Superman On Ice

somewhere between motivated and cold
 you on the ledge of all 241 ways to be you... basing guess upon guess
 there... where... somewhere between motivated and cold
 believing your good friends down to the bile in their beautymarks...
 they who found you counting back toward yourself
 so haven't dreamt and heavily armed
 yet another blues thief told in however and oneday...
 and every monday things begin with indiscriminate street noise
 more vague and normal alliance of all those with high levels of work
 in their blood and clock in their wake
 up early shaving damp breakfast skulls with fresh lady's leg razor
 so that the oneday the moon might hold a half million nice size
 hoods easy
 and plenty fast restaurants
 by cum and by egg
 and laid low into creature
 then
 cast out in the one cold of all names,
 this song is about disabowed sperm
 and the mining of human concern
 many cells split, many men died in 1998
 the year of my strong, fair rap collection
 there are foot prints embraced far out on the frozen lake face
 depressed and kept from quite some cold ago,
 and they look brave, dangerous, man made
 the sort of mark one can make on the world
 you borrowed the camera from why
 and set it up over by the printer and horsehead
 obsessed with your pressing record
 to indulge in the shadows of both here and immortal
 is it god to name things from thin air
 to have the wind blow a few hundred dollar bills into your wallet
 to have 100 cc's liquid luck supplement
 dug into your blood
 by needle point and distant star
 are you busy losing yourself
 in the quiet cell of abandoned old oakland
 pants undone, stole eye starting to water
 nailing a sign that speaks fear to a bank at the man made lake
 you cop you
 will you now resort to black umbrellas in the sight blanching sun
 or stay indoors taking the pill to your face...
 striking that lightning on nothing
 attempting to teach yourself the art of cloning at home
 in a smock killing single cell sheep for straight weeks
 'til you give it all up for photoshop and using your teeth
 there in a box with your things, stabbed airholes, and one wing
 or white lung, when your well will you stay
 since there is a certain modern earth pain only fit for enduring
 which one does endure
 like returning a foster child twice or
 going the distance on songs for somebody else's compilation.
 no one's out there scared you'd set your eyes off
 all night on the ceiling in the dark
 think of a song or maybe breasts
 i thought i told you, this is not new...
 skinned by the speed of my one life
 you have the desperate fair to your eyes
 the look of a child who has just swallowed a coin or army man
 almost too attuned to the spoils of loved
 wishing he'd been born some sort of succulent or larvae
 but you're too soft for all that
 you like your blood kept in the movies
 and your head in a jar or a vase in a van on tour
 your guts clumped like dung in a sturdy hatbox
 heart slung safely in the stomach of a clean sock or two
 here you are a bag of milk to do tricks
 and not as a function of pennies
 and how you've dreamt
 nosdam's skull been predatored
 given a split at the hairline
 and hinged with a lid
 and in it placed
 the single hard marble of art
 and it is there it is kept