one

  path. Move faster.

  CHAPTER 15

  Yeah, though I walk still talk the talk. Exorcisin

  all these demons. Black board and chalk. From the

  brightest constellation on land, New York. To the

  origin of darkness. BREAK/POP the cork.

  To all the battles fought. All the captives caught.

  Lives sold and bought. Enslaved for naught.

  ’Cause today, we ‘bout to make this freedom a

  sport. Leave your jewelry in the bleachers. Come

  take the court.

  Yo the banana peels are carefully placed. So keep

  your shell toes carefully laced. The illest NGH got

  peppered and maced. Now amplify this. Turn up

  the bass. And think about it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Picture me, lampin’ in the company car. Rims

  like Tibetan prayer wheels. NGH WHT? I’m

  a star. I cruise the block like a feather back and

  forth ‘til I land as the song in your ear or the

  book in your hand. Now the whole fuckin world

  ’bout to know who I am.

  Got your whole system up in my trunk. That ‘dog

  eat dog’ make my woofers bark: atomic crunk All

  my trill NGHs know who be bringin da funk. Lees

  and shell toes like it’s Black History Month.

  CHAPTER 17

  Son of a vortex. African r
oots. That chicken foot

  hex. Binary star NASA can’t compute. Linear

  complex. It’s simple. Bloodlines span from

  Lalībela temples straight to chitterling minstrels.

  Spin it back to the intro.

  There was one. Bore witness to the rays of the

  sun. Synthesized in her own image. Photo negative.

  Shun. The development of Parliament. The phallic

  bop gun. Thus, the mother-ship connection spawned

  the birth of the drum.

  Ancient drum begat drum. Kingdom go. Kingdom

  come. Ancient sector of the scepter risen up to the

  sun. Hidden hand of man begat patented clone of

  the drum. Boom Bap strapped into a wire, tightly

  coiled, and re-spun.

  Trigger sound. Trigger gun. Drum machine. Machine

  gun. Bodies piled. Carefully filed under beats that were

  once reprogrammed to become: unplugged concert of

  sun. Every ray with sample clearance. Every two begat one.

  Boom Bap hard as a gun. White cross-trainers, unstrung.

  Let these suckas know the cost of making Harriet run.

  Let the North Star be your guiding post when turned

  from the sun until knowledge reigns supreme over

  nearly everyone.

  CHAPTER 18

  Check it out now! Check me out now!

  I let these MTHRFKRs know what I’m

  about now. And ain’t no way no one could

  ever play me out now. Because I represent

  the present, NGH, right now!

  Check it out now! Check me out now! At the

  helm of the ship. Shipping out, now! NGH us

  angel dust and devout, now! Heaven high as

  the sky. Never come down!

  CHAPTER 19

  Attention: another dimension. Another

  complicated twist too twisted to mention.

  Another pair of NGH lips tongue-tied to

  perfection. Another frame of mind exists

  beyond comprehension.

  Attention. Fourth realm of ascension.

  The absence of tension. A corporate lynching.

  Their god is their henchman. And he ain’t

  just pinching. This NGH bites! And, according

  to pictures, this NGH white!

  WHT?! Come down SLCTR rum pumpum

  pum! Me keeps me tremor in me pocket. Come

  and get some! Again! Come down SLCTR rum

  pumpum pum! Me keeps me tremor in me pocket.

  Come and get some!

  Gimme diamond. Gimme gold. Gimme sugar.

  Gimme candy. Me wine and me handy and dat

  in me panty.

  A stoppa! Na issa supa cat manna you a na lingo.

  Tell him to come back. Tell him he a murderer. Tell

  him mamma womb a she da real carrier. Woman

  no a cry a you a no suffer. Tell him come a man

  a who a no batter. Have mercy.

  CHAPTER 20

  Let me mold a guitar of your bodily bazaar.

  Strap your tongue, chord your lungs, string

  your toes. And bows that precede the rain

  shall serpent symphonies in your name.

  Mother of countless daughters. The tricks of

  time. It is your thrust and grind that defines

  us. We are the offspring of your decapitated

  head. The bastard sons of Father Time.

  Let Saturn be reborn a girl. Let her nurture

  her children rather than eat them. Hide them

  from our forefathers and the angry ghosts

  of X-mas past. Let them be raised away from

  the phallic dangers of our times.

  Let their secrets remain secrets until we are

  ready to cherish them as our own. Nurture

  and adore them. The timeless secrets of

  creation:

  The darkness that yields light. The seed that

  bears fruit. The mother that bears the cross

  of her fathers and her fathers’ fathers who

  beat her when she bore no sons. His raised

  fist the original Boom Bap.

  Spin that record backwards. Nigger to NGH.

  Before before. John the Boom Baptist. Bring

  me his head. His dick. His eyes and teeth. His

  arms and feet. Bring me all that is mine, all that

  has been buried, scattered or lost until history

  is ours again.

  Mothers of night and windsong. Daughters of dust

  and detriment. Nameless. Fuck it. Let them remain

  nameless. It won’t stop their truth from prevailing.

  Because it is not written. Because it don’t matter

  anyway. Because there’s nothing you can do about

  it. Because there’s no excuse, no explanation.

  And that is reason enough to

  Dance. Even when your feet hurt.

  Dance like the fires of hell are upon

  you and you’re dodging every flame.

  Dance when it tastes good.

  Dance when the spirit moves you.

  Dance because you feel it and you don’t

  have to be taught how to count, how to step

  and slide, how to twirl and jump and land

  on a good foot before taking off to fly,

  NGH, dance. Dance, nigger. Paint your faces.

  Shine your shoes. Pop that collar. Shake it.

  Wind it. Kick fight scratch rip kill BREAK.

  Neck back jump back kiss BREAK.

  Uprock freeze pop lock BREAK.

  Don’t stop don’t stop snap BREAK.

  Into ferocious song and dance. Calculated

  movement. Gestures of prayer and invocation.

  Dance. Your life depends on it.

  Cakewalk. Lindy. Charleston Mashed potatoes.

  Camel walk. Hot pants. Hustle. Electric boogaloo.

  Patty Duke. Steve Martin. Pee-wee Herman.

  Prep. Wop. Rooftop. Cabbage Patch. Chicken

  head. Ragtop. Wobble. Crump. Snake. BREAK!

  CHAPTER 21

  You wish you could dance like this! You wish!

  Standin there. High postin. You wish. “And our

  American Idol is Fantasia.”

  “You know you want me, Mickey. You

  can’t afford me, though. My name is Saturn,

  Pluto. I ain’t no Disney ho.”

  Sing it, girl. Sing it. Southern trees bear

  strange WHT?! Sometimes I feel like a

  motherless WHT?! Drop beats like bombs

  in Alabama churches, Afghani libraries,

  New Jersey turnpike, the sphinx’s nose,

  crack in Compton, AIDS in Africa, small

  pox in blankets, blue-eyed Jesus, the Holy

  Ghost and all dem other covered women,

  fallen soldiers and noblemen.

  Mother turned whore turn in graves

  turn to each other and help us over-

  turn tables.

  Turntables. Nails sharp as needles.

  Vaseline on faces. Scratch scratch

  scratch scratch.

  BREAK BREAK

  Scratch scratch

  scratch scratch.

  BREAK BREAK

  Kick kick snare.

  BREAK

  Scratch kick snare.

  BREAK

  Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

  kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

  kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

  Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

  kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

  kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

  Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

  kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

  kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

  Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

  kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,
/>   kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

  Chop and screw it.

  BREAK it down beneath labyrinthine

  corridors of anguish and despair. The

  chamber the bullet travels. Chamber of

  commerce. Tunnel vision of the train

  over tracks …

  CHAPTER 22

  Not until you listen to RKM on a rocky

  mountaintop have you heard hip-hop.

  Extract the urban element that created it

  and let an open wide countryside illustrate it.

  Riding on a freight train in the freezing

  rain listening to Coltrane. My reality went

  insane and I think I saw Jesus. He was

  playing hopscotch with Betty Carter who

  was cursing out in a scat like gibberish for

  not saying butterfingers.

  And my fingers run through grains of sand

  like seeds of time. The pains of man.

  The frames of mind which built these frames

  which is the structure of our urban super-

  structure.

  The trains and planes could corrupt and

  obstruct your planes of thought so that

  you forget how to walk through the woods

  which ain’t good ’cause if you never

  walked through the trees listening to Nobody

  Beats The Biz then you ain’t never heard

  hip-hop.

  CHAPTER 23

  And you don’t stop. And you don’t stop.

  And you must stop letting cities define you.

  Confine you to that which is brick and cement.

  We are not a hard people. Our domes have

  been crowned with the likes of steeples.

  That which is our being soars with the eagles

  and the Jonathan Livingston Seagulls. Yes, I

  got wings. You got wings. All God’s children

  got wings. So let’s widen the circumference

  of our nest and escape this urban incubator.