shit talkin'

at the very edge of who i think i am, shaking. the discipline and focus needed to activate one's dreams takes, more often than not, if the vision is original, an entire lifetime. i see artists in this time clinging to markets, numbers, dollars, cosigns, alliances, and bright lights. i suppose not much has changed.

when i started rapping, to me, it seemed obvious this art form speaks directly to the animus of the person. it goes beyond the vessel and taps into the deep murk, the darkest umbra of self. and swirling around in the toilet basin of our collective unconscious there is, unsurprisingly, lots of trauma.

but what else?

that feels like my question, my purpose, my sight. what else is there down here? lots of detritus, lots of broken pieces of pablum and nonsense, but i have always loved spare parts. what can i make of these? at first it was nerd-hop, then art rap, then poetry, now simply rappin'.

what is it these artists are grasping for? the academy has no answers. silicon valley has no answers. broadway has no answers. hollywood is vacant. the live stream contaminated.

the chitlin circuit hoppin doe. the dive bar stretches on, infinitely.
there's a minivan waiting for me in a lot in toledo.

as a creative it is imperative i do not wait to be saved.

stationed in tennessee now, writing among spirits and goblins, all ghouls have been banished.
my vision is undisturbed and my focus powerful. i want for nothing. i have carved a safe space from lava, i roast marshmallows from my perch and ponder the illustrious.

reader, know in your soul, life is a tremendous and beautiful thing.

find me in nashville, on the eastside, whippin zebedee wit my little lord.

my life is my offering to my craft.
i will never give up.

-rf