​Napping Under The Echo Tree

The vibe is big, the room is small

When I was boxing with Vallejo in Albany Park
It's already dark, and I'm scared of that
Or was it with Hank Dumas in Oakland
By the lake where I openly argued with my fates
Coin purse bulging, loin cloth bulging

How is it these words are my ointment still?
Measuring years by tooth decay
And ruthless stratagems played
In the game of knights

I would describe myself as the Yoshimitsu of Boyle Heights
Most boastful over bowls of rice
Like I'm Caesar with the soul of
It's just a feeling, really

That being who has her being and pointing at what is
Admittedly I stare at her finger's soul
Herein defined is that in which spirit has its being
Soul power, soul power, soul power
This is the green horse for rap

I'm putting my money on the green horse for rap
Listen, the beginning is the illusion
It is the iron veil concealing the origin
But here I am with a key

This is protected
Steadfast, intimate concentration
I've been gathering
Gathering more and more of the lesson-less

In the wastelands, gathering, waning
In my being, gathering everything's constant intention
That how-did-he-say gathered, all gathering thinking that recalls
That devotional organ, my memory, I remember

The riddle written on my rib cage
The eternal recurrence of the same
The being of all becoming
The hammer and the heaviest thought banged into absurdity
I wasted my life microwaving jalapeno poppers
A love song for whom socks represent eudaimonia