The Dead Emcee Scrolls (7 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 vulture

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.

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.

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?

Happiness is a mediocre standard

for a middle-class existence. I see

through smiles and smell truth in

the distance. Beyond one dimensional

smiles and laughter lies the hereafter.

Where tears echo laughter.

You'd have to do math to divide a

smile by a tear, times fear, equals

mere truth, that simply dwells in the

air. But if that's the case all I have

to do is breath and all else will follow.

That's why drums are hollow.

And I like drums. Drums are good.

But I can't think straight. I lack the

attention span to meditate. My attention

spans galaxies. Here and now are immense.

Seconds are secular. Moments are mine.

Self is illusion. Music's divine.

Noosed by the strings of Jimi's guitar,

I swing, purple-hazed pendulum. Hypnotizing

the part of eye that never dies. Look into my:

eyes are the windows of the soul is fried chicken,

collards, and cornbread is corn meal, sour cream,

eggs, and oil is the stolen blood of the earth, used

to make cars run and kill the fish.

Who me? I play scales. The scales of

dead fish of oil-slicked seas. My sister

blows wind through the hollows of fallen

trees. And we are the echoes of eternity.

Maybe you've heard of us.

We do rebirths, revolts, and resurrections.

We threw basement parties in pyramids.

I left my tag on the wall. The beats would

echo off the stone and solidify into the

form of lightbulbs, destined to light up

the heads of future generations. They

recently lit up in the form of: BA BOOM

BOOM OM. Maybe you've heard of us.

If not then you must be trying to hear us

and in such cases we cannot be heard. We

remain in the darkness, unseen. In the center

of unpeeled bananas, we exist. Uncolored by

perception. Clothed to the naked eye. Five

senses cannot sense the fact of our existence.

And that's the only fact. In fact, there are no

facts.

Fax me a fact and I'll telegram a hologram

or telephone the son of man and tell him he

is done. Leave a message on his answering

machine telling him there are none. God and

I are one. Times moon. Times star. Times sun.

The factor is me. You remember me.

I slung amethyst rocks on Saturn blocks

until I got caught up by earthling cops. They

wanted me for their army or whatever. Picture

me: I swirl like the wind. Tempting tomorrow

to be today. Tiptoeing the fine line between

everything and everything else. I am simply

Saturn swirling sevens through sooth. The sole

living heir of air. And I (inhale) and (exhale) and

all else follows. Reverberating the space inside of

drum hollows. Packaged in bottles and shipped to

tomorrow, then sold to the highest NGH.

I swing from the tallest tree. Lynched by

the lowest branches of me. Praying that

my physical will set me free 'cause I'm

afraid that all else is vanity. Mere language

is profanity. I'd rather hum. Or have my

soul tattooed to my tongue. And let the

scriptures be sung in gibberish. 'Cause

words be simple fish in my soulquarium.

And intellect can't swim.