((((((antennas))))))

ACE
this animal style is like an annual trial / trying to turn state’s evidence with a manual dial / that’s hard / now zoom in and tune in to my frequency / steppin to the am, I slam em all in secrecy / my sound waves go deeper than underground caves / pitchin in Atlanta / you know I’m mowin down Braves / don’t be a hero cuz that’s a sandwich man / crazy plans in my land, you’ll get banished man / try me on Impeach / find me on the beach / grimy on the speech / just like an old Spanish man / “maricøn,” you can’t be me like a body clone / in the hoods where I kick it like Karate Tone / this man spit right in the face of what you transmit holding on to relevance hoping that your hands slip / and you fall into obscurity / walkie talkie antennas with no security / praying mantis / you really ought to weigh your chances / this yellow brick road stay stormy like a day in Kansas / and then another twister touch / I’m on a roll like I twist the Dutch

P
We’re all one, just different lumps of protoplasm. Every moment of joy counts as a bonus ‘gasm. Each pore is an ear. From the shore to the skier. The core of the tear is the doorway to the here and now. We’re an owl
I’m an orphan in Syria. I’m a more fortunate peer. A warm tent appears near the torment and fear. Our origin is clear. We’re the source of the seer. I’m a self in sheep’s clothing. A wealth of cheap loathing. Knowing nothing full well. Compelled to keep going. Come for the wordplay, stay for the high voice. Return for the rhythms, move in with him by choice. If you didn't like me on other beats, you’ll love me on this one. I didn't change anything. Repeat yourself, it’s fun. Kids’ friends think I'm deeply flawed and if I fix ten things, ten more keep me odd.

We feel conflicting agendas rise and fall. What we call our identity tries to synthesize them all. But there’s another option. Wise guys and dolls can watch them go by like flies on the wall. The Cindy mole is wabi sabi. The indie goal is job as hobby. Don’t hyperfocus on your diaper crocus. Just change your drawers and wipe your tochus.

Beliefs are the police of the mind, chiefly designed to relieve us of our fiefdoms of time. Resigned. “Said no one ever,” said no one ever. Every text from my father was meant for my brother. I believe that we will win. Me and grief, my evil twin. My third ventricle got blocked but word tentacles could not stop so energy clogged, overheated, and hotboxed. So I pictured galaxies and reached out to Cathy’s anchor. And it yanked me to Earth’s surface, thanked her. I’m not doing a Patreon just to find another format for people to hate me on. I’m from the flirtatious Cretaceous era. Back when we asked girls on dates and faced the terror. But I’ll leave the bitchin and moanin to the rich Roman oldmen. Young cats make dope raps. Don’t act like there’s a glitch in the moment.