BEGIN TRANSMISSION... "The audio digital molecular metaphysical biochemical revolution has just begun..."

walking walking always walking never standing can't be still because he thinks when he's still and his thoughts are frightening so he lives on the edge of reason on the wing of convincing under the guise of spontaneity always in need of in search of desperately trying to distance himself wandering away wasting away wishing he was back but no longer knows what back is where back is the arms of a loved one? the embrace the touch the connection disconnected lost service battery dead memory full and yet empty in an attempt to find a reason why thoughts turn to blame her me her you threw him away threw us away but who bought the ticket to ride who bought the shoes to walk who packed the bags who erased the numbers who changed the socks to walk away so he walks always in search of something more feeding the inate desire to find answers when questions werent even posed but having those answers granted some sort of restitution for existing for being there now here searching the ends of the earth for the definition of family for the meaning of life only to find fogged windows bitter cold solitude silence shadows and fascination with 1980 all the phases of life like phases of matter solid hearts broken liquid tears dripping away dreams relationships evaporating everything has come full circle everything now makes sense everything now has purpose but the price paid was it worth it so the nomad gathers his things packs his bags changes his socks and sets out on a new journey to find the answer to a new question disguised in a statement hiding behind a conclusion the nomad leaves again to find the answer  

Back when grass was green I knew I loved you, I longed for that magical sonata that crawled from your esophagus, lined with silk, every note drenched in sensuality, swimming in my ear canals doing the breast stroke, those cocoa vocal cords dripping down your lips, tasting every deep breath inhaled, making love to the choral arrangements with your voice moving octaves like bedrooms, how I’ve longed for the chance to hear you just one more time, one more evening out live performance, I want to kiss you a’capella, no backing band, just laughing hands tickling your ebony and ivory as I undress your symphonies down to the bare violin strings, searching for the piano keys that unlock your muse, all these compositions you create for me, remade horny, intoxicating the unspoken desires in the chorus, as we wait for glory to arise from the audience, jaws clenched, fingers gripping the songbook, sweat pouring from the bassoon’s mouth, I want you on the mixing board, revolving around each other like turntables, crediting ourselves for the seductive production, kissing you down your deep back for feedback, I love to shiver your spine like a slow bassline, opening you up, what I wouldn’t do to hear you sing my name to the rafters, wondering if I can breathe you in and lay you down, feel you quiver in my veins, just waiting to be kissed onto paper in indelible edible ink, marking off the notes as we do our final take, we gotta get this thing just right, I love to hear you in a photograph, see you on the phonograph, looking for the closest path to your body’s defenses and I will lower them like curtain calls, all the world’s a stage and we’re licking our way through the last act, every batted eye and bitten lip providing the perfect backbeat, keeping tempo with the rhythm of my fingertips tracing your curves like a guitar string, trying to find the perfect tone to match your skin tone, I was wondering if I could get an advance copy on your mixtape, so I can listen to those sounds over and over before the world gets a taste of you and ruins you for me, making you yesterday’s fad, the flavor of the month, so can I climb your charts, mount your top, and spin you around my airwaves? Download you into my mental mp3 player so I can listen to your body for free? you permeate through my mind like digital audio, you’re that one song I can’t seem to get out of my head, baby i'm just hoping to make the thank you notes...

I live for your next scandal, popping paparazzi pills to see you in funny colors, monochromatic sex dreams of TMZ, media hearts bleeding newspaper print india ink on Page Six, come lay with me in a bed of lies, we’ll eat X, Y and Z and make tabloid love for an inquiring nation…the star ledger made a star out of heath ledger, immortalizing him through commitment to infamy by reciting his epitaph with a pentagram and a vial of denial, when mixed with alcohol will kill you…the ticker tape funeral parade was a bit early because there were no celebrity deaths this week, only MTV and the internet, if you believe in them, but just when you think it’s safe to think again, think again: some blog-forsaken social color commentator speaks about 9/11 and 9/10 and 9/9 and the others we didn’t see because we were too busy breathing Britney Spears air, so let’s do the political twist on the cutting-room floor, give Bush his own spin-off series to make him feel relevant again, now he can choke on pretzels in primetime, while Condi and Colin pale in comparison to Palin’s shenanigans…it’s a media circus, trapeze mp3s falling through inter-nets and crashing through economies, whisked away to Bill O’Reilly’s Spin Zone on wash rinse repeat for dirty laundry politic lovers, always folding, we all fall prey to Rupert Gepetto’s Fox News Pinocchio, his nose invading our private areas…sit and stare at the new boob tube, peering through open windows 7 and playing voyeur as we watch Michelle Obama undress herself and slip into something more political, all while health care bills sing “let’s get physical”, but only if you pay your premiums, unleaded, diesel cuz we’re gassed, masses looking for the next breadlines that were only made for the headlines, once the fifteen seconds of shame ends, the next inside scoop of bullshit begins, shoveled onto our willing tongues, and we’re so Oliver Twisted that we ask for more…up to the minute dividends of information for filler between the boob jobs and nose jobs, even Madden’s wondering who’s quarterbacking this media blitz?

Triangular eyesight of the all-knowing horus forewarns us of foreboding three sided answers to every heads and tails: good, evil and the unknown…some throne we painted milleniums ago in the likeness of God for fear of something higher than Him, every celebrity with a head filled with something more than starbucks flavors or botched dye jobs must be in on this sacred secret, so we’re taught, sleeping sphinxes rethink this illusionary illuminati proven luminous in a dark world crying for freedom of the mind, but even in the light we can’t see the illuminated illusions before us, fremasons or mason marchella? Made in china by mase and puff, blaze and puff, pass, baseheads that are in the know still live in the social basement because poverty is all a scheme created by reagan reagan reagan reagan singing pagan songs of rain-men with coiled horns, imaginations boiled warm on the conspiracy theory stove that becomes the norm fascinated by numerology, we count off how many dead celebrities it takes to screw in the light bulb to enlighten the masses by causing chaos or changing channels, the nielson number nine ratings of a revolution revealing there were, in fact, nine beatles that called lennon god (scarabs and dung included) but we ask Jesus to lend us God when praying to carpets no longer works… 2pac was Machiavelli, spewing infernal dante’s inferno recitatives to thug life audiences, but what makes a king a king? Seven-day theories or getting around? So jaded we are that we find time in our busy lives to make pariahs out of Mariah Carey and the like and swear we were given rights to pass judgment on government actions when anyone with sense knows that anyone with cents mows the lawns of anyone with dollars, those privileged few in the private sector, so we feud with prophets that fuel the knowledge to some day rule the projects, instead choosing to pop, lock and drop it, even bob crotchit couldn’t convince tiny tim to dance a jig on his one leg, playing peekaboo with jigaboos, octaroons locked in octagons for death matches, leaning on the crutches we use to walk our sins off… three source magazines ago, Jay-Z ruled five-percent of nubia with promises of platinum and diamonds, but when diamonds were mined from the blood of the veins of Johannestan, we blew up, ran to the lower east because the middle east was busy bullshitting, and sang songs of protest, harmonizing the harrowing carols of change like “change clothes”, allying the world under the three-sided diamond, delta letters signing delta blues in the nation of greek islam… in search of higher learning we’ve all signed suicide pacts of heroin track marks where artists mark tracks off to encourage the fiends to scratch harder at their turntables and veins…barking at neutered bitches trying to litigate naked and wax sexuality on videotapes, allowing golden showers to pass lips through chalices, but not even platinum glasses can mask what was drank, atone for yourself by watching the television magnifying glass, looking towards the light fantastic, turned on, tuned in and dropped out equals turned on by collagen lips, tuned in to college hill on BET and dropping out of college, those who weren’t watched over… so the light bulb burns brighter as we revert back to ignorance just to be on the safe side, both sides burning bright at the end of the candlestick jack is dancing around till jack is laying slumped in a dallas motorcade, giving his wife a piece of his mind, and only camelot knows if the grassy knoll indeed blew a magic bullet kiss, but Abraham sent press to set precedents on dead president expose’s, but there’s no way we can deliver the autopsy photos without the bright flash bulbs burning black and white images forever in our minds, snapping pics like alligator jaws, all the allah prayers fall on deaf ears when promises of virgins turn to fairy dust snorted and sniffed by the CNNemy and vomited into our listening ears news of the latest terrorist plot, the family dog is a terrorist cell bent on retaliation for leash laws… So sayeth Nostradamus that in a thousand years, the world will have skies and clouds and oxygen and grass and people would populate it, and sometime in the future the world will end, or we’ll just close our eyes and not see it anymore, and we were all amazed because his prediction came true…