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Com Ed, or, if things fall in place

I'm not mad, I'm hollow. ignoring, stalling, waiting for freedom to articulate. Waiting for a song's vibration, which is like an incantation of someone's love for you.

My compact disc is the liquid that fills lava lamps. Oil and water rocking back and forth, impersonating soul and rhythm.

Who's the matter and when is it beating you from the outside?

I am feeling the anguish of my ancestors and trying to relate.

I'm America trying to be Africa looking for a clue to the hue of skin in Greece and waiting for a sign in London.

I am more acquainted with the red and brown brick high rise than skyscraper business slate and broken cars, broken lives, than broken bones that heal over time from football games 'cause I never stayed in extra-curricular activities 'cause I never stayed in school…not long enough-knowing if I stayed long enough for the diploma, I was still liable for killing someone mentally or physically or at least stereotyped to. I graduated from life last week and realized that pronunciation is better left unsaid.

For the love of the missing element, I chant and perform ritual like the native Americans' rain dance, hoping to invoke the spirits and repave the rites of passage that got lost somewhere deep in the almost patriotic waves of the Atlantic ocean. I went to church to look for the art.

I graduated for life this week, 'cause I need to aim through your heads rather than over them…shared experience fits the size that it's grown into. I stopped spitting to feel the rain and caught my breath before taking someone else's.

Slow like poetry in politics, I learned how to play. The art, the love, the slowness all became one 'cause, hip hop is like the real world and it's trying to rise from poverty or being perceived as if.

I am more acquainted with overpriced shopping departments than stored knowledge. I am worth as much as you will pay. Paranoia got my eyes closed to the directness. I got education confused with imagination and I'm merely entertaining my thoughts, neglecting the short walk to acting.

Drum beats and guitar riffs describe life and possibility simultaneously from several distinct points of view. Showing the complexity of things while preserving the appearance that is stylistically simple. Both ticked off by the race to knowledge and the narrow road to it, I got hip to the potion, but I can't say that.

That home is where the art is. Not the building, the structure is only a reference of the memory. Remember when we went to…and saw the…

I'm not mad, I'm hollow. I'm tired too soon, waiting for our lives to bloom only to reap the fruit of it when I'm too broken to savor it, salvaging it to package some sort of inheritance to my future, sorry that they too might very well run the course of their lifetime doing the same, paying Com Ed electricity bills.

If things fall in place, they might own something, they might give something, be remembered for flipping the phrase into community education, 'cause they taught a whole village, an entire family.

They'll say he went away for college and came back and shared his knowledge or they'll say he taught himself how to…or his uncle showed him when to…and a household turned into a family and a village became more than square-foot blockage. And it'll be slow like poetry in politics…the transition of graduating from life to for it, 'cause they'll want to aim through your heads rather than over them, and we'll stop spitting on them to feel the rain, catching our breaths before taking someone else's.

knowing that inventing the masterpiece is an on-stage antic is like knowing the superficiality of things.

Performing its work, --- like actually going out and loving someone for real after you write the book on love, like putting your money where yo' mouth is, the truth and it's rejection is like oil and water, rocking back and forth, the liquid that fills lava lamps, impersonating soul and rhythm. Inventing the masterpiece is an on-stage antic. Performing its work is spending it.

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