‘09. T.R.O.B. (we quit)
I used to near cone casements, tasting the air in a
Sub-woof, shaking, taking the ears into
Club basements and large rooms where the dub matrix Could fold space on itself and traverse mazes.
Discrete places shape-shift, ageless:
Days when the famous engraved in the tape-hiss.
Days when the aces defaced with the bass-kicks
Clips from the music of ages. Face it.
2 to the 0 to the 0 to the 8 don’t
Ring like phones with a touchtone. Bones put a
Twenty on the tag but they sell it in the lines like
“1-9-9-9”. Fuck it, I
Love it when the singers cite past years. In the raps
It’s a stamp certified on the fact of careers
Spent with an eye on the prize and an ear on the
Pulse of millennia reflected in mirrors.
Don’t mistake this counting the ways for elderly
Man rants on back in the days. I’m meaning to say
I simply haven’t had a heart in the form, except to
Quarantine my art until the time’s right for it, type
Toward heights soaring flight, forward eyes open like
Omens ripe, portents’ sight-forcing light showing to the
Road and a hand that demands “All in”, and
Still bluffing up fathoms enough to fall in. My
Calling’s a test of persistence. I want to finish
All with a masterful use of your 40 minutes,
Crafted in 36 months with an intimate
Attention to text and terrain for experiment.
I spurned merriment all to attempt rap
Chariots’ laps on a path hell-bent with a
Battleaxe slashing, fashioned to flint
Wildfires in the harvests of simpletons. So I’m a
Write last acts and pack and that’s that, lay
Tracks back to back, check off tasks, and then
Muse through how the few far between fans feel
When they reminisce over Boo. For real…
We quit. Throw a towel into the mix. Flip a
Cap full of chips in for cash and split. Sit and
Petrify hands into rusty-ass vice grips.
Never hold nan but a fist. That's
It. Stick another fork in the spit. Sew a
Zipper on the tips of my ridiculous lips. Settle
Every animus in silence. Submit.
Never hold nan but a tongue.