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Mantra: Hip Hop's Not Dead

Hip Hop's not dead, it's getting sicker.
Nostradamus, hot spit on hospice,
get the big picture, the game's not hospitable.
Teachers speak riddles in school to ridicule original views
tint news in cynical hues, somber faces in penitent pews.


You can tell my mind’s bent
By the red eye tint.
“Plata o plomo”
The fine print of consignment
Moment of silence
I had not thought death had undone so many, Henchmen who hold semi’s sold their souls for a penny.
That’s myopic, cost enough for cyclops to cross the River Styx
Slam dance to Van Damme delivering kicks to the liver quick.

Justice is Blind

Holding scales justice is veiled to blind her sight,
Instead weighing bribes to decide which side is right.
Beef in Third World countries CIA incites the fight,
tie economies to the petrodollar and bind tight.
The sun never sets on the new global elites,
Central banks send in tanks to patrol in the streets.

It's amazing the difference an instance makes
when vision blurs and pistons break,
mirages of shipwrecks on distant lakes.
Earthquakes caused by shifting plates.
Life's a dream differed then whisked away

Trees of Eden

By a vast sea sway the trees of Eden, in darkness praying for the return of Prometheus.
The tree reached out to the sea breathing in its self assured melancholy and dark nightmares of Ulysses's escape.
It bore the fruit of original sin bathed in mystic water.
A quick breeze blew the leaves and the tree appeared to be waving,
Bidding farwell to the voyage of poets and sailors, rebels and saints, angels and philosophers.
Calling out into the cool dawn:

"Return soon poets of old! Return soon dark sails of Rimbaud!
May you return bearing guns and whisky.
Return with tales of strange customs and dances from the edge of the world"

The tree of Eden stood facing the horizon waiting, waiting for an adventurer hungry for knowledge to come and pluck a red smooth apple from its quivering branches.

Return to the Night

Return to the night.
To State street shivering in rain
A crescent moon hovering in the sky like a lonely streetlight.
Coffeehouses with cappuccino adrenaline, buses filled with demented fools
laughing passing out manifestos muttering innuendo.

Is NY Mecca or Babylon?
Is America the shining city on the hill or the belly of the beast?
A sleeping giant wrapped in a catacomb or a weeping lion trapped in a new Rome?
Or maybe, it's all that and more, a mirage in a sand storm, nostalgia in a second hand store
what did we transverse this land for?
As pilgrims or outlaws? Poets or tycoons?

And what of the new frontier?
What ill omens loom in the dawn of the century?
Are we free men or pawns in a penitentiary?
Do we face a precipice or a new day?

Is there joy in this? Is life purely aesthetic or is there a deeper meaning?
Why all the running around late nights, chasing buses / chasing shots, chasing love or lust?
The freeways never stop.
A nation wide artery in which the blood of America flows.
A country restless, moving, moving since Kerouac wrote on the road, since Coltrane blew his first note.