Friday, June 26, 2009

Three Raps

I first heard Immortal Technique when I was 20...when I was really high...and maybe drunk too. Anyway, I was writing raps, and when I heard Immortal Technique, I tried to write things that were tougher sounding. Well, tougher sounding for a white middle-class public school student who has a good relationship with his parents in suburbia. So I wrote three raps then. Anyway...BAM:

Now I'm hearing what the public is saying,
declaring that maybe I'm not the best at conveying
these tactical emotions that always flow through us.
An I know I've never said that I was a genius.
But it crawls at my skin when I'm called a bad writer
by acquaintances who believe they're freedom fighters
just because they voice their opinion politics louder
than the comman man who has trouble with the culture that counters.
But I'm saying now that there the ones pretentious
because art has never been as hard as reinvention.
How can they say they march to the beat of a different drummer
if their whole group has love the same since they were younger?

This whole mindset is cliche and chaotic
like the straight kids caught with narcotics.
It's like the teeangers who believe anarchy works
but haven't ever been in trouble, arrested or hurt.


"I'm going to have to kill you when the revolution comes."
You hear that in the distance? It's the sound of a drum.
It's not the settling one, like the kind in pop songs.
This sound is the one that scares when it hits too close to home.
It's the sound of footsteps marching to your front porch,
moving in stride with torches and pitch forks.
If you want some glory, we can declare war on your lawn,
but you're the type to try to fight with an act of Go.d
You're the breed that thinks the Lord love to pick sides.
But when was Jesus on the front line yelling war caries?
When did he last crawl with a cold gun in his hand
and scream, "Listen boys, this is our last stand,
and if I get shot in the heart, at least I'll die a man.
If anyone can kill these savages, I know we can."
My guess at best is that God sits sad and alone
looking down on the field of the fallen from his heavenly throne,
praying to his own god that these human beings stop
using his name when playing games of soldiers and cops.
But religion gets cash when people ask, "Why?"
They see the profit, but it's not prophet in the sky.
Look at the bones and bank stubs that built the Vatican.
It's a city paved in gold that protect's the lion's den.
And the Pope laughs when he says, "Oh, they're at it again."
It's a merchandise war when the rooster leads the hens.
Am I the only one who ever wonders about this question?
They practice humility, but want churches near every gas station?

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


a modern mass of ruins by way of fast words by jake kilroy.

I smoked the car gears clean,
like a gaslamp on after midnight,
a silent hum dripping like grease,
lips tight like the backseat caress,
no more morbid than the wreckage.

I painted the town black once,
or so I thought -
it turns out the lights do go out in this city,
all without the moviemakers to talk over the noise,
without the bartenders to keep us wetter than the gutters,
no maids to clean up our act;
and no stars to play their orchestra parade march,
unless it's beyond the biggest bridge.

So, on this stretch of land evening,
now here we have the markings of a street,
the rev of engines that belong to garages or bedrooms,
and I say let 'em purr...let these human beings drive,
up hills, beyond the waterworks, past navels, past belly buttons,
caress this splendid road until you're the last one out of the woods,
cackling under a harvest moon, the radio on,
with the trees spinning like ballet dancers.

Oh, what a wonder I'm sure it was to have the first car,
a modern ship that tore up the very roads for strolling,
and oh, to ever be in the throws of a woman with a record player -
but only if it's right next to a fire escape;
while your pants feel like your last attempt at grace,
like a man out of time, greased up and ready to fix everything,
at least once.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Sorry, Vaginas

When I was in the seventh grade, I thought vaginas looked something like this:

So now, a decade later, I just want to say how sorry I am, vaginas. You look nothing like the kraken and it was irresponsible of me to even assume that.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Cocaine vs. Basketball

I've never done cocaine. But I did play basketball today. I just got home and I'm desperately exhausted.

Does cocaine make your body feel like a massive drag? Do your legs feel like their going to be the reason your body falls over and breaks off like a tree hacked to an untimely death by a lumberjack? And if so, do you just let it happen?

Damn, I probably would if I was outrageously high after smoking Doctor Dre.

Fuck, if I was like Doctor Dre, I'd be even better at basketball.

You know, because...well...he's black.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

A Violin For My Wife

I want to play the violin for my wife before she falls asleep.

A beautiful idea, yes...but I have no violin, no ability to play the violin and no wife.

Now, which of these three things are a tragedy?

Are none tragedies?

Are all three tragedies?

Whatever happened to Jonathan Turner on Boy Meets World? I mean, he was a good flavor to mix it up in the teachers' lounge with Mr. Feeny. And that motorcycle accident totally didn't kill him. So what gives? Did he just give up on teaching? Did he just give up on life? What the hell? Did he move away? Yeah right, that bachelor pad was awesome. Was he paralyzed after that? Well, if he was, then why the hell didn't they address that? He just, like...bogusly disappeared. That's pretty stupid. He was awesome to those kids.