Powerfool

No power then, no power now.
No power has ever been powerful enough
To pull me off the ground when I needed it.
The gateway to Heaven has been paved,
But the gates are now closed.
God handed me the key,
But it unlocked what’s below.
So down I go. Down I went.
Sent from heaven, heaven sent.
From the clouds I descend, to the ground I repent.
You think I peaked in high school?
I peaked when I was six.
Less support than a barstool.
I sound like a drummer with no sticks.
I leaked like a faucet, closed door like a closet
Of a gay man whose father told him he’s abolished
From the fam. He’s an abomination
Of the enter name here clan.
But that’s OK-K-K by me me me.
That’s OK-K-K by him.
He’s honeybaked, make no mistake
That’s more than okay for him.
Side table. Side debate.
Pass the gravy, pass the yams.
What’s the yams? Just a plate o’ potato grapes.
Nothing to do wit who I am.
Merely a first mate. Merely a blank slate.
A hypothesized contradiction.
So what was it all about? What am I all about?
I have less brains than a head that’s been scalped.
These scatter brained thoughts, like dollars out the vault,
Can be traced but serve no purpose if held victim to a torch’s assault.
So torture me, hypocrisy. See if I give a fault.
A fuck. A fuck. A fuck. Go run a muck.
At the end of day, your opinion won’t stick, it’ll be stuck.
Stuck the landing. I’m handing out hand me downs like party favors.
Save your sighs. Save em for later.
Save em for someone who actually cares.
I dare you.
Or waste your breath on the uncsicous, cool collective.
How’s that for obnoxious when the fool is respected?

To Pimp a Butterfly

I am a bit reluctant to admit it, but To Pimp a Butterfly is probably the best album of all time. It is the great American novel of this generation. It's a Pollock. It’s a Picasso. It’s a Monet with an impression so complex that you have to be outside of the stratosphere to see it correctly. Even then, you can’t tell if the image itself is out of focus or if your vision is blurry, forever questioning if you're viewing it the way it was intended to be seen. It cannot be compared to other albums. It’s simply unfair. It’s not music. It transcends far beyond that. After this release, I will no longer question if Kendrick is the greatest rapper of all time, but rather one of the greatest artists of all time. Kudos to his laundry list of producers. To write an accompaniment that appropriately matches Kendrick's unorthodox flow and quick-witted, quick on the trigger lyricism was surely no easy feat. The album could stand alone with only the accompaniment. The album could stand alone with only the vocals. Combine the two: the latest sacred text. To Pimp a Butterfly is nothing short of a religious experience. To Pimp a Butterfly is God granting your entry into Heaven. To Pimp a Butterfly is a buzzer beating swish through the net. Game over. 

#endrant Just my opinion. 

The Alex Show - Episode 70

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

Oh, who am I kidding? Talking to myself. Insert scoff here. Talking myself out of this and talking myself out of that as if I am my own judge and jury. I'm not. I don't come to terms. I don't reach a verdict. I merely carry out the actions based on what I am dealt. I am the executioner.

ASIDE: There I go again. Deeming myself the "executioner?" One second I am an ant, the next I am the master of the universe... the next second I am the shit of an ant.

Talking to myself is not an empty task so long as I address the audience.

ASIDE: But let's be honest...

… I created an audience to discredit God.

FLASH FLASH FLASH SPIN SPIN SPIN

Insert text. Insert flashes. Insert spins. Create. Backspace. Manipulate. Post.

ASIDE: There's a thin line between creation and manipulation. I'm tiptoeing both sides.

If man gives child a gun to to play with and the child accidentally shoots himself, the child is not considered suicidal. If man gives child a gun to to play with and the child accidentally - or intentionally, even - shoots someone else, the child is not considered homicidal. The child is not to blame. Man should know better. Man created child. Man is to blame.

ASIDE: But who created man?

COUNTER ATTACK: If you are dealt a shit hand, and lose your life savings, does the blame fall on the dealer or you? Sure, the dealer played his part: he dealt your cards. However, there would be no cards to deal if you had not initially placed your bet. So who is to blame?

No one. No one is to blame. We hold God accountable for all of our actions.

ASIDE: Thank God.

- afm

The Alex Show - Episode 69

I keep thinking I'm the screenwriter and forgetting I am, in fact, the protagonist. Perhaps they are one in the same. Either way, I am reaping none of the benefits. All cost and no reward. Life has been one cleverly placed booby trap after another. One would assume that after being beguiled time and time again the bewilderment would fade, that I would point out the gun long beforehand and disregard its illustrious power and well-burnished allure, that I would be smart enough to avoid the bullet after I stumble upon the trigger. Or maybe I do see past the gun. Maybe all I see is a myriad of inescapable strings. Maybe - just maybe - I've been tripping on them with calculated sincerity the whole time. Maybe I enjoy the fall. After all, something is always there to catch me.

If action is premeditated by thought, and thought is premeditated by influence, then how can anyone truly be held accountable for their actions? 

ASIDE: Either way, I've been shot.

- afm