The Dead Emcee Scrolls by Saul Williams

fish.
    Who me? I play scales. The scales of
    dead fish of oil-slicked seas. My sister
    blows wind through the hollows of fallen
    trees. And we are the echoes of eternity.
    Maybe you’ve heard of us.
    We do rebirths, revolts, and resurrections.
    We threw basement parties in pyramids.
    I left my tag on the wall. The beats would
    echo off the stone and solidify into the
    form of lightbulbs, destined to light up
    the heads of future generations. They
    recently lit up in the form of: BA BOOM
    BOOM OM. Maybe you’ve heard of us.

CHAPTER 5
    If not then you must be trying to hear us
    and in such cases we cannot be heard. We
    remain in the darkness, unseen. In the center
    of unpeeled bananas, we exist. Uncolored by
    perception. Clothed to the naked eye. Five
    senses cannot sense the fact of our existence.
    And that’s the only fact. In fact, there are no
    facts.
    Fax me a fact and I’ll telegram a hologram
    or telephone the son of man and tell him he
    is done. Leave a message on his answering
    machine telling him there are none. God and
    I are one. Times moon. Times star. Times sun.
    The factor is me. You remember me.

CHAPTER 6
    I slung amethyst rocks on Saturn blocks
    until I got caught up by earthling cops. They
    wanted me for their army or whatever. Picture
    me: I swirl like the wind. Tempting tomorrow
    to be today. Tiptoeing the fine line between
    everything and everything else. I am simply
    Saturn swirling sevens through sooth. The sole
    living heir of air. And I (inhale) and (exhale) and
    all else follows. Reverberating the space inside of
    drum hollows. Packaged in bottles and shipped to
    tomorrow, then sold to the highest NGH.
    I swing from the tallest tree. Lynched by
    the lowest branches of me. Praying that
    my physical will set me free ’cause I’m
    afraid that all else is vanity. Mere language
    is profanity. I’d rather hum. Or have my
    soul tattooed to my tongue. And let the
    scriptures be sung in gibberish. ’Cause
    words be simple fish in my soulquarium.
    And intellect can’t swim.

CHAPTER 7
    So, I stopped combing my mind so my
    thoughts could lock. I’m tired of trying
    to understand. Perceptions are mangled,
    matted, and knotted anyway. Life is more
    than what meets the eye and I.
    So, elevate eye to the third. But even that
    shit seems absurd when your thoughts
    leave you third eye-solated. No man is an
    island. But I often feel alone. So find peace
    through OM.

OM

CHAPTER 1
    Through meditation I program my heart
    to beat break beats and hum bass lines
    on exhalation. BA BOOM BOOM OM.
    I burn seven-day candles that melt into
    12-inch circles on my mantle and spin
    funk like myrrh. BA BOOM BOOM OM.
    And I can fade worlds in and out with my
    mixing patterns. Letting the earth spin as I
    blend in Saturn. NGHs be like spinning
    windmills, braiding hair, locking, popping,
    as the sonic force of the soul keeps the planets
    rockin.
    The beat don’t stop when soul-less matter
    flows into the cosmos trying to be stars.
    The beat don’t stop when earth sends out
    satellites to spy on Saturnites and control
    Mars.
    â€™Cause NGHs got a peace treaty with Martians
    and we be keepin’em up to date through sacred
    gibberish like “Sho Nuff” and “It’s on.” The
    beat goes on. The beat goes on. The beat goes
    OM. BA BOOM BOOM OM.

CHAPTER 2
    And I roam through the streets of downtown
    Venus tryin’ to auction off monuments of Osiris’
    severed penis. But they don’t want no penis in
    Venus, for androgynous cosmology sets their
    spirits free.
    And they neither men nor women be. But they be
    down with a billion NGHs who have yet to see that
    interplanetary truth is androgynous.
    And they be sendin us shout outs through shootin
    stars. And NGHs be like, “what up?” and talking
    Mars.’Cause we are solar and regardless of how
    far we roam from home the universe remains our
    center, like OM. BA BOOM BOOM OM.

CHAPTER 3
    I am no