There are only 14 minutes til 9:30

God’s on the job I’m feeling

Down like a mob looking

Down.  On a Clear day October 23

The heart’s tiny from the 22nd floor. 

Our copse leaves candy blue sky pieces.

The TV next the window’s parallel

To skyscrapers and sky and centered

By a bald man in a nice tie and expensive smile. 

Hands rap the desk it’s

Seguey.  Three minutes, three

Monitors: wards experiencing UTP delays #3 (31830332220s):

Normal;  Emails multiply like interest in my inbox,

Normal; SPZ7 +8.90  23 stocks, two major indices

Waiting beneath the screens

Most of the other rappers of his generation have long since cashed it in.  Smart.  They got kids now, and relatively practical automobiles, and try to get on reality shows where they can flaunt their parenting techniques – sure they show up at a recording studio from time to time, on the strength of their bling-like laurels, they do a guest verse where they stereotype themselves at their 23 year old best, shit, maybe they do a whole crap-shit album, but Ghostface keeps changing his flow up, and keeps getting better.   

He’s gotten so good, and why? so some white guy who’s 30 years old can blog about it?  Dumb dumb dumb.  He’s the one who needs a big doe rehab I’ll tell you what.     His flow’s been working to this long line (sometimes upward of a minute long) and he’s like rap’s walt whitman – except definitely definitely not gay: not even the furthest reaches and forgotten corners of his chromosones are tinged with even a single homosexual amino acid – the building blocks of homosexual life.   

But in the end Ghostface looks silly having become perhaps the greatest rapper ever: as silly as a few hundred balding heads bobbing to his percussive voice, and raising their white hairy arms in the air even though they should be getting a good night’s sleep.

(Btw, I really pulled a Royal Tannenbomb when I first listened to this one — didn’t dig it a bit — ah, the manic-depressive critic. . . .)  

Oh, and even though Ghost makes a minstrely fool of himself by rapping large-cap, no uncappable capital -the best line belongs to U-God. Something like “And such and such, Ghost plugged me with a slut/ Don’t hug me, or bug me – I’m ugly when I fuck.”  

So knowing him, next go, ghost’ll probably come back with a line that clinches expression: facier than all the putting the ace in face and the AC inside of that, keeping cool in the summer of money something.

 Three!, says a coroner with the confidence of a first grader whose grandmother (who thinks the child’s a genius) holds up three fingers.  No one can even agree on the temperature at the time.  He is the president, facts accrue until they fall into mysticism.  Nobody knows who killed JFK, implicating millions.    

 So that’s the nature of the impossibility of reality, that woman of regal proportions in fur, bejeweled by a grand stair and a chandelier, made up to look thirty-two, but near, is fifty-some, the fox in the light, fake.  Wait - the fox, dead, is real.

Stories are alive statistics: winged things: some persist, some perish; the swarm’s the thing. So authors change a verb here, they reverse the birthdays of two characters there.  The beaurocrat, the mardarin; masonic, surgical.  A cataclysm can mutate a form into transcendence; two middle-class septeganarians, a chance meeting at a bar between two divorcees: then, a baby is born.  No, the baby is found in the woods.