The Dead Emcee Scrolls Read online

  The wind plays the world like an instrument.

  Blows through trees like flutes. But trees won’t

  grow in cement. And as heart beats bring

  percussion fallen trees bring repercussions.

  Cities play upon our souls like broken drums.

  We drum the essence of creation from city

  slums. But city slums mute our drums and

  our drums become humdrum ’cause city slums

  have never been where our drums were from.

  Just the place where our daughters and sons

  become offbeat heartbeats.

  Slaves to city streets. Where hearts get broken

  when heartbeats stop. Broken heartbeats become

  break-beats for NGHs to rhyme on top.

  CHAPTER 24

  I’m falling up flights of stairs. Scraping

  myself from the sidewalk. Jumping from

  rivers to bridges. Drowning in pure air.

  Hip-hop is lying on the side of the road

  half dead to itself. Blood scrawled over its

  mangled flesh like jazz. Stuffed into an over-

  sized record bag.

  Tuba lips swollen beyond recognition. Diamond

  studded teeth strewn like rice at karma’s wedding.

  The ring bearer bore bad news. Minister of

  Information wrote the wrong proclamation. Now

  everyone’s singing the wrong song.

  Dissonant chords find necks like nooses. That

  NGH kicked the chair from under my feet.

  Harlem Shaking from a rope, but still on beat.

  Damn that loop is tight! NGH found a way to

  sample the way, the truth, the light. Can’t wait to

  play myself at the party tonight. NGHs are gonna

  die!

  Cop car swerves to the side of the road. Hip-hop

  takes its last breath. The cop scrawls vernacular

  manslaughter onto his yellow pad, then balls the

  paper into his hands, deciding he’d rather freestyle.

  You have the right to remain silent. You have the

  right to remain silent. You have the right to remain

  silent. And maybe you should have before your

  bullshit manifested.

  CHAPTER 25

  Begin. Demystify the mummy within. If you

  ain’t hotep then ho step, I’ll step to your friend.

  Parable of the wind. Blew black through to the

  end. Endless nights, kicks and fights against time

  and her friends.

  Slowly day and night blend. Twilight takes form

  and then open sky sprouts an eye: solo, singular,

  sin. Downward glance, upward grin. Half the

  women are men. Children born of the morn grow

  until daylight’s end.

  Sunset sets on the wind. Blue-black blows once

  again. Ever since ever after henceforth happy ending.

  Children born of the wind take the night as their

  friend. Starlit sky, many-eyed wonder of the within.

  Fear: original sin. Death: nowhere near the end. Once

  upon break o’dawn’s early Lyte: Paper Thin.

  CHAPTER 26

  When you say you love me a series of changes

  begin to occur. First there is a warmth. The warmth

  generates heat. The heat permeates the cold. The ice

  melts. Limbs and branches are thawed. Blood

  circulates. A feeling of comfort pervades.

  The body is oxygenated. It becomes limber. It yearns

  to dance, to move about freely and express its newfound

  energy. Music is sought through voice or ear. The heart

  identifies the rhythm of the song and synchronizes its

  pace. A union is formed between the visible and the

  invisible.

  Song is the invitation from the primordial unseen to

  become one with that which is seen. To nod your head

  is to agree that the moment is godly: communion. To

  dance is to become God. There are many ways of dancing.

  Follow your heart.

  CHAPTER 27

  A circle forms. I enter. Footsteps from side to

  side. I am forming figure eights with my feet.

  Footwork, centuries old, reconfigured for the

  present. NGH WHT: the expression on my face,

  the name of the faceless. One hand on the ground,

  then the other. Baby swipes. Legwork. Knee spin.

  I’m nice with this shit. Hand spin into windmill

  into head spin: Revolution. Here and now, NGH.

  Who’s next?

  CHAPTER 28

  In a past life I was a wood-carver’s knife. The

  sharpened blade of a woodcutter. The eldest

  son of the chief’s brother. A maker of drums.

  We scraped the insides of goat hides to find

  the hollows where sound resides. Offering

  the parts we did not use. To invoke the muse.

  Music of the ghettos, the cosmos, the negroes,

  the necros: overcomers of death; disciples of

  breath. Dissection of drumbeats like Osiris

  by Seth.

  Breakbeats into fourteen pieces. Dissembled

  chaos. Organized noise. A patchwork of

  heartbeats to resurrect true b-boys. Be men.

  Let’s mend the broken heart of Isis. Age of

  Aquarius. Mother Nature is furious. While

  you rhyme about being hardcore, be heart-

  core. What is it that we do art for?

  Metaphor. Meta-sin. It’s an age of healing.

  Why not rhyme about what you’re feeling?

  Or not be felt. Deal with the cards you’re

  dealt.

  Calling all tarot readers and sparrow feeders

  to cancel the apocalypse. Metaphorically

  speaking.

  CHAPTER 29

  The corner coroner. I smoke for weeks. Dead Pan,

  like dead man, through chimney peaks. I streak the

  skyline. I blew through bird. High notes. I space

  float. I’m lost for words.

  The storefront preacher. The Sunday best. The

  dangling cross between legs, on chest. The country

  farmer. The hoedown champ. The rhythmic armor.

  The cosmic dance.

  The buck and gully. The native son. Bigger and Deffer.

  The freshest one. The sewed-in creases. The flavored

  twills. The confidence snorted through dollar bills.

  The “Fuck I care for?” The boldfaced lie. The been

  there and done that. The do or die. The dirty dirty.

  The filthy clean. Thugged out and nerdy. No in

  between. The blackest berry. The sweetest juice.

  That complex NGH born of simple truth.

  The solar/polar. The chosen side. The black face

  mammy of the bluest eye. The battered woman.

  The dream deferred. Now caught up and paid in

  full, that’s my word.

  The jungle brother. The sly and stone. Rock hard,

  NGH. Give a dog a bone. The marrow’s morrow.

  The newest breed. The headline merger between

  word and deed.

  The search for balance. The quest for peace. A

  tribe called NGH. NGH WHT, the chief. The

  distant lover. The close-up clown. The iced-out

  grill with the screw-face frown.

  A wealth of violence. A violent wealth. You caught

  up, NGH, better watch your health, the beat is dope

  though. The junkie nod. The use of breakbeats to

  beat the odds.

  The odds are even. I paper rocks. Rocks smash

  scissors. NGHs trigger Glocks. The blackened

  target. The dick-long chain. NGHs kill NGHS />
  in Jesus’ name.

  CHAPTER 30

  God and pussy. Objects of desire and ill repute.

  Some’d rather seek up high, than dig and grind

  that inner truth. The angel of my eye a bit too fly

  to substitute with any other form than the messiah’s.

  Black Maria, mother ship, grandmother moon

  and sea. The wave and form of beauty born

  of Eden’s apple tree. And every single atom

  stands erect and prays to be the follower she

  offers sweet communion.

  Holy union. Let me see you wind it, just like

  that. Move your hips from side to side. Come

  forward, push it back. Let me know firsthand

  the land of glory that I lack. I surrender all to

  you if you’ll surrender back.

  Holy crap. Where’d you learn to squeeze it

  tight and then move it slow enough for me

  to question everything? You slowly start to

  tremble. Heaven’s walls begin to sing.

  Tsunami ever after. Cosmic slop on everything.

  CHAPTER 31

  Shower me with blessings. No second-guessing.

  ’Cause God, herself, is sitting on the edge of my

  bed, slowly undressing. A night symbolic as the

  resurrection. I’m about to slide up in the kingdom

  of God with no protection.

  And I can guarantee a second coming. ‘Cause I

  already hear the drummer boy barumpumpum

  pumming. A host of angels look at me through

  your eyes. My first communion with my hands

  on your thighs. You’re catching the spirit, the Holy

  Ghost and the fire. Yo, this is wild.

  I’m every Jay-Z album played in reverse. I’m

  risen from blunt ash and stashed in a purse.

  I’m smuggled over borders, contraband, ‘though

  I rock. I paper. I scissor. Nah, NGH, no Glock.

  CHAPTER 32

  I’m the aftermath of five percent you figure

  aftermath. One hundred twenty lessons cover

  one-third of my path. Two totes of what I spoke

  contents hit and system crash. The greenery of

  scenery, but essence dark as hash.

  Pay me cash. Simply ’cause what money means

  to you. Your currency has currently devalued

  what is true. When freedom rings through costly

  bling, it’s overdrawn, past due. The bankroll of

  an empty soul kept vaulted. Code and clues:

  NGH WHT, I represent the truth you claim to be.

  The hero of the eastern sky, the storm’s eye, westerly.

  Rough, rugged, raw, eternal law recited over beats.

  Some poetry to oversee the dance floor and the streets.

  CHAPTER 33

  Feel the beat. Understand the rhythm that you seek.

  Let it be your guiding force you speak from when

  you speak. Hold your tongue just long enough to

  find your path, unique. Then spit the seeds the forest

  needs to garner what we reap.

  It ain’t deep. As simple as a breakbeat and some

  rhymes. Type of shit to nod your head while

  chillin with your dime. But hold her tight, ‘cause

  she just might read deep between the lines and start

  to think the words that she now reads are simply mine.

  Give them voice. Spit them over beats. Repeat. Rejoice.

  An anthem you can put in your own words or chant.

  Your choice. May heaven smile upon your earthly reign

  b-girls and boys, as it has upon mine: fancy pens on paper,

  poised.

  It’s divine. Every page a different sort of kiss. No, not

  for everyone. This pen is clenched in a black fist. And if

  that ain’t your cup of tea, perhaps, a glass of piss. So hold

  your nose and drink it down. Just think of it as Crys-.

  But if it is, if you don’t mind the source from whence

  I speak, and recognize you can’t disguise the source of

  every beat, then nod your head, girl, wind that waist,

  bend over, touch your feet. And go ahead and pop that

  thang. Yes, yes, cipher complete.

  AMETHYST ROCKS

  CHAPTER 1

  I stand on the corner of the block slinging

  amethyst rocks. Drinkin 40’s of mother

  earth’s private nectar stock. Dodgin cops.

  ’Cause Five-O be the 666 and I need a fix

  of that purple rain. The type of shit that

  drives membranes insane. Oh yeah, I’m in

  the fast lane. Snorting candy yams. That free

  my body and soul and send me like Shazaam!

  Never question who I am. God knows.

  And I know God, personally. In fact, he

  lets me call him me. I be one with rain

  and stars and things, with dancing feet

  and watermelon wings. I bring the

  sunshine and the moon. And wind blows

  my tune.

  CHAPTER 2

  Meanwhile I spoon powdered drumbeats

  into plastic, bags. Sellin kilos of kente scag

  Takin drags off of collards and cornbread

  Free-basin through saxophones and flutes

  like mad. The high notes make me space

  float. I be exhalin in rings that circle Saturn.

  Leavin stains in my veins in astrological patterns.

  Yeah, I’m Sirius B. Dogon NGHs plotted

  shit, lovely. But the feds are also plotting

  me. They’re trying to imprison my astrology.

  Put my stars behind bars. My stars in stripes.

  Using blood-splattered banners as nationalist

  kites. But I control the wind. That’s why they

  call it the hawk.

  CHAPTER 3

  I am Horus. Son of Isis. Son of Osiris.

  Worshipped as Jesus. Resurrected like

  Lazarus. But you can call me Lazzie. Lazy.

  Yeah, I’m lazy ’cause I’d rather sit and build

  than work and plow a field of cash green crops.

  Your evolution stopped with the evolution

  of your technology. A society of automatic

  tellers and money machines. NGH WHT?

  My culture is lima beans. Dreams manifest.

  Dreams real. Not consistent with rational.

  I dance for no reason. For reason you

  can’t dance. Caught in the inactiveness

  of intellectualized circumstance. You

  can’t learn my steps until you unlearn

  your thoughts. Spirit/soul can’t be store

  bought. Fuck thought. It leads to naught.

  Simply stated, it leads to you trying to

  figure me out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Your intellect is disfiguring your soul.

  Your being’s not whole. Check your flagpole:

  stars and stripes. Your astrology’s imprisoned

  by your concept of white, of self. What’s your

  plan for spiritual health? Calling reality unreal.

  Your line of thought is tangled.

  The star-spangled got your soul mangled.

  Your being’s angled, forbidding you to be real

  and feel. You can’t find truth with an ax or a

  drill, in a white house on a hill, or in factories

  or plants made of steel.

  CHAPTER 5

  Stealing me was the smartest thing you ever

  did. Too bad you don’t teach the truth to your

  kids. My influence on you is the reflection you

  see when you look into your minstrel mirror

  and talk about your culture.

  Your existence is that of a schizophrenic vultur
e

  who thinks he has enough life in him to prey on

  the dead, not knowing that the dead ain’t dead and

  that he ain’t got enough spirituality to know how

  to pray. Yeah, there’s no repentance. You’re bound

  to live an infinite, consecutive, executive life sentence.

  So while you’re busy serving time, I’ll be in synch

  with the moon, while you run from the sun. Life of

  the womb reflected by guns. Worshipper of moons,

  I am the sun. And I am public enemy number one.

  One. One. One. One. One. One. That’s seven. And

  I’ll be out on the block. Hustlin culture. Slingin

  amethyst rocks.

  UNTIMELY MEDITATIONS

  CHAPTER 1

  Time is money. Money is time.

  So, I keep seven o’clock in the

  bank and gain interest in the

  hour of God. I’m saving to buy

  my freedom. God grant me wings.

  I’m too fly not to fly. Eye sore

  to look at humans without wings.

  So, I soar. And find tickle in the

  feather of my wings. Flying

  hysterically over land. Numerically,

  I am seven mountains higher than

  the valley of death, seven dimensions

  deeper than dimensions of breath.

  CHAPTER 2

  The fiery sun of my passions

  evaporates the love lakes of my

  soul, clouds my thoughts and

  rains you into existence. As I take

  flights on bolts of lightning.

  Claiming chaos as my concubine

  and you as my me. I of the storm.

  You of the sea. We of the moon.

  Land of the free. What have I done

  to deserve this? Am I happy?

  CHAPTER 3

  Happiness is a mediocre standard