DUST UP
[R.A.P. Ferreira]
The back of my mind is blank obsidian
MS-DOS screen, white line blinking
Ice-nine peeling
There is no search for what's natural, programmer
Roll rider, windjammer, in tune with shadow and act
Well lit projections, tryin’ to deconstruct metaphysics for me
From Hakim to Yasiin, I'm in Casco Bay, Casca wit' me
Stayin’ at the Hotel Scallops room, February 3rd
Whisper singing Nelly Furtado, wishing I was a Yardbird
Plastic saxophone, ashy metronome
My grandmomma called Vaseline grease
I remember wearin' Jordans on the South Side
When Jordan played for the Bulls and I wasn't allowed outside
If this is my mind, I'll step out-side
Hull integrity full
Classic landscape, ripe fruit and house flies
Brought a broom to a dust-up
You rap like your footwork fucked up
We planned for hiccups, obstructionists
Stick up kids and the mogs on powerpoint
Talkin' 'bout quantum futurism but ain't got space ships
Ain't got schematics, ain’t got personnel training or catering
No defense budget
I write this from the Soul Folks vessel Ruby Yacht ancestral mothership
Plottin’ coordinates to peace, hull integrity full
Five thousand parsecs beyond trans warp
With a fresh oil change, come test it if you bad
Wrote it wearin' a burlap durag
My humblest experience in truth came packaged as a thought in this sense:
The map is the only territory
When I say out loud, "the world is my idea"
When I say out loud, "suede Timbs on my feet make my cipher complete"
I am saying the same thing out loud
I find comfort in the allegory of the journey
Because I am in a literal search for brightness, voluptuousness
Brimming clarity in service of nothing else
I know that one’s resolve for life can be determined
According to translation errors inherited
My understanding itself being a summation of a suggestion of which the scope is beyond me
And I hope to only ever be utilized and in service of another's journey
There was a census taken among the grand verbalizers
There was a, um, a census taken among only the grand verbalizers
And then the data was compiled, necessarily crunched, meaning it was sorted
In such a way one could understand, or at least make use of, and by extension, give one license to imitate in understanding
After the data was compiled, crunched, there was a consensus among only the grand verbalizers:
"Wack muhfuckers always want a re-do."
My left eye sees in the garden of my mind clearly now
There are four heroes