Descriptive Literary Prescriptions


The Bomb

Respect the/

Adam’s apple,/

Before I/

Thirst and Howl,/

Grab you,

then pop your top/

like Snapple./

I blew up/

like 2 guts/

That consume/

more pop/

Than listeners of/

top 40./

Before I raise/

The roof,/

I tell them/

Thanks for holding/

The top for me./

You motionless/

rock stars bore me./




in motion/

when the pen moves/

up and down/

like the waves/

in the ocean./

I stay/

with the quotes and/

I am/

engaged /

with the smoke./

I’m hotter/

Than lava/

and a freshly/

brewed pot/

of java./

I go off/

like a /

18 year old/

high school grad/

to college,/

obtain knowledge,/

yet can’t/

find a job/

to make dollars/

to pay off/

this car I just/


Of course,/

I graduated./

I received/


from peers/

and family/

the day I walked/

Across the stage./

I stumbled/

across my rage,/

and fell/

into hate./

I looked/

in disgrace/

at the face/

I faced everyday/

The same cheekbones/

That’s been around/

Since 1978./

It’s time to/


that type/

of thinking/

that’s not great./

Let’s make/

fast construction/

of a weapon/

of mass destruction/

that blows us up/

to space./

Let’s catapult/

each other/

to be elevated/

as NASA spaceships./

Instead of/

having an/

explosive motive,/

let’s bombshell/

hellish behaviors/

back to hell./

Why feel like/

an atom/

amongst Adams/

and Eves?/

I can make the/

same amount/

of cheese as Steve./

Jobs won’t/

define me./

God already/

did that kindly./

Ideas from/

the sky/

drop as/



give off light/

to third eyesights./

The pen/

and my/


are kamikaze-like/


but giving/

my life up/

to Jesus;/

not his rival./

I’m on the way/

to the tomb;/

carrying this/

hand grenade./

I’ve already/

taken out the pin/



Randomly Rambunctious



make the pen work/

and function./

Haphazard thoughts/




Lunch hall/

rhyme schemes are so/


Excuse me/

as I/


your conscience/


cram bunches/

of quotes/

in your lobes./

I mix soul/

food in honey/

bunches of oats./

This morning’s/


fried chicken,/

greens, and orange/


The ink/

from my pen/

is milk./

I stitch/

colorful words/

in your fabric./


cover your/


Pen tips/

strike the paper/

like matches./

Flames reflect/

off of pupils./

Brains ingest/

what’s in/

these noodles./

Let me soup up/

your coupe./

The Chef/


of soliloquies./

They give regards/

to the chef./

“Boy, you are/



I’ll pour/


in your soup./

I’m above/

a flying/

falcon’s crest./


I’m just talking/

doo doo./

The rhymes/

are Dixie/


In the night sky,/

my spit twinkles/

like crystals./

View starry nights/

when you gaze/

at what I write./

I recite/


when I give life/

to written verses./

I print/

what’s indented/

in my heart/

in sentences/

whether in print/

or written/

in cursive./

On touch screens,/

I touch the hearts/

of kings and queens./

I stayed in dirt/

but thanks/

to Jesus,/

I’m still clean./

I played in dirt/

but thanks/

to Jesus,/

I can still gleam./

What’s seen/

isn’t always/

what it seems./

In the desert,/

I can’t get/

caught up/

in the mirage./

No garages/


yet I transport/

thoughts in/

V12 engines;/

fast and/


they crash/

in your system./

Since we’re living/

in a new age,/

let me just say,/

I’ll manslaughter/

your violent/


and introduce/

you to the Son,/


and Holy Spirit./

I pray/

that I present/

the Gospel/

in a way/

that I hope he/

gets it./


He spit it/

like it was/


not like these/

evil clowns–/

Penny Wise./

My brainstorms/



The fear/

of natural/


is controlling/

your mood./



The pen./

should be/


I’m collapsing/


which sprout from/

evil seeds./

I’m making/

sinners yell, ‘Timber!’/

I’m no handy man,/

but I’m good/

with my hands./

Blood, sweat, and tears/

are proof of this/


labor /

I exert on/


My earned wage/

will turn today’s/


upside down

years later./

I just want to/

create life/

like my Maker;/

sample a beat/

found in a/

moon’s crater;/

spit bars/

to my heart’s beat;/

do favors,/


those unasked./

Yes sir./

Watch me unmask/

the devil/



Got caught/

in a hungry/

spider’s web/

quicker than/


In this life,/

you only get/

one pass./

Day or night,/

I’ve flung shapely/


at your noggin/

like Tom Brady./

Catch this./


I spit/

from the/


I’m off safety./

No Rugers./

I only shoot/

from my/

soup coolers—/


Satan said,/

“Living righteous/



Get some more/

mild blacks./


stopping us.”/

I’m just/

hitching a ride/

on Jesus’ back/

to that/



I need/

to practice/

spotting trouble/



Blind walks/

in the park/

ought to spark/

me to spot/

evil cops/

and the/


I’m dropping gems/

in and around/

your brain stem./

It’s almost like/

I robbed/

a bank and then/

broke in your/

memory bank/

and went/

H.A.M. on your RAM/


installed unplanned/

spam from my hand./

Not in a/

sexual way,/

but if you’re/

in a dry place/

and your progress/

is a vegetable/




create an/



The pen/

is an/





to handle,/

yet it hands/

out light/

in dark rooms/

like a candle./

The Tundra in my Palm Conundrum

In the snow/

I’m delivering/

cold quotes/

that’s shivering/

your soul./

A composer/

of cold notes./

Never sold snow,/

but in the polar,/

I knew those/

who made/

this freezing/

world colder;/

ferocious folks/

who would/

bear arms/

to do harm;/


around death/

with their odor./

For those/

who wanted/

to get high,/

they sold life’s/

lows to./

I hung around/


winter coats do/

in July./

But back then/

I wasn’t/

living life like/

I was supposes to./

I was/

on my way/

to hell;


a cold soda/

before I moved/

near Minnesota./

All of this was/

during the/

season that’s/


than the fall./

Duck from this slug./

Shoot, y’all./

I shoot your crews’/


Lebron James/

shoots two’s./

Threes fall too./

College athletics/

increased my teeth’s/

strength to be/



the devil/

makes me blue./

Word to Duke./

I shoot lyrics/

at dudes/

like I got/

John Wayne’s juice./

In the sense/

of a western,/

when I/

draw my pen/

it’s a weapon./

I’ll knock/

your fitted cap off/

with these/


lyrics I blast off./

Kill you/

in cold blood/

with the mask off./

Know what’s/

in my dome,/

by the content/

in these poems./

But my/


is quite/


The flow/

is quite/


with vomit./

I know./

It makes you sick/

to your stomach./


I have a cold,/


cold hard facts/

I “a’chu”/

at you./

The spit/

that I spit/

turns to/


pierce your/


and put/

life in you./

Here’s some soulfood/

for you to chew./

Fried chicken/

goes good/

with this cold/

sweet tea/

that I speak;/

I’m chill/

with or without/

the pill./

With the quill/

I feel like/


holding onto/




the size/

of titans./

There’s no rapper/

out here/

that you can/


to my writing./

It’s like/

comparing a/


to a lycan./

Within the light/

of a full moon,/

I’m plotting/

on the next/

person I’ll be/


Jack Frost/


at noses,/

while I/

compose this/

bait your ears/

can’t escape./

Lyrics are golden/

and the flow/

is frozen;/


to your mental/

like a/



A hero/

to Sub Zero,/

just in case/

you haven’t/


I kombat/


behind closed doors/

and out/

in the open./

The touchscreen’s/


getting beat up/

from what my/





getting lunged/

at your/


every time/

you read my/

spirit’s comments./

I’m pretty/


but I come with/


as promised./

Like a wizard,/

I waive my hands,/

then BAM!/

There’s a blizzard;/

slicing up these/

ice cold loaves/

for your soul./

Edward Scissor/


this work of art/

to your first,/

second, and third,/


I hope you/

took my inner/

vision to heart./

Lyrics are/


saw some/


See you a few/

weeks before/



Untitled IV I

Footnotes I wrote will make your hands clap,/  as my mind floats around the idea of how to make these bands snap./  Looking for money, like an animated bear looks for honey./  If the paper was a circus, I’m clowning these nouns./  But the content found ain’t funny style./  Unorthodox at how I form these thoughts./ Commonly, the paper used to laugh at my lack of creation./  Watch out.  I’m looking at the clock./  Watch how I come back with a vengeance on this sentence./ I know…  it’s sensless./ Which is why I’m taking a census/ of the paper population./  Yet, it’s so many electronic devices being created./Either way, catch what I spit with your face.  No disrespect.  If you want, I can shoot lead at your head; inject ink to where you think–quicker than an  eye blink./ Now, I got you hooked.  Made you look/ at a post I composed on Facebook./  This soulfood, I know, it tastes so good./  Rappers with materalistic lyrics claim they’re so hood./  Give them the Gospel instead of giving them the blues;/rubbing short term riches in their face ’cause they ain’t got Red bottom shoes./  You fool!  I thought we went back like the days we were in school./  You may want to diminish my accomplishments but you can’t relinquish my penmanship or consciousness./  I stay woke like insomnia,/  while others sleep on me like an air mattress./  Chopping up dope  lines–Colombia./  Ski on these mountainous words I write or speak./ You, and a part of me, want me to go downhill to chill, before I reach my peak./  Ay. Why are you trying to do me like that, B./  See, I’m just spreading the Christian religion for a living./  Words of thought become works of art./  An art gallery is what I’m presenting./  Written sentences exhibit hidden opinions/ of the artist formerly called sinner./   In this lost world, we eventually discover we’re winners./  I pray we realize that before the sun goes down.  Hopefully, we make it home before dinner;/ before the beast comes out to eat,/ and our lives are finished./  Here’s one of many memoirs I leave behind for the ear of an unnamed apprentice./  Associate my words with a game of word association.  This is oral hygiene.  Call me a dentist./  These morals I scream give clear vision like Visine./  Intoxicating words is what I lean/ on.  Conveying God’s messages is the soundtrack to my life’s theme song./  What’s left of this inward feeling must be right, ’cause my own self won’t leave me alone./  Left to my own vices, I get enticed when I feel I have a license to act opposite of when my lips were light skinned./ Wrongs, I write them.  Before I went left, I was right then./  Before idols were rivals and lied to me about my title, God was my Titan.  With these rhymes, I’m at the line just practicing some free throws./  They peeped the routine.  Now they think they’re the designer of my genes./  Beneath the dirt stains in these denims,/ lies the durability of a ninety year old living/ being who’s only reading what his soul is spitting./ Rooted in dirt like racism, I’ve been here longer than Thanksgiving./  I blow fire as it snows./  You melt away months after Christmas./  Why are you sprinting in a race that’s long distance?/  With praise, I’m just trying to end every page with an exclamation point in a book that’s been long written./  Insanity is the current state of where my decision making borders./How befitting that my flesh is flipping double sided quarters while my pay phone’s out of order./ What’s going on?  It’s out of order when disrespect is respected./  I’ve been feeding my malnutritioned expression with life lessons.  Misinterpreted jokes have me sadder than most./  I take humor serious.  Comically, I’m a stand-up serial killer.  I ain’t happy ’til I see everyone choke/ off of literal experiences or the ones my imagination evokes./Threaten me with seeds dropped from your family tree, but I’m going to be me, unapologetically, until my eyes close./  Plus, you better be worried about damage control if I explode./  Don’t mind me as I detonate brilliance or a resemblance of rage in your face./  A silent assassin who’s silently practicing stabbing your ear drums while you’re jaw jacking./  Pardon the interruption, but I’m packing raw rhymes in these paws of mine./  My bark runs cats up bark./  My bite marks leave flesh wounds that’ll accompany you to your tomb./  I spit like K-9’s foaming at the mouth; drooling a pool of game in your brain./  Words roam in your domain.  Dream about my dreams.  It smells like teen spirit–Kurt Cobain.  These poems are the bomb–BANG!/  Hot words are fueled by propane./  Mushroom clouds I exhale./  Yeah, I’m just trying to avoid jail and hell./  Well, I’m also avoiding uphill balances in the mail./  Life inspires the pen, Yet my penmanship is inspired by the Wind./  I read that Jesus’ red blood blew my sins away./  Why be blue when the skies are gray./ The Son’s still out.  Here’s some shades./  This nomadic lyrical content is all over the place./

Superb with Adverbs; Terrific with Adjectives (Super N**** 3)

You heard that I was superb with adverbs, and terrific with adjectives./

Can you imagine the fear found in nouns, when I ad-lib./

Raw lyrics need no additives.  Afterwards, practice/

some abstinence.  Like intercourse, I enter your core with extravagance./

I’ll make a Ric Flair entrance on you and your henchman./

The hip hop superhero can appear in person or through an ink pen./

My hands are registered weapons.  Sharp lyrics cut through thick skin./

If you try to run, you’re dumb.  When I run, I carry dust like Pig Pen/

or a dope dealer.  The doctor said you had Ebola, but my quotes are iller./

Audibly, I fight crime when I recite rhymes./

I pass out hope to folks like I’m supposed to./

I blast out dope to ear lobes anywhere.  I’m bicoastal./

Figuratively speaking, dope being dope words spoke over/

beats social.  Not only am I fly on the move, but motionless, I float too./

My sidekick only amplifies my vocals./

There aren’t many speakers Mic and I are close to./

I’m in your cornea like Cornel West;/

trying to get you to see my dream like Martin Luther King./

My hope is this; that we can all make it to the promised land./

I’ll be Moses.  With laser-like focus, I shoot beams in your bloodstream/

to heat up your self esteem–no hocus pocus./

My colossal power will make your microbes cower./

I’m so sweet over beats that the antidote for the poison I wrote is sour/

D.  I eat beats and mc’s everyday and my rate of pay is hourly./

I spit gifts like your birthday or December 25th./

I’m like Santa Clause minus the myth./

Musical content is like Bob Marley minus the spliff./

Instead of birds, I flip words.  I’m like a gymnast, minus the splits./

A King with Words, your Highness, is in your midst./

I used to be a king with herb, but I had to waive bye to it./

Since there are no super lyricists left, let me get right to it./

Look up to me!  I’m in the sky, blowing through it./

Blowing away the competition; atomic bomb./

I blew away your system and existence./

No temper tantrums.  I go off and get lost like I went camping./

Call 911 as I assault your ear drums, while I’m lamping;/

shedding light to those vampin’./

In the darkness, how can you tell who’s fallen or who’s standing?/

My lyrics are upright–homo sapien style./

Your lyrics are primitive–similar to an ape in the wild./

Watch me evolve into a alien from far out./

It’ll take you light years to reach my car and house./

Designed rap lines get you higher than cosmic dust./

These rappers  are so backwards; in love with money/

yet yelling, “In God, we trust”./

My bars are open to serve-night, light, or dusk./

No hits, but I’m nice with or without gloves./

Physically, I can impose my will, while lyrically, I expose my skill./

Figurative sentences become literal, for real./

If you got summer in your waistline,/

I got January where I say rhymes./

Cold flows got your hands frost bitten./

I decrease the room temp when I’m spittin’./

My style’s free; off the top, or handwritten./

No chain glistening, because I get shine when my name is mentioned./

These power lines channel currents.  The pen is an extension/

cord.  I’m bored.  I guess I’ll go fight crime, while Evil is flinching./

Still Fly (Super N**** 2)

Racial slurs are heard a mile away, or as close as a next door neighbor./

Now, what will move you next door to your Maker/

is calling me a nigger./  That just ain’t ok, sir./

My anger is supposed to be directed to villains and their evil capers./

In losing my temper, my fist may find its way to your face first./

I’d hate to treat you like a ball, and throw you into space–Nerf./

Authorities will want to lock me up until the end of this age./

But, I’ll escape as fast as the reader get to the end of this page./

If anyone, in opposition, steps in my way,/

I’ll make the environment look like hell, in a way./

My name is Willie Black and those, in power, think I’m just another silly black./

How silly is that; to test Mr. Olympia on steroids, with fists, knives, and gats./

When I was 6+9, a while back, I was really fat./

I felt overlooked, quite camouflaged in fact./

I felt as useless as a toothless dog’s impact./

In this world full of K-9’s, cats get attacked./

I felt as though a maxi pad I had, because I was getting hit from the back;/

being injured from words and knuckles to the back of my skull–it was getting cracked./

Bullying produced anger, which in turn, bred danger./

Now, with these extraordinary abilities, you’ll look like a stranger/

to the people you used to hang with./

When I beat you down, I’ll exaggerate your facial expressions like a clown./

Then, go fly in the sky after I’ve stomped you 6 feed deep in the ground./

My temper is my my nemesis and can cause my progress to be limited./

Though Almost a genius, my past actions have been dimwitted./

I blind-sided a blind guy.  He didn’t see the truck I picked up.  I hit’em with it./

A female dog is what he called me.  Rage took over.  I had to get him with it./

To make my mood serene, I relax with a brew and some green./

This makes me glide through the sky, with a lean./

Distractions like these hinder goal-oriented actions, indeed./

At the house, on the couch, I just wanna lay around and dream./

All of this physical talent, yet I’m challenged to stay clean./

Bud Light and kryptonite, among other things, seem/

to weaken laser beams in my eye, when I shoot./

Crime is what I’m inclined to stop every time I suit/

up.  Up and away; I decided to give your eyes a nice view/

of an extraordinary human who can kick butt without the use/

of kung-fu.  I’m faster than a speeding bullet out of your gun too./

But when I have problems, I have no one to run to./

What would happen, if I picked up a mic and started rapping?  Check 1-2./


Ain’t I Christ

You got to nowhere to put my soul, when my eyes close./

Standing like a mannequin, you ain’t real, you just pose./

You won’t have the final say so on how may day goes./

My round character won’t allow you to box me in./

I’m a free spirit, you can’t lock me in./

My pen is used for lock pickin’./

Thought I had time; my clock nearly stopped tickin’./

Study your clumsy life to model?  Stop trippin’./

In this age of information, we crave information./

We  wanna sound intelligent, but to God, appear to be negligent./

I’m guilty in some respects.  To change, I need not to be so hesitant./

Before I can lead to change, I must leave this evil with haste./

I won’t demoralize you guys and be fooled with my eyes, because I see a blemish./

I won’t put a limit on your lives.  I don’t wanna confirm to the nation in ways/

identical to social media, and inform the nation in ways/

of USA Today.  Who’s gonna stop the U.S.?  Wait…/

Isis?  I’m a terrorist to these lyrical derelicts./

Cyber security being compromised is perilous./

Revealing sensitive information for mental rental is careless./

People will steal your identity; leaving you in debt–seeing a therapist./

“Hip Hop is Dead”.  That album’s the scariest./

Rapper’s subject matter is tart.  I ain’t trying to cherry pick./

Cocaine rap blows.  Who always wants to hear about curb play?/

Propane raps.  Let’s go— elevate your mind state to where bird’s stay./

Why do some black males reminisce about their crack sales?/

Why do we visit, mentally, where the past dwells?/

Of course, we shouldn’t forget where we come from./

But I ain’t about to hang around where we hung from./

Don’t be suckers to the media–hash tag, “dumb-dumbs”./

Every black doesn’t listen to rap, or illegal–run somethin’./

When white cops yell, “freeze!”, we stop, but our blood’s still runnin’./

Then they wanna sit up high like Christ./

Some folk bring hypocrisy to new heights./

Internet trolls seek attention behind screen lights/

of a computer.  Post illicit pics, then say they love Jesus,/

just to confuse ya./  Prove to the world we’re winning/

by taking money shots just to lose ya./

Instagram is making a fool of us/

or should I say we’re making a fool of ourselves./

The love of money shouldn’t be your pursuit of happiness./

It seems like multi-millionaires are happy less./

Jaz-Z’s money is strong, but social issues he carries less./

No dis, but just the truth leaked from the pen’s tip./

I still feel uneasy, when I turn on the TV; and see 2 men kiss./

Today, language is being used on the tube/

that would have never been spewed when I was a youth./

Alleged rape victims claim Cliff Huxtable is no longer huggable./

On a positive note, at least his sweaters were colorful./

Worldstar Hip Hop is only showing the world our culture’s destructible./

Let’s convey this to other races:/

We can be classy.  Ask me, can other races be classless?/

Of course, they can be./  There’s a lot of chaos running rampant in this land./

The stage is grand for the appearance of the AntiChrist to be glam./

​Throw Away the Ciroc, It’s The Roc

The love of money is the root of all evil./
Selling your soul while branding yourself,/

and spreading vile behavior to your people./

Instead of promoting liquor,/

try to promote the Guy in scripture;/

The One who made lakes and rivers;/

Who fashioned the sky and Earth/

with the simple utterance of His Word./

Forget throwing gang signs./

My sins, on a cross, is where He threw mine./

My light blings brighter than a Jesus piece./

That Light I display in your face also brings peace./

That Light shines rhymes in my mind that I show off on the mic./

With praise, I break in a dance./

Looking at atheists, who believe in aliens,/

in my b-boy stance./

He spray painted his Word on my heart-/


Spiritually, the DJ plays music through me./

Music so heavenly, it’s in sync with my heartbeat./

For the sneaker heads, peep this in your head,/

wouldn’t this be gorgeous:  imagine Jesus walking across water…in Jordan’s./

No grill, but I house jewels between my tongue and cheek;/

especially when God’s Word I repeat./

Demons are on a diet, because when God has my back, who wants beef?/

Random Ramblings ’17

​In a/


feeding flocks/

with Jesus,/

the blind see him./

The deaf hear His/

words as he reads’em./

The numb/

feels his thesis./

Peep this/


penning events/

in the winter-/

hotter than/


The outside’s cold;/

so is my soul,/

because from it/


the issues of life./

Playing hockey/

on thin ice,/


I shoot for goals./

Gotta still/

say no,/

even though/

we get enticed./

In the 80’s/

one of my/


tv shows/


Miami Vice./

Keep my/


cooler than Tubbs/

with ice./

Yet I/

go off/

like rockets./

Quick to cock it/

like Crockett./

I collect thoughts/

then sell them/

to your psyche./

I don’t do coke;/

just do it;/

these lines-/



I used to/

cling tightly/

to loose leaf/


Now I type these/


on smartphones/

and pc’s./


my graffiti./

An expressive/


treating your brain/

like public/


Fixing food/

for thought/

on your plate/

so sloppily./

Here’s some/

Greasy soul food/

with a side of/


I thew deuces/

to nooses/

and caught/

who the Truth is./

An acoustic/

nuisance who can/


your mood/

more than the flu./

Like the/


of a strong blast,/

I blew/

minds and blew fire/

through these raps./

Run fast./


You’ve been had,/

as I’m


your carcass/

on concrete./

You gasp/

at the sight/

of dragon;

grabbing mics/

and riding beats./

I’m monstrous/

on sheets,/

as I sneak/

from under/

the bed./

You were so scared,/

I knew you wouldn’t/

take a peak./

The boogie man./

When holding pens,/

its like I got/

a fully/

in my hand./

An automatic/



I spit full clips/

at your eyelids-/

in the form/

of ideas./

To be great,/

I realize/

I’ve got/

to have faith,/

in both myself,/

and Yahweh./

Watch me/

transmit this./

Broadcast a flash/

of brilliance/

in your vision./



that’s written,/

that then flows/

through your heart/

like your/



Translating Alien

Find the meaning/

with a flashlight beaming./

Can you find it?/

Context clues/

are inside/

my mind’s lining./


get lost/

when I translate/

my spirit’s/



my flesh/

has things it wants/

to suggest;/


when God/

wants me/


I hope you’re/


what my pen says./

Sometimes it feels/

as if I spit/

binary codes/

to 2 year olds./

No shade to those/

who run from/

the Son’s shine./

Who can relate, though?/

Positive messages,/

I convey most–/

a ton of times./

I put them/

in a ton a rhymes./

I want to give you/

something catchy,/

so you can catch the/

diamonds I mine./

Jewels, I drool,/

all over your/

giant mind./

Feel like a zombie/

to these/

evil people/

and their lying lines./

I inject thoughts/

you insects/

can’t ingest./

I speak Greek/

that you ants can’t/




I exhibit,/

when I/

scribble it,/

make some look/



what the pen/

intends for you to/

mentally capture./

Make Kodak moments/

of what/

I wrote that moment./

Poems went flowing/

straight from my dome/

to your mental home, then/

you realized/

my quotes/

were potent./

Divide and conquer./

That’s the quotient/

for influence/

on this planet/

of 5 oceans./

Understand what I/

stand over./

I stand over/

the world’s thinking/

like I’m looking/

over its shoulder./

A mystic/

who mentally/

grasps heavenly/


to release/

to your spirit/

or your inner/

ear drum/

to ensure/

you hear it./

These days/

I explain/

one’s physical/


in deep space/

to those/

in pre-K./

Make no sense, huh?/

You want to go/

to heaven,/

but feel/

you can’t move/

an inch, huh?/

Can you understand/

this friend?/

Powerful jaws/

make some flinch,/

while some of those/

same ones are/

after my skin./


and neurotic/

when the pen’s/

out of my pocket./

I just want you/

to understand/

this croc’s knowledge./


my broken/


from those/

who only/

talk money./

I compose/

solemn columns/

to those who think/

I talk funny./

In a single cell,/

I organize/




reside inside/

human spirits,/

even sequoias/

hear it./

Feel it,/

as my brain/

spills it./

Acrylic paint/

stains membranes–/

something fearless./

You couldn’t/

wash off/

thoughts or ideas/

with a wash cloth./

Understand my hand./

Foggiest ideas/

appear the clearest./



I pierce it./

Multi storied/

points of view/

won’t make/

me shoo/

a spider’s truth./

A discourse/

can be had/

over a course/

of alphabet/


Without feathers,/

I’m so fly./

Speaking to/

jellyfish about/

things in the sky./

Telling the blind/


things in my eye./

Telling the illiterate/


things I write./


to the deaf/


things I recite./

I communicate/

to cats how cheese taste./

Some of these rats/

will set traps/

or kill their own/

just for some cheesecake./

At S.C. State,/

life was so sweet then./

I blew green and,/

blacked out./

Yet, eyes were agape./

then I traveled past/

the Earth’s face./

In astro gear,/

I bring the cosmos/

to great/


I set sail/

on land./

My presence/

in your/



is like a king/

at roach motel./

I spray Raid in your face/

from these/

rhymes that I say;/
’cause y’all buggin’./

Sometimes I feel I’m/

speaking Russian to bugs./

Then, I hug them/

with substance./

I abuse/

mild mannered stanzas/

and bring gifts./

Call me Santa/

or a jewel thief./

I leave/

gems on beats/

or gold/

in the street./

Greet urban/


with the soul/

of a soul/

who used to/

travel dirt roads/

on the sole/

of his feet./

Speak old engish/

to a teen,/

then speak/

a teen’s english/

to the Queen./


the jury’s verdict/

of this wordsmith./


of spitting filthy,/

to a germaphobe,/

but I got a/

 clean flow./


about a/

mud truck race/

with someone/

with a clean flo(floor)./

My loyalty/

will be forever/

to poetry./

To it, I ain’t/

green though./

Shining like a/


light beam show./

Research my/

spirit’s thesis/

after I preach this./

My paper’s are in


A style guide/

for these/

style of rhymes./

Study my/

way with the pen./




in a language/

players of/

Nick Sabien/

can’t comprehend;/

translating alien/

to earthlings/

as the Earth spins./

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