The Dead Emcee Scrolls by Saul Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

like
    Lazarus. But you can call me Lazzie. Lazy.
    Yeah, I’m lazy ’cause I’d rather sit and build
    than work and plow a field of cash green crops.
    Your evolution stopped with the evolution
    of your technology. A society of automatic
    tellers and money machines. NGH WHT?
    My culture is lima beans. Dreams manifest.
    Dreams real. Not consistent with rational.
    I dance for no reason. For reason you
    can’t dance. Caught in the inactiveness
    of intellectualized circumstance. You
    can’t learn my steps until you unlearn
    your thoughts. Spirit/soul can’t be store
    bought. Fuck thought. It leads to naught.
    Simply stated, it leads to you trying to
    figure me out.

CHAPTER 4
    Your intellect is disfiguring your soul.
    Your being’s not whole. Check your flagpole:
    stars and stripes. Your astrology’s imprisoned
    by your concept of white, of self. What’s your
    plan for spiritual health? Calling reality unreal.
    Your line of thought is tangled.
    The star-spangled got your soul mangled.
    Your being’s angled, forbidding you to be real
    and feel. You can’t find truth with an ax or a
    drill, in a white house on a hill, or in factories
    or plants made of steel.

CHAPTER 5
    Stealing me was the smartest thing you ever
    did. Too bad you don’t teach the truth to your
    kids. My influence on you is the reflection you
    see when you look into your minstrel mirror
    and talk about your culture.
    Your existence is that of a schizophrenic vulture
    who thinks he has enough life in him to prey on
    the dead, not knowing that the dead ain’t dead and
    that he ain’t got enough spirituality to know how
    to pray. Yeah, there’s no repentance. You’re bound
    to live an infinite, consecutive, executive life sentence.
    So while you’re busy serving time, I’ll be in synch
    with the moon, while you run from the sun. Life of
    the womb reflected by guns. Worshipper of moons,
    I am the sun. And I am public enemy number one.
    One. One. One. One. One. One. That’s seven. And
    I’ll be out on the block. Hustlin culture. Slingin
    amethyst rocks.

UNTIMELY MEDITATIONS

CHAPTER 1
    Time is money. Money is time.
    So, I keep seven o’clock in the
    bank and gain interest in the
    hour of God. I’m saving to buy
    my freedom. God grant me wings.
    I’m too fly not to fly. Eye sore
    to look at humans without wings.
    So, I soar. And find tickle in the
    feather of my wings. Flying
    hysterically over land. Numerically,
    I am seven mountains higher than
    the valley of death, seven dimensions
    deeper than dimensions of breath.

CHAPTER 2
    The fiery sun of my passions
    evaporates the love lakes of my
    soul, clouds my thoughts and
    rains you into existence. As I take
    flights on bolts of lightning.
    Claiming chaos as my concubine
    and you as my me. I of the storm.
    You of the sea. We of the moon.
    Land of the free. What have I done
    to deserve this? Am I happy?

CHAPTER 3
    Happiness is a mediocre standard
    for a middle-class existence. I see
    through smiles and smell truth in
    the distance. Beyond one dimensional
    smiles and laughter lies the hereafter.
    Where tears echo laughter.
    You’d have to do math to divide a
    smile by a tear, times fear, equals
    mere truth, that simply dwells in the
    air. But if that’s the case all I have
    to do is breath and all else will follow.
    That’s why drums are hollow.
    And I like drums. Drums are good.
    But I can’t think straight. I lack the
    attention span to meditate. My attention
    spans galaxies. Here and now are immense.
    Seconds are secular. Moments are mine.
    Self is illusion. Music’s divine.

CHAPTER 4
    Noosed by the strings of Jimi’s guitar,
    I swing, purple-hazed pendulum. Hypnotizing
    the part of eye that never dies. Look into my:
    eyes are the windows of the soul is fried chicken,
    collards, and cornbread is corn meal, sour cream,
    eggs, and oil is the stolen blood of the earth, used
    to make cars run and kill the