Adapting to the ruins of intellect, I realize there was never much there to begin with. Getting by was only as hard as believing in something to live for. All I found was industry, nicotine’s tar paving the tree-lined streets of my lungs, streets where deer stop and stare at me as if I were some type of endangered species of headlight. They’ve arranged the pieces, split their profits with bread knives, they tread through night—but it’s too bright peering through the collage of Hubble’s cloudy kaleidoscope. So frail, as if protected by hope, claiming everything’s not relative. They’ve erected scaffolding around the skeletons of working stiffs, convincing that faith fosters bliss but so does ignorance. You run the risk of being dead and still awaiting rescue, firing flare guns off in your coffins. Now trees fall in the forest so often and no one but the government’s there to hear it and bear witness—unlike the song which still won’t make a difference but to put an end to it we gotta start: The truth’s a dead star waiting between my lips like actors before curtains part…

Pitch-shifter, rising star or descend in the mixture—flickering pictures captured. Quake too large to detect on your Richter. My classic seismographic so drastic, has wack MC’s reacting with nothing left to salvage, these savages try unwrapping my gift but there’s no address on the package and no postage, so you never receive the diagnosis. I hold this crooked industry for ransom, diagonal process of lopsided hostages mocks the locksmith who doesn’t knock first. Lyrics I concoct burst, shattering your spine with no prosthetic reimbursal. These crucified clock hands tick-tock works off mechanically improvised rhyme rehearsal, like hip-hop innovators appearing in commercials—to me that’s just role reversal. I’m idol energy while in place you run D, you’re the prequel, well, I equal MC squared—you’re not prepared for two of me. Fifty legs each on both sides of one centipede. My own contender, borrower verses lender, four red-chip connector. While you borrow verses from pretenders, I’m Poindexter—I’ll walk five hundred miles extra with iron in my blood rusting, trying to pass customs, crunching through metal detectors to fluster inspectors and reach hip-hop Mecca. Fuck this rhyme, I’ll write something better…