black cats running out my back porch door
backpacks hitting on the busy bus floor
i'm there like quasimoto must be, leaning in on seats thats dusty
with flows on the mind loving hip hop
like i did when i was nine
and didn't know it
yellow hexagon lotus
visions i'm sending hocus pocus
like i was stoned when i wrote this...
slowing it down
dew on an apple
that is the sink water creek
refreshing natural technologies
in my kitchen oasis
so bright like the records from my new used collection
young gleaming eyes passed through so many dusty vines
ill like the pink moon i keep spinning
stupid fresh beatnik poets grinning
around me
but its the future
they're corner emcees, and I'm still on the bus
its all connected