The Dead Emcee Scrolls (6 page)

Attention: another dimension. Another

complicated twist too twisted to mention.

Another pair of NGH lips tongue-tied to

perfection. Another frame of mind exists

beyond comprehension.

Attention. Fourth realm of ascension.

The absence of tension. A corporate lynching.

Their god is their henchman. And he ain't

just pinching. This NGH bites! And, according

to pictures, this NGH white!

WHT?! Come down SLCTR rum pumpum

pum! Me keeps me tremor in me pocket. Come

and get some! Again! Come down SLCTR rum

pumpum pum! Me keeps me tremor in me pocket.

Come and get some!

Gimme diamond. Gimme gold. Gimme sugar.

Gimme candy. Me wine and me handy and dat

in me panty.

A stoppa! Na issa supa cat manna you a na lingo.

Tell him to come back. Tell him he a murderer. Tell

him mamma womb a she da real carrier. Woman

no a cry a you a no suffer. Tell him come a man

a who a no batter. Have mercy.

Let me mold a guitar of your bodily bazaar.

Strap your tongue, chord your lungs, string

your toes. And bows that precede the rain

shall serpent symphonies in your name.

Mother of countless daughters. The tricks of

time. It is your thrust and grind that defines

us. We are the offspring of your decapitated

head. The bastard sons of Father Time.

Let Saturn be reborn a girl. Let her nurture

her children rather than eat them. Hide them

from our forefathers and the angry ghosts

of X-mas past. Let them be raised away from

the phallic dangers of our times.

Let their secrets remain secrets until we are

ready to cherish them as our own. Nurture

and adore them. The timeless secrets of

creation:

The darkness that yields light. The seed that

bears fruit. The mother that bears the cross

of her fathers and her fathers' fathers who

beat her when she bore no sons. His raised

fist the original Boom Bap.

Spin that record backwards. Nigger to NGH.

Before before. John the Boom Baptist. Bring

me his head. His dick. His eyes and teeth. His

arms and feet. Bring me all that is mine, all that

has been buried, scattered or lost until history

is ours again.

Mothers of night and windsong. Daughters of dust

and detriment. Nameless. Fuck it. Let them remain

nameless. It won't stop their truth from prevailing.

Because it is not written. Because it don't matter

anyway. Because there's nothing you can do about

it. Because there's no excuse, no explanation.

And that is reason enough to

Dance. Even when your feet hurt.

Dance like the fires of hell are upon

you and you're dodging every flame.

Dance when it tastes good.

Dance when the spirit moves you.

Dance because you feel it and you don't

have to be taught how to count, how to step

and slide, how to twirl and jump and land

on a good foot before taking off to fly,

NGH, dance. Dance, nigger. Paint your faces.

Shine your shoes. Pop that collar. Shake it.

Wind it. Kick fight scratch rip kill BREAK.

Neck back jump back kiss BREAK.

Uprock freeze pop lock BREAK.

Don't stop don't stop snap BREAK.

Into ferocious song and dance. Calculated

movement. Gestures of prayer and invocation.

Dance. Your life depends on it.

Cakewalk. Lindy. Charleston Mashed potatoes.

Camel walk. Hot pants. Hustle. Electric boogaloo.

Patty Duke. Steve Martin. Pee-wee Herman.

Prep. Wop. Rooftop. Cabbage Patch. Chicken

head. Ragtop. Wobble. Crump. Snake. BREAK!

You wish you could dance like this! You wish!

Standin there. High postin. You wish. “And our

American Idol is Fantasia.”

“You know you want me, Mickey. You

can't afford me, though. My name is Saturn,

Pluto. I ain't no Disney ho.”

Sing it, girl. Sing it. Southern trees bear

strange WHT?! Sometimes I feel like a

motherless WHT?! Drop beats like bombs

in Alabama churches, Afghani libraries,

New Jersey turnpike, the sphinx's nose,

crack in Compton, AIDS in Africa, small

pox in blankets, blue-eyed Jesus, the Holy

Ghost and all dem other covered women,

fallen soldiers and noblemen.

Mother turned whore turn in graves

turn to each other and help us over-

turn tables.

Turntables. Nails sharp as needles.

Vaseline on faces. Scratch scratch

scratch scratch.

BREAK BREAK

Scratch scratch

scratch scratch.

BREAK BREAK

Kick kick snare.

BREAK

Scratch kick snare.

BREAK

Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

Snare kick, kick. Kick, snare. Snare

kick. Snare. Snare kick, kick, kick,

kick, kick, kick kick, snare.

Chop and screw it.

BREAK it down beneath labyrinthine

corridors of anguish and despair. The

chamber the bullet travels. Chamber of

commerce. Tunnel vision of the train

over tracks …

Not until you listen to RKM on a rocky

mountaintop have you heard hip-hop.

Extract the urban element that created it

and let an open wide countryside illustrate it.

Riding on a freight train in the freezing

rain listening to Coltrane. My reality went

insane and I think I saw Jesus. He was

playing hopscotch with Betty Carter who

was cursing out in a scat like gibberish for

not saying butterfingers.

And my fingers run through grains of sand

like seeds of time. The pains of man.

The frames of mind which built these frames

which is the structure of our urban super-

structure.

The trains and planes could corrupt and

obstruct your planes of thought so that

you forget how to walk through the woods

which ain't good 'cause if you never

walked through the trees listening to Nobody

Beats The Biz then you ain't never heard

hip-hop.

And you don't stop. And you don't stop.

And you must stop letting cities define you.

Confine you to that which is brick and cement.

We are not a hard people. Our domes have

been crowned with the likes of steeples.

That which is our being soars with the eagles

and the Jonathan Livingston Seagulls. Yes, I

got wings. You got wings. All God's children

got wings. So let's widen the circumference

of our nest and escape this urban incubator.

The wind plays the world like an instrument.

Blows through trees like flutes. But trees won't

grow in cement. And as heart beats bring

percussion fallen trees bring repercussions.

Cities play upon our souls like broken drums.

We drum the essence of creation from city

slums. But city slums mute our drums and

our drums become humdrum 'cause city slums

have never been where our drums were from.

Just the place where our daughters and sons

become offbeat heartbeats.

Slaves to city streets. Where hearts get broken

when heartbeats stop. Broken heartbeats become

break-beats for NGHs to rhyme on top.

I'm falling up flights of stairs. Scraping

myself from the sidewalk. Jumping from

rivers to bridges. Drowning in pure air.

Hip-hop is lying on the side of the road

half dead to itself. Blood scrawled over its

mangled flesh like jazz. Stuffed into an over-

sized record bag.

Tuba lips swollen beyond recognition. Diamond

studded teeth strewn like rice at karma's wedding.

The ring bearer bore bad news. Minister of

Information wrote the wrong proclamation. Now

everyone's singing the wrong song.

Dissonant chords find necks like nooses. That

NGH kicked the chair from under my feet.

Harlem Shaking from a rope, but still on beat.

Damn that loop is tight! NGH found a way to

sample the way, the truth, the light. Can't wait to

play myself at the party tonight. NGHs are gonna

die!

Cop car swerves to the side of the road. Hip-hop

takes its last breath. The cop scrawls vernacular

manslaughter onto his yellow pad, then balls the

paper into his hands, deciding he'd rather freestyle.

You have the right to remain silent. You have the

right to remain silent. You have the right to remain

silent. And maybe you should have before your

bullshit manifested.

Begin. Demystify the mummy within. If you

ain't hotep then ho step, I'll step to your friend.

Parable of the wind. Blew black through to the

end. Endless nights, kicks and fights against time

and her friends.

Slowly day and night blend. Twilight takes form

and then open sky sprouts an eye: solo, singular,

sin. Downward glance, upward grin. Half the

women are men. Children born of the morn grow

until daylight's end.

Sunset sets on the wind. Blue-black blows once

again. Ever since ever after henceforth happy ending.

Children born of the wind take the night as their

friend. Starlit sky, many-eyed wonder of the within.

Fear: original sin. Death: nowhere near the end. Once

upon break o'dawn's early Lyte: Paper Thin.

When you say you love me a series of changes

begin to occur. First there is a warmth. The warmth

generates heat. The heat permeates the cold. The ice

melts. Limbs and branches are thawed. Blood

circulates. A feeling of comfort pervades.

The body is oxygenated. It becomes limber. It yearns

to dance, to move about freely and express its newfound

energy. Music is sought through voice or ear. The heart

identifies the rhythm of the song and synchronizes its

pace. A union is formed between the visible and the

invisible.

Song is the invitation from the primordial unseen to

become one with that which is seen. To nod your head

is to agree that the moment is godly: communion. To

dance is to become God. There are many ways of dancing.

Follow your heart.

A circle forms. I enter. Footsteps from side to

side. I am forming figure eights with my feet.

Footwork, centuries old, reconfigured for the

present. NGH WHT: the expression on my face,

the name of the faceless. One hand on the ground,

then the other. Baby swipes. Legwork. Knee spin.

I'm nice with this shit. Hand spin into windmill

into head spin: Revolution. Here and now, NGH.

Who's next?

In a past life I was a wood-carver's knife. The

sharpened blade of a woodcutter. The eldest

son of the chief's brother. A maker of drums.

We scraped the insides of goat hides to find

the hollows where sound resides. Offering

the parts we did not use. To invoke the muse.

Music of the ghettos, the cosmos, the negroes,

the necros: overcomers of death; disciples of

breath. Dissection of drumbeats like Osiris

by Seth.

Breakbeats into fourteen pieces. Dissembled

chaos. Organized noise. A patchwork of

heartbeats to resurrect true b-boys. Be men.

Let's mend the broken heart of Isis. Age of

Aquarius. Mother Nature is furious. While

you rhyme about being hardcore, be heart-

core. What is it that we do art for?

Metaphor. Meta-sin. It's an age of healing.

Why not rhyme about what you're feeling?

Or not be felt. Deal with the cards you're

dealt.

Calling all tarot readers and sparrow feeders

to cancel the apocalypse. Metaphorically

speaking.

The corner coroner. I smoke for weeks. Dead Pan,

like dead man, through chimney peaks. I streak the

skyline. I blew through bird. High notes. I space

float. I'm lost for words.

The storefront preacher. The Sunday best. The

dangling cross between legs, on chest. The country

farmer. The hoedown champ. The rhythmic armor.

The cosmic dance.

The buck and gully. The native son. Bigger and Deffer.

The freshest one. The sewed-in creases. The flavored

twills. The confidence snorted through dollar bills.

The “Fuck I care for?” The boldfaced lie. The been

there and done that. The do or die. The dirty dirty.

The filthy clean. Thugged out and nerdy. No in

between. The blackest berry. The sweetest juice.