Quiet Times

Playing my role to the hilt is my realest solution.
"Rock and roll ain't noise pollution."
I'm prone to slaphappy rap in haste, that's no bull.
I wouldn't have grown hair to my waist if I didn't want it pulled.
"Sink your teeth right through my bones baby, see what we can do. You make it hurt so good. Come on baby make it hurt so good, sometimes love don't feel like it should, you make it hurt so good."

Most days I look to be moved. Humans are mostly water so I'm mostly fluid and constantly intuitive. Mental real estate is pure rock n' roll. Blitzkrieg Bop in my stroll. It's beyond my control. Nothing to prove, but still, no option but to do. So many rotten dues, cotton mouth too. Straight talk- I got no fucking clue how my moxy and groove ever gets mistaken for confident and smooth. But if that's what my peeps see then I'ma just keep doing me. Though I keep waiting to wake up and be back in my teens. On my own by ten and six, learning quick. Always on two feet, always having to fight with pissed off testosterone toys and husbands over jealousy and shit. Always ripping into me. I never considered those episodes victories. Just stressed out chodes in my history. So now that's intrinsic to the slippery quips of Loki. Survival of the vicious and prolific. Arrival of the quickest.

Subconscious escalation. I can't help how I scan the situation. Self-made man, still making me on every statement. Every land I wake up in? "I don't give a damn about my bad reputation." I don't want games or strife. I'm not in my 20's anymore a'ight? Rolling in every lane, extolling change 'cause there's always plenty and still more. Distilled lore. Extended presence forward like starlight aura. Amour? Always more in store. For me a yes often means a yes for life, but for now? Just be my Joan Jett tonight. I'm just trying to get shit right. So please don't be surprised if you hear Etta James tomorrow when I just need to hold you tight.

Rhyme is unnecessary. Just an ADHD release.
Some days I think it's just playing out the strength of my identity.
We all die. Our legacy is the only thing we take with us. Fuck.
I keep falling for that trap.
Stupid self-validation in every statement.
Addiction to rhythm and cadence.
Doing this shit even when no one's around. Wake up and freestyle for an hour.
"Stolen crown"? I keep spitting that.
It's just holding down defiance against being an intellectual clown. An entertainment monkey, a jukebox hero. Push this guy's buttons, he's fast, good for facts, laughs, whatever you need he's on that. Degrading ass shit.
Laugh at the world, then run self-analysis.
Even that's just defense against haters' and hecklers' malice.
Wish I could express raw truth without worrying about high impact verbal dynamic effects.
But Bill Hicks already did that shit.
Keep trying to change my brainwaves with 2 or 3 books a week, twice as many comics and articles a day at least.
Clark Kent vision on every scene, feeding the Beast.
Teaching my Librarian Queen about Wu Tang, Dead Prez and Killah Priest.
Half the time she sums up my rhymes with a single brushstroke.
I s'pose every woman in my life prolly sees right through everything I ever wrote.

My Tiger brothers know my real pain. They don't act impressed, just respect the real me.
It's the underdeveloped emotional cripples, the lesser toys who hate up with envy.
Always looking to start, to buck my position. A single win to them would be such a trophy.
So Loki is a constant back pocket condition. "Every verse came at a price."
I'd rather speak with my eyes and actions.
Cycle for an hour across town in the rain.
Cook dinner for a friend, then leave, go back home alone. Another hour again.
Or deliver medicine to those in pain. Chill with my elders all weekend. Chosen fam. Enough of my own chose to not give a damn so I chose my grandma and everyone sacred to me. Teach my nephews how to skateboard and fight. Make every moment count.
But dedication often amounts to being not what anyone's used to.
If I could to it all without speech that'd be cool too.
And I've tried. Oh Goddess I've come close.
So many times. Do the mission without hesitation or complaining. Never mind. Never whine. Show up soaked. Jealous punk-ass bitches answer the door. Like they already know what I'm there for.
That's about all they know.

"Hey Noah. Nice Captain America hoodie. ha ha."
"Naw man, this ain't a hoodie. It's a Captain America onesie under my leather."
"Really? That's baby-ish. Lame. ha ha!"
"Yeah? We'll see what your roommate says when she sees it. You two fucktards can just stand outside the door and pretend it's an Herbal Essences commercial you're hearing. Now step aside."

I don't even relish the shocked faces. I was just on my mission. I hadn't figured on saying a word. They just had to trigger the alpha nerd.
That's why I do what I do. Foot massages, TLC, close listening, even when it's platonic, remembering conversations verbatim for years. Reflect back to please the ears. Set a laugh.
The ones who really get me expect nothing. Just accept comfortable silences or ask questions.
Half-rate defects suspect genetic competition and spout off their assumptions.
Fucking frame job.
Then wonder how and why they always get spanked and humiliated by someone who hadn't said a word in an hour.
Like Silent Bob with selective Tourette's.
That's just the bare me. Rhyme is unnecessary.
I just want to be in the moment.
That's my real language.
The rest of this shit is just pressure release.