napping under the Echo Tree

The vibe is big, the room is small

  

 When I was boxing with Vallejo in Albany Park

 It's already dark, and I'm scared of that

 Or was it with Hank Dumas in Oakland

 By the lake where I openly argued with my fates

 Coin purse bulging, loin cloth bulging

 How is it these words are my ointment still?

 Measuring years by tooth decay

 And ruthless stratagems played

 In the game of knights

 I would describe myself as the Yoshimitsu of Boyle Heights

 Most boastful over bowls of rice

 Like I'm Caesar with the soul of...

 It's just a feeling, really

 That being who has her being and pointing at what is

 Admittedly I stare at her finger's soul

 Herein defined is that in which spirit has its being

 Soul power, soul power, soul power

 This is the green horse for rap

 I'm putting my money on the green horse for rap

 Listen, the beginning is the illusion

 It is the iron veil concealing the origin

 But here I am with a key

 This is protected

 Steadfast, intimate concentration

 I've been gathering

 Gathering more and more of the lesson-less

 In the wastelands, gathering, waning

 In my being, gathering everything's constant intention

 That how-did-he-say gathered, all gathering thinking that recalls

 That devotional organ, my memory, I remember

 The riddle written on my rib cage

 The eternal recurrence of the same

 The being of all becoming

 The hammer and the heaviest thought banged into absurdity

 I wasted my life microwaving jalapeno poppers

 A love song for whom socks represent eudaimonia