A home, a xylophone, a chrome,
A dome inside my loneliness,
A minor-test, a piece of stress,
Upon my life: a vest.

A bush, a blair, a cushion there,
A dumbing down, a funny frown,
A dressing gown, a naked town,
In the surround sound.

Too much microchips, I'm fighting it,
Technology's inciting it,
The sickness of the violence-fix,
Ish on my brain.

It's like a stain,
It's like a sting,
It's like a thing that hurts my feelings
And it brings,
Pain impossible to sing

I'm like a dummy,
No emotions; only phrases,
Fundamentalists-unholy,
When I only turn these pages.

I'm a zealot, I'm a lover,
I'm a... cigarette brother,
I don't know what zealot means,
I'm just having a dream.

Motion-eye-rapid,
Body hazard,
Snow in the scene,
It rain green,
I'm a baby with a strangers' face...

So displaced,
I'm in my home,
I take a taste,
But it looks different
Like my primary school,
When I was six-years old, with a red plastic lunchbox....
With the thermos....
Peanut butter sandwhiches, wrapped up in cellophane,
But I spilt my drink on it....

Liquid love,
Inside my water,
It's a hawk, its a dove,
Inside my daughter I seen eyes of my future woman.
She be faceless, but warm in my embraces,
I see us together talkin in the kitchen, and it,
Looks like the kitchen I remember from my youth,
Afghan carpet on the floor,
Keep me warm like the truth.

After hip-hop,
I am sound,
Hear my voice
And make the choice,
Between a loop or profound,
Piece of image
When I finish,
(Let me finish!)
If I finish,
You can bet that you be turnin' around,
And it be turnin' you round.

Inside my mind I'm a still baby of peace,
Walkin' 'round with my blanket, trynna to find a warm place to keep,
Every moment where my soul ran free,
I recorded it, then mixed it with one of my hip-hop beats,
Inside my mind I'm still down for the cause,
Speakin' honest with these bones that move inside my jaws,
I'm thinking 'love is the answer to American wars'
............ . . .......... .. .. .. . . . . . . .
' ' ~

Compassion!
Don't forget the passion,
AND companionship,
Even when the politic-dick
He flip the manuscript.

Clear-focus,
God chose us,
We be masters of the planet,
Spreadin' seeds around the globe
like the pomegranate.

Stroke my guitar, blow on this here horn,
My body is the voice,
Hear them singing at dawn..

...

I had a dream last night about a piece of art,
And I promised to myself that I would make a start...