Random thoughts inspired by sittin outside under the moon, indirectly inhaling fumes from Dunhill menthol lites, the February wind blowing across my face and the glass full of juice, diluted by Facebook updates about your girlfrend, whos about to bring new life into this world, Romanov Vodka and the sphere/line/lights/smoke visualization on iTunes 8, made worse by the track going like, "F.ck b.tches smoke weed/no switch is sweeter than the LSD" and I can still laugh. .Will the hardest man please stand up. . .He stood right up. . .he say "Motherf.cker, do you know who I am?" And am like, "Nigga, I dont even give a damn!" I got half a mind to go back to the kitchen and get that surgical blade that I tried sharpened but instead got blunt and carve a permanent mask on they face. Him and his womans. .
But she look at me strange. Like she know i done did it before. Eyes tryin to say, "A Real Man done hit no woman. . .". Curious appeal to the ego from reverse. Like fitting your head so far up your ass that you can see your own face from the inside. The perfect quality of a b.tch ass nigga. Certaintly not me, no sir. Even when we get grown our own Mamas done tell us,"Son, there be this type of woman with the itch, will be all up in your face hollerin like its the fourth of July, like they mouth full of cayenne pepper. . .and they dont stop. . .they dont stop. . .until you hit em, of course!" Sh.t! A real woman know when to come in the path of a blow. . . F.ck it. . .
He rose to get to the door. . .direction of the kitchen. The other He knew He was going for the surgical blade. . .quick lunge for the Romanov bottle. .breaks it into a sharp weapon... He doesnt turn back but heads into the kitchen and emerges with a glass. . . Empty pregnant (about to abort) silence. . .
"You shouldnt have done that. . .was about to offer your drink"
silence. . .
"F.ck it, u want a smoke instead. . . I got some good hi-grade you should try. . ."
He rolls the blunt. .licking the paper margin. .lites it takes a deep puff. . .hands it to the other He who drops the brocken bottle and takes the joint. . . She just stood at the door on with fear dilating the pupils. . .Her eyes firmly fixed on He. The other He looking down, eyes smarting, on near edge of spillin a lone tear either from the Shame or from the High. He doesnt want to find out. . . TV on the Radio playin in the background:
"We're laying in the shadow of your family tree
Your haunted heart and me
Brought down by an idea whose time has come
And in the shadows of the gallows of your family tree
There's a hundred hearts soar free
Pumping blood to the roots of evil to keep it young."
What has been said, should have been said and must be said. . .The last grain in the Desert of Sanity, or lack of it.The mic's turned up. . .
