Read The Dead Emcee Scrolls Online
Authors: Saul Williams
In 1972
My mother was rushed
From a James Brown concert
In order to give birth to me
My style is black whole
Most niggas simply sound like earth to me
If hip-hop were the moon
I'd be the first to bleed
Cyclical sacraments of self
For all my peers to read
I recite the hues of night
With spots of light
For you to read by
Have you floating
On cloud nine
Without realizing
It's mind's sky
And the ground
On which you walk
Is the tongue
With which I talk
I speak the seeds
That root the trees
Of suburbia New York
City streets
Could never claim me
That's why I never sound like you
All these niggas
Claim the streets
As if paths through the woods
Ain't true
You better walk your path
You better do your math
'Cause your screw face
Will only make the Buddha laugh
Even if you know your lessons
You don't know the half
But don't take it from me
Son, take a bath
I was walking down Fifth Avenue today when Russell Simmons came out of a building and crossed right in front of me.
Is that the same as a black cat?
They are preparing
To introduce me
To their god
I will simply ask him
Whether he'd like to join
Our entourage
“Show him to his room!”
Let him rest
For we rise early
And no god
Is gold enough
To tempt the darkness
From these mines
The universe gives us every opportunity, lays the perfect path of obstacles, that through overcoming them we will have achieved the perfect balance and thus achieve the ultimate alchemical mixture of the God composite.
Dear God,
I wasn't breast-fed and most of my conversations with men seem to revolve around music. I'm no musician, but the pain has been instrumental. My senses: finely tuned instruments of being lonely, of being loved, of being hue man. I'm no musician, but my life seems to be orchestrated by the likes of women.
Leading a new lover
To the dance floor
Is like taking your intended
To meet your parents
You hope everything works out
That there is no miscommunication
Cancel the apocalypse!
Cartons of the Milky Way with pictures of a missing planet last seen in pursuit of an American dream. This fool actually thinks he could drive his Hummer on the moon, blasting DMX off the soundtrack of a
South Park
cartoon. Niggas used to buy their families out of slavery. Now we buy chains and links, smokes and drinks. And they're paying me to record this. Even more if you hear it. Somebody tell me what I should do with the money? Yes, dread, tell me what you think I should do with the money. Exactly how much is it gonna cost to free Mumia? What's he gonna do with his freedom? Talk on the radio? Radio programming is just that, a brain washed and cleaned of purpose. To be honest, some freedom of speech makes me nervous. And you, looking for another martyr in the form of a man, hair like a mane, with an outstretched hand ⦠in a world of harsh thoughts, reactionary defensiveness and counter-intelligence, what exactly is innocence? Fuck it. I do believe in police brutality. Who do I make checks payable to? How about I pay you in prayers.
A young child stares at a glowing screen, transfixed by tales of violence. His teenage father tells him that that's life, not that Barney shit. A purple dinosaur who speaks of love. A black man who speaks of blood. Which one is keeping it real, son? Who manufactured your steel, son? Hardcore, based on elements
at the earth's core. Fuck it, I'm gonna keep speaking âtil my throat's sore.
An emcee tells a crowd of hundreds to keep their hands in the air. An armed robber steps into a bank and tells everyone to put their hands in the air. A Christian minister gives a benediction while the congregation holds their hands in the air. I love the image of the happy Buddha with his hands in the air. Hands up if you're confused. Define tomorrow. Your belief system ain't louder than my car system. This nigga walks down my block with a rottweiler, a sub-woofer, on a leash. Each one teach one. A DJ spins a new philosophy into a barren mind. I can't front on it. My head's as if to clean the last image from an Etch A Sketch. Somethin' like Rakim said. I could quote any emcee, but why should I? How would it benefit me? Karmic repercussions. Are your tales of reality worth their sonic-based discussions?
Suddenly the ground shivers and quakes. A newborn startles and wakes. Her mother rushes to her bedside and holds her to her breast. Milk of sustenance heals and nourishes. From the depths of creation, life still flourishes. Yet, we focus on death and destruction, violence and corruption. My people, let Pharaoh go!
What have you bought into? How much will it cost to buy you out? How much will it cost to buy you out of the mentality that originally bought you, a dime a dozen? Y'all niggas are a dime a dozen.
Puffy's in the boardroom.
I'm in my room, bored.
Your success made me doubt myself
And the whirling ways of this world.
Man, this love of hip-hop is like investing in a marital relationship, way past its prime, simply for the sake of the children, not realizing that we are actually fucking up their entire conception of relationships. They will be forced to work it out for the rest of their lives, falling in and out of love.
I've outgrown you.
I enjoy my memories of you much more than I enjoy our present moments. You allowed yourself to be defined by something less than yourself. But then, I never really stopped loving you. In fact, I love you more and began to love you through your manifestations in others: a breakbeat in a Led Zeppelin song; braggadocio in a Guns n' Roses song; a breakbeat sped up to twice its speed in a drum and bass song. In my estimation, Portishead is hip-hop. Tricky is hip-hop. Björk is hip-hop. And they are hip-hop in ways that you have failed to be. Perhaps, they are hip-hop's illegitimate children.
If hip-hop is a parent, it is negligent, not nurturing, and hardly responsible. But I can blame no one but myself. I expected too much of you without making my own contribution. I quit rhyming at the age of seventeen. Maybe my quitting on hip-hop led to hip-hop quitting on me.
Regardless, y'all have succeeded in making my earliest inspiration hardly an art form, hardly the voice of the youth anymore. You guys are boring, predictable. And maybe that's why I'm working with Rick Rubin now. This is part of his karma.