Talking to Ghosts
[1: A.D. Carson]
It’s the anti—everything that you believe you stand for
Cancer that a man stores in his hands for
Laying ‘em on parishioners wishing for some malignance
I’m really just saying what I’m writing is sickening
What I’m writing is vision
What I’m writing is healing
What I’m writing is flashes of lightning across the ceiling
Flames from the floor, flickering, licking your feet to move you
Fool you into believing that when you move, it’s the true you
Voodoo dance from dude whose hands expand reality
Puppeteering, but from what you’re hearing, you do it naturally
And actually I’m to blame for it all—
I’m the reason, even your breathing—if you rise or you fall
They said Hip-Hop’s dead. I said it must be a joke
‘cause if it’s really the truth that means I fuck with the ghost
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see
But I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me
So where are you?

“A circus?”

“That is our usual employee
The company currently in the city of Washington.”

“Circus too constricting a word to describe the talented and merry band with which we travel. It is a spectacle unlike most have ever witnessed
Creatures from the darkest Africa as yet unseen by civilized man. Acrobats from the Orient able to contort themselves in the most confounding manners.”

[2: Bad Dreams]
It’s that long night, so sleep tight now that you think you woke up
Soaking in your psychosis I’m dosing you with the donuts
You wading into them rivers just wishing for this deliverance
You floating in them oceans and just hoping for your atonement
Cooking up something frozen
Cooling off the commotion
What I quote is drums invoking tongues of the chosen
Black Rhapsodies rap tapestries get woven
Bodies contorted jerking the circle is never broken
Like the slave embracing godliness, embrace the bodiless
Authorship beyond consciousness that’s where the party is
Burn Down the plantation regardless
The ghosts told me never the fear the darkness
That’s where the realest part is
They said the blues is dead I said it must be a joke
Amiri Baraka handed me some smoke and I just took a toke
And I ain’t above believing in what people don’t see
I believe in ya’ll even when ya’ll don’t believe me
So who are you?
“We can give you one dollar for each day’s services and three dollars for every night played at our performances
In addition we would provide sufficient pay for your return here to Saratoga two weeks from today.”

“That...it’s far more than my wages amount to.”

“It’s been the most profitable week…Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

[3: A.D. Carson]
God bless the child that can hold it in
Believe…enemies bleed when I hold my pen
Let these words be the first to my unborn seeds
So they hear the voice of God clear—blast for me
Blast for your you, and those who come after you
Keep your peace, until they make you have to use it—
Have to lose it—clear choice: after music
Comes the fall. So, really, what I’m doing’s for y’all
But you’ll never know the truth, never see it for self
Never believe ‘cause you can’t understand it, or else
Have it chewed and spewed back at you, pick it up and endorse it
Then you’ll support it, get it to fit. If it don’t, then you’ll force it
They say my people are dead. I said it must be a joke
‘cause if that’s really the truth that means I’m talking to ghosts
And I ain’t—above believing in what people don’t see
But I can’t—believe in it if don’t believe in me
So what are you?
“Yah nothing but a…Georgia runaway
Yah just a…runaway nigga…
From Georgia.”

[Chains clank; sounds of pants and cries and sighs
More chains, more cries, then lashes, then pants]

[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]

“Yah a slave!”

[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]

“Yah a Georgia slave!”

[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]
[Crack!
Cry.]

[More crying, panting, heaving, wheezing]

“Are yah a slave?”

“No.”