The Dead Emcee Scrolls (14 page)

In 1972

My mother was rushed

From a James Brown concert

In order to give birth to me

My style is black whole

Most niggas simply sound like earth to me

If hip-hop were the moon

I'd be the first to bleed

Cyclical sacraments of self

For all my peers to read

I recite the hues of night

With spots of light

For you to read by

Have you floating

On cloud nine

Without realizing

It's mind's sky

And the ground

On which you walk

Is the tongue

With which I talk

I speak the seeds

That root the trees

Of suburbia New York

City streets

Could never claim me

That's why I never sound like you

All these niggas

Claim the streets

As if paths through the woods

Ain't true

You better walk your path

You better do your math

'Cause your screw face

Will only make the Buddha laugh

Even if you know your lessons

You don't know the half

But don't take it from me

Son, take a bath

I was walking down Fifth Avenue today when Russell Simmons came out of a building and crossed right in front of me.

Is that the same as a black cat?

They are preparing

To introduce me

To their god

I will simply ask him

Whether he'd like to join

Our entourage

“Show him to his room!”

Let him rest

For we rise early

And no god

Is gold enough

To tempt the darkness

From these mines

The universe gives us every opportunity, lays the perfect path of obstacles, that through overcoming them we will have achieved the perfect balance and thus achieve the ultimate alchemical mixture of the God composite.

Dear God,

I wasn't breast-fed and most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music. I'm no musician, but the pain has been instrumental. My senses: finely tuned instruments of being lonely, of being loved, of being hue man. I'm no musician, but my life seems to be orchestrated by the likes of women.

Leading a new lover

To the dance floor

Is like taking your intended

To meet your parents

You hope everything works out

That there is no miscommunication

Cancel the apocalypse!

Cartons of the Milky Way with pictures of a missing planet last seen in pursuit of an American dream. This fool actually thinks he could drive his Hummer on the moon, blasting DMX off the soundtrack of a
South Park
cartoon. Niggas used to buy their families out of slavery. Now we buy chains and links, smokes and drinks. And they're paying me to record this. Even more if you hear it. Somebody tell me what I should do with the money? Yes, dread, tell me what you think I should do with the money. Exactly how much is it gonna cost to free Mumia? What's he gonna do with his freedom? Talk on the radio? Radio programming is just that, a brain washed and cleaned of purpose. To be honest, some freedom of speech makes me nervous. And you, looking for another martyr in the form of a man, hair like a mane, with an outstretched hand … in a world of harsh thoughts, reactionary defensiveness and counter-intelligence, what exactly is innocence? Fuck it. I do believe in police brutality. Who do I make checks payable to? How about I pay you in prayers.

A young child stares at a glowing screen, transfixed by tales of violence. His teenage father tells him that that's life, not that Barney shit. A purple dinosaur who speaks of love. A black man who speaks of blood. Which one is keeping it real, son? Who manufactured your steel, son? Hardcore, based on elements
at the earth's core. Fuck it, I'm gonna keep speaking ‘til my throat's sore.

An emcee tells a crowd of hundreds to keep their hands in the air. An armed robber steps into a bank and tells everyone to put their hands in the air. A Christian minister gives a benediction while the congregation holds their hands in the air. I love the image of the happy Buddha with his hands in the air. Hands up if you're confused. Define tomorrow. Your belief system ain't louder than my car system. This nigga walks down my block with a rottweiler, a sub-woofer, on a leash. Each one teach one. A DJ spins a new philosophy into a barren mind. I can't front on it. My head's as if to clean the last image from an Etch A Sketch. Somethin' like Rakim said. I could quote any emcee, but why should I? How would it benefit me? Karmic repercussions. Are your tales of reality worth their sonic-based discussions?

Suddenly the ground shivers and quakes. A newborn startles and wakes. Her mother rushes to her bedside and holds her to her breast. Milk of sustenance heals and nourishes. From the depths of creation, life still flourishes. Yet, we focus on death and destruction, violence and corruption. My people, let Pharaoh go!

What have you bought into? How much will it cost to buy you out? How much will it cost to buy you out of the mentality that originally bought you, a dime a dozen? Y'all niggas are a dime a dozen.

Puffy's in the boardroom.

I'm in my room, bored.

Your success made me doubt myself

And the whirling ways of this world.

Man, this love of hip-hop is like investing in a marital relationship, way past its prime, simply for the sake of the children, not realizing that we are actually fucking up their entire conception of relationships. They will be forced to work it out for the rest of their lives, falling in and out of love.

I've outgrown you.

I enjoy my memories of you much more than I enjoy our present moments. You allowed yourself to be defined by something less than yourself. But then, I never really stopped loving you. In fact, I love you more and began to love you through your manifestations in others: a breakbeat in a Led Zeppelin song; braggadocio in a Guns n' Roses song; a breakbeat sped up to twice its speed in a drum and bass song. In my estimation, Portishead is hip-hop. Tricky is hip-hop. Björk is hip-hop. And they are hip-hop in ways that you have failed to be. Perhaps, they are hip-hop's illegitimate children.

If hip-hop is a parent, it is negligent, not nurturing, and hardly responsible. But I can blame no one but myself. I expected too much of you without making my own contribution. I quit rhyming at the age of seventeen. Maybe my quitting on hip-hop led to hip-hop quitting on me.

Regardless, y'all have succeeded in making my earliest inspiration hardly an art form, hardly the voice of the youth anymore. You guys are boring, predictable. And maybe that's why I'm working with Rick Rubin now. This is part of his karma.