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FLEXING MY MENTAL MIGHT
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Mad FLow And so, I move on...
Once again another sunset has come.
The ebbing glow outside my windows,
reminds me of another cycle completed.
It is a cypher never to be broken until
that day my grandmom used to speak of where
"every head shall bow and every tongue confess".
But I digress...
Out there...somwhere...
One of my brothers labors in the fields of his daily existance.
Toiling to harvest the words brought forth through his pain and
he gives a name to it in prose.
After all, he has business to tend to and he can't let himself be lazy.
The flipped phrases of the wordsmith cannot be denied in their complete
and utter veracity. It is as if the truth were unceremoniously multiplied
and gave itself an atomic number because it's weight is greater than that of an
imploding star.
Heavy...like the brother too tore up to get down, at the end of the bar.
I lived there, too. In that place not unlike Chi-Town's South Side (read
Brooklyn's Crown Heights or Do-or-Die Bed-Stuy) where dropping bombs became our
internal symphony.
When "step-to" didn't have nothin to do with "my lou". And if a phaser did get
pulled, you knew the only smoke would come from the end of the barrel as if the
very air itself had become vaporized and you could see it for a minute.
Back in a time when rhyme was somewhat naive and unwise in it's power and content.
And spittin flow was still "fresh" and the hype kids could kick flow off the top
of their heads with an Afrika-Baambata inspired intellect and metaphoric context
so tight it was like new braids givin you a migraine.
Grand-Verbalizer, what time IS it?
My world was suede pumas and addidas track suits and pro-keds and trying to figure
out if it was safe to run up the street to the bodega for some spiced ham, american
cheese, a small jar of mayo, and italian bread to make that hero sandwich. Forget
about the swine. I'm just a dead man, I guess.
This constant buzzing in my ears and ringing in my skull has become a controlled
string of messages that must be put to paper with pen as they originate in a
world gone mad allowing me to create, what? MadFlow!
The input is then synthesized through my mind's eye so that the constant flow
I spit is so BIG so BOLD so TIGHT so REAL that to hear it just may destroy your entire
central nervous system or at the very least but you in a 5 minute, quick-as-a-flash
coma which gives you just enough time to feel the weight and comprehend my steez.
My ears prick up as I become conscious of the sounds outside my empty apartment.
And as I begin to write in my journal, I realize that this is the cycle,
that is my cypher, which never ends and reminds me, I must move on from this apartment...
