M.E. That was the sound that knocked him down no witnesses around. As an unlived life lay around dead on the ground. And then they came the blue and white lights. Caught up in local hype. Blamed it on a local gang. It seems the more things change the more they stay the same. So why should I even Fight when this pain got a hold on my brain in the form of fear hate and shame. I gotta maintain my thoughts before I lose my cross because everybody got one to carry. And I know its true gotta make it through before im dead and buried. We all take a loss in exchange for a gain don’t worry cause its all the same.

S185: Pistol pissed blood on a thug. Drug his body down as maggot lunch. Walked passed his husk on the way to the Barbers chair. Baby Mama shriek meets a “Hide the kids!” call and this song does what for their loss? Tattoo my face with bear traps to match this dirty pastor, niche market artist rapture harvest of fundraiser performance checks. Accept this murder/suicide wheelchair backdrop painted with faces fading faster than my thoughts on next weeks beer tasting. I can illustrate this Nigger Tragedy for outsider amusement starring little brothers confused and colluding with my art school musings. What’s introspection to an aunt’s junkie brain, moms ‘89, if it reads more like a comic strip at a distance? Should you make a corpse dance for attention in the thick of a group-think? Viewing you as the artsy exception to a wall photographed ghetto loop. Basquiat-Baldwin-Rosebud-Chuck D blender human Boheme bloodying hands for write ups fathering public-private moments when there’s enough Black Mothers crying on film to hold us for a while? Give them nigger-tinted esoteric to unwrap to match row patchworker flag waving. Painting the race amazing. Graced a storm converted Christian cakewalk of shame. Caged with the World’s Fair argument the monument’s a balcony. Swine scented alchemy. Feed a dream until it leaks out as speech. Reach a lesser man as years missing. One man’s amen is another man’s half finished sentence. Prism prison. Bag it. Manage iconoclastic devotion frozen youth in Sisyphus walk. Chalk it out. Sirius thoughts of converting the dim to the decided. Black Power In Hell.

Chorus: Fuck what, they say, you can be whatever you want. Don’t let them, tell you that you’re just a nigga.

G7: Off off in the cut with a record and a scissors. shitting on the red, black and green. Greed run the revolution bloody with a dagger dragging through the dragons Spanish cobras sagging jumping out my pocket attacking Jesse Jackson. Hang him from a noose and pull ‘em by the bandwagon. Stabbing klansmen syncing with the Neil Young Crazy horse raise a force like Slum Village raise it up. I knuckle punk a honky. Nothing angel ‘bout an Anglo. Devil’s halo hang from Satan flowing racists nation. Burning Dante in infernos where I carve the state line. James Cone is the state sign. If God is a white racist better kill him. Split his children for no shillings, but revenge for my mammy. You had she go to the back of the store. Cotton picking pussy, fucking demon stab you in the solar plexus with Pitchfork. Their reviewers don’t review me. I hew a niche in a cavern where lava falls and ensnare a Caucasian to the walls. I’m hellish with the sentence. Wrist scarred and fist charred. Sex with succubus, eat and hiss at her Swiss chard. I get hard and bone her with a boner til the seismic waves quake Purgatory Lori Dan’s a black panther for killing vanilla mixes then ending her own vanilla existence.

avery r. young: dem folk / (dey) dont roll like dey used to (junebug) / dey sunt blk power to hell / (i heard) fire brimstone & no wattah / (junebug)

I.B.: Customized as the fallen for fallen knowledge/ a mothers a good intent, When it’s clergy was forming vices/ back when, when the backs was broken for private islands/ you could read his story and plummit/ we numbin’ to sky’s/ violence employed, we rose from the ashes of a broke cracked slave with his vision recoiled/ shattered/ a little to do/ the only thing is filling he’s shoes/ riddle me this/ what u envision is you. What’s up nigga, what’s up black/ I guess we good enough/ we hood enough for that or until they tell to add you good enough for half/ in order for reparations need a nation and a flag. But who cares we still money hungry. A license to kill if another brother takes it from me. Internal Revenue Service is still lurking/ and baby girl around the block is outside still twerking. Crippled by the pillars/ we killers to advertise. I’m a Moorish American Moslem/ descending from Moroccans/ sitting on north west amexem/ pissing out toxicants/ cause being free, never was an option. So many bodies underneath nobodies conscience/ downing a bottle, we follow, and hobble for ignorance. The Pot sizzling, we living in spells before a slave its a reason we fell/ Black Power Hell.