This is a poem written by Saul Williams. |
INTRODUCTION Have you ever been kissed by God? Passionately (tongue, lips, etc.)? Or are you one who simply condemns God to the realm of the invisible? When do you feel most comfortable? When do you feel most loved? Perhaps it is in the warm embrace of your lover or in the assuring touch of your mother. Perhaps, like me, you have likened this person to God in your life and realized that God was loving you through them. Or maybe you don't believe in God. Cool. Here's a simpler question: Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just listful pettng but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking the sides and corners of your mouth, like sealing a thousand fleshy envelopes filled with the essence of your passionate being and then opened by the same mouth and delivered back to you, over and over agian---the first kiss of the rest of your life. A kiss that confirms that the universe is aligned, that the world's greatest resource is love, and maybe even that God is a woman. Withor without a belief in God, all kisses are metaphors decipherable by allocations of time, circumstance, and understanding. This book is a result of a kiss. A kiss that brings symbols to life and fear-based shortcomings to their symbolic death. To be kissed by a deity is nothing short of a miracle. the mind altering/altaring effects can last more than a lifetime. Here is the account of a man so ravished by a kiss that it distorts his highest and lowest frequencies of understanding into an incongruent mean of babble and brilliance. He wanders the streets desheveled and tormented by all that he sees that does not reflect her love. He is a wandering man, sore of like a modern day John the Baptist, telling of the coming of a female messiah that he has known intimately. He is hte babbling man you cross the street to avoid. He is the unavoidable end before the new beginning. He is a lover in search of greater love. SHE is One and many: Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction and creation; Oya, the Yoruba orisha of death and rebirth; the Holy Ghost, which is to say, the woman restored to her rightful place in the Holy Trinity. NO longer ghost, no longer virgin, SHE is mother of us all. Saul Williams, Los Angeles, 2003 10: CITESENS, children of the night, bearers of the day torch: scorched and burned. BURN NOT. the dam is broken. the curse is fled. once muddied and still, the river runs RED! "ALL those ships that never sailed the ones with their seacocks open that were scuttled in their stalls TODAY i bring them back HUGE AND INTRANSITORY and let them sail FOREVER!"* if ever there were currents uncurrent the wind could not serve as truth's currency CURRENTLY MOON MARKED AND SUN SPARKED UNMARKED BILLS i AM CERTAIN i SPEAK A NEW LANGUAGE as is ALWAYS THE FIRST SIGN of a NEW AGE i had begun to believe my blackened toenails were on the path to decay when, in truth, they had begun the gradual process of CRYSTALLIZATION. i am he who walks on wind scorned feet with toenails of AMETHYST AND ROSE QUARTZ. my path now crystal clear. i AM COME TO TELL YOU SHE IS HERE. it is not written NO pen MAN ship was ever CARGOED with her character NOTE: BOOKS ARE CAREFULLY FOLDED FORESTS void of autumn BOUND FROM THE SUN Likewise, she made her residence ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF A SHADOWING HISTORY ON THE DARKSIDE OF THE MOON where the searchlighte of the sun COULD NOT SPOT HER nor rot her the seed of forbidden fruit every tree HAS A HIDDEN ROOT YET, SHE HAS COME TO LIGHT THE SWELLING PATCHWORK OF VIBRANT DREAMS YES, THERE IS A SCIENCE TO THE AROMA OF SLEEPING WOMEN (AND TO THINK OF THE GIRLFRIEND i WAS TEMPTED TO BREAK UP WITH BECAUSE SHE SLEPT TOO MUCH) i now know, they NURTURED her there: they slept in packs dreamt in cycles NURSED HER IN SHIFTS and became her ON ROTATION unnamed her everytime she was named so she would not be known to anyone (even unto herself) undressed her everytime she was dressed so she would not be recognized as anyone other than herself they blindfolded her and spun her in circles so she would find her way here by no other means than her intuition and she is come i am a simple disoriented man in her presence i wear my loincloth over my eyes and ejaculate too soon forgive me father for i have sinned i prayed to you and cupped the wind and in doing so barred her entry into a century: 100 years of solitude (yes, the wind is the moon's imgination wandering) i will now pray with my hands outstreched with these psalms etched into my palms 9: most beloved, i am certain of nothing more than your existence a thousand ants crawling under a log may find themselves exposed in my childlike search for you i have spent lifetimes in monasteries and drum stretched villages in expectaion of this" our ecstatic dance my kali flower i am eternally destroyed by your love no longer am i eligible for any worker's pension my friends laugh at me and talk behind my back they say you have changed me and i am i am like a survivor of the flood walking through the streets drenched with God surprised that all of the drowned victims are still walking and talking maybe there's hope i rush to each victim's side sucking what i can of you out of your various incarnations pumping their stomachs and filling them to touch them is to touch you to kiss them is to kiss you my friends, love is an artform slightly removed from its element one may ask well what does this mean? i respond i've made it up but it shall be from now on from now on cities will be built on one side of the street so that soothsayers will have wilderness to wander and lovers space enough to contemplate a kiss she kissed as if she, alone, could forge the signature of the sun i closed my eyes although i never knew the difference i stood before a brighter light at lesser distance and then, a feeling. Almost as if nothing were ever bound to repeat itself again. As if history had been as masterfully created as the great pyramids and any attempt to reconstruct or relive any given moment would have to stem from an understanding of how the pyramids were built from the TOP DOWN. and if one could understand such majesty one would also understand that kisses hold codes for unlocking new portals and that pyramids were first made of flesh our bonded souls shifting through hidden corrals and passageways i will find my way to eternity within you when i can feel you breathing into me i, like a stone gargoyle atop some crumbling building, spring to life a resuscitated angel i sweep through city streets my wings out-stretched making mothers clutch their young and remember and do you remember, dear ones or has your history forsaken you? there were tales told 'round fires mysteries coded in song chants and uprisings centuries of art all incantations calling forth this day on this day the drunks vomit in unison 'though last night they drank from different cups children laugh and play introducing their parents to invisible friends a country girl smiles and two trees blossom out of season sea sons awaken our mother has returned to wave us from uncertainty once tidal twice born of wooden ships thrice formed through mother's hips mother ships graced tu lips a poet's garden "2 for 5" "they're going fast" the future's bargain "that's strange" "i heard my name" the river's parting "hurry up" things blurry up the sun is darkened rivers like oceans oceans like answers questions in cloud forms raindrops in stanzas to be or not to... to see or not to... she has eyes like two turntables mix(h)er in between my dreams and reality blend in ancient themes the bass is of isis (basis) cross-faded to ankh the beat drops like a cliff over-looking my heart 8: 6000 feet above sea level 330 bodies disassembled the head bone's connected to the cock pit knee jerk ass backwards dancing slaves in a mosh pit punk rock of gibralter roll out nothing's new mo' blood dues the mo hawk only this time it's you and you never loved her for what she possessed you powdered her face and came on her head-dress oil slicked feathers, putrid stenched water-bed "mother nature's a whore," said the shotgun to the head. and it smelled like teen spirit angst driven insecure a country in puberty a country at war wet dreams cotton mouth blood thirsty oily hair fast cars movie stars earn 20 mill... to instill fear she and i never spoke. we were in relationships we shouldn't have been in. we were sorcerers who had stored their charms in unmarked boxes because they had made our partners uncomfortable. every day, we reported to work early in order to rest our waking eyes on last nights dream. i had resorted to sleeping with my back to my partner. the ball i slept curled in became the question mark i now placed within all prior commitments. this was no teenage crush. it was an adulthood rite. she was what love had grown up to be: unspokn, yet shared between us. on that glorious day, i stood before my cubicle shuffling papers like a card reader with an oversized deck. the one on top read, "invoice", as something within told me to turn around. she walked the aisle towards me perhaps on the same undisclosed mission thatnow leads me towards her, only neither of us was cinfident enough to slow our movements before the first explosion. we, both, stopped, turned back and stared at each other as if shocked that the outside world might bring to life our inner workings. here is our first touch and here is this trembling building hold the two in your hands and tell me what you come up with everyone running to windows to see what has happened, as smiles slowly rise on our facs like the time between 6:24 and 6:39 over the skyline. we are not panicked, only awed at how a fluttering stomach can predict the short life span of a social butterfly. love has become a fiery place. but we are living in an old testament where there is faith that does not burn, that turns kings into believers. i believe those were my exact thoughts before extending my hand, just as she did her. and as we walked into the grasp of the other, a second explosion. we smiled, knowingly, like scientists witnessing the primordial origins of chemistry. and down that burning aisle where glass had been strewn like rice we decided to jump the broom, walking off into the will of the divine wind {<jap. equiv. to kami=divine + kaze=wind}. she held my hand leaving three fingers in my grasp like gripping a symbol from the i ching which i'm not sure i've ever grasped 7: o my friends, the greatest americans have not been born yet they are waiting patiently for the past to die please give blood those crumbled tablets were to share a story with a burning Bush where is that voice from nowhere to remind us that the holy ground we walk on purified by native blood has rooted trees whose fallen leaves now color code a sacred list of demands? who among us can give translation of autumn hues to morning news? the anchor man thrown overboard has simply rooted us in history's repeating cycle a nation in its saturn years that won't acknowledge karma where is that voice from nowhere? the one your prophets spoke of? there are voices from fear disconected from their diaphragms dangling from coffee covered teeth that spill into our laps and burn our privates there are voices from the sides of necks some already noosed dangling participles pronouns running for sentence serving life in corner offices and ghetto corners their voices are the same: DEAD to themselves numb to the possibility of truth existing beyond that which they can palm in the bleeding hole of their hands, period. there are voices of elders who seem to do no more than damn us to our childish ways for in many households wisdom no longer comes with age so where is that voice from nowhere? that burning bush? the passing dove? I hear voices of generals calling for ammunition voices of presidents calling for arms voices of women calling for help but where is that voice from nowhere? that God of abraham? those crying rocks? can he be heard over the gunfire the whizz passing missles the crash of buildings the cries of the children the crack of bones the shriek of sirens? or is that his mighty voice? your angry god craving the sacrifice of a vrgin generation's son degenerate your holy books: written in red ink on burning sands (...branded into necks, whipped into backs, forced inside of vaginas and anuses, crammed inito mouths, rubbed into open sores...) your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children to the hammered truth of your trigger a truth that mushrooms its darkened cloud over the rest of us so that we too bear witness to the short-lived fate of a civilization that worships a male god your weapons are phallic all of them the dummy that sits on your lap is no longer a worthwhile spectacle his shrunken pale face leaves little room for imagination we have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to its proper source it is a source of madness a source of hunger for power a source of weakness we are exiting your colosseum and encircling your box office demanding our families back our rituals back our cultures back our language back and our gods so that we may return them to their proper source their source of life the source of creation the womb of the Great Mother we will cut through the barbed wire hangers and chastity belts we will climb in and incubate our spirits through the winter we will wait through the degenerate course of your repeated history we will wait for the past to die 6: pools of blood are not recreational even lifeguards drown when the undertow breaks bread with the under belly demons disguised as sharks have not put enough thought into their costumes a wiseman stays ashore when pointed fins read like italian subtitles the end is near (...) the beginning in the beginning her tears were the long awaited rains of a parched somali village. red dusted children danced shadows in the new found mounds of mascara that eclipsed her face, reflected in the smogged glass of carlos' east street bodega. learning to love, SHE had forgotten to cry. seldom hearing the distance thunder in her lover's ambivalent sighs. HE was not honest. SHE was not sure. a great grandfather had sacrificed the family's clarity for gold in the late eighteen hundreds. nonetheless, SHE had allowed him to mispronounce her name, which had eventually lad to her misinterpreting her own dreams. and, later, doubting them. but the night was young.... ...as a child, she played for hours with children never bothering to learn their names. they forged friendships and charters to nations that still stand. she is president of a sliding board her citizens surrender to the exuberance of falling knowing they will land on their feet ...her uncle would swallow pictures of God to be sure that God was inside of him they institutionalized his stomach lining 'til he choked on his own belief system the truth was in his vomit she is within us a world of dreams fluid and unremembered a multitude of tongues universed women adorned bracelets beaded with possible conclusions to stories that will never end our maned character sits in a long dark brown leather chair that is contoured to fit his entire body (an antique chair, perhaps, from one of old china's opium dens). in his lap is a book made of blue and brown strips of fabric. definitely handmade. the pages are yellow, grainy and uneven. as if each page were torn to fit as opposed to cut. the book is bound by thin hemp strings. from over his right shoulder, we read as he writes: i prayed and then threw up it was weird because i've been wanting to throw up i've been feeling the need to a need i've never felt before i threw up a yellow bile exactly after the most ecstatic moment of prayer i have ever experienced a prayer that i knew was being fulfilled as i spoke it i am only responsible to my dreams the fulfillment of dreams i know what it means to say "God is on my side." Even now, when i feel like there is so much red tape between my dreams and the rest of the world. i remember, as a little boy, cutting that red tape for my godfathers new building. yes, red tape is often cut in ceremonies before doors are opened. he looks up from his book and spots a shadow approaching his door. he writes: and now the journalist has arrived he drops his pen and then picks it up and quickly scribbles, as we hear a soft knock on the door: but not before i drop my pen in the same place i vomited JOURNALIST: What are you working on? MANED CHARACTER: An attack of the subconscious. J: Why? MC: Because it's eating us alive. J: How would you characterize the subconscious of America, in particular, the youth of America? MC: As characterized. We are acting out the parts of age old scripts. J: Is there any way past that? MC: No. J: Then wouldn't that render your work useless? MC: No. J: Why not? MC: There's always room for improvisation. J: You mean, then, that we cannot help but act out our parts because "it is written", but we can still find space to riff on what isn't written. MC: Exactly. This is an appeal to the unwritten histories of the future. J: Aren't you, then, doing the universe or humanity or the future some sort of disservice by writing it down. MC: Not really. Even with the literacy rates going up, people don't read as much as they did in the past, or rather the written word doesn't carry as much weight. Or, at least, newly written words don't. We're still living out an old testament. What i'm dong is sort of a LYRICAL hacking. i'm figuring a way to fool the database into thinking that this book is older than it is. i've sampled elements of the code and dated aspects of the language. Sort of like post dating a check, but in reverse. Thus, the signals and symbols being sent to the database are old yet they register in a different way. And when the individual reading a passage decides to quit and then is asked by the database whether or not they would like to save the changes made to the document, i am hoping that they will mechanically click "yes". J: And what if people don't read it? MC: It will already be bound. J: Bound? MC: Yes, a book is always bound. And written word is often bound...to happen. It increases its likelihood. But really, as long as MTV markets it right, it should reach a lot of people. It's carefully designed for the short attention span. J: Would you characterize yourself as different? MC: Well, it's also written this way because my attention span is pretty short. 5: behold, a story untold I HAVE SEEN THE MOON IN A SUN DRESS the ocean beneath her rippling in laughter at the sight of a lone man who learned to walk on water for a glimpse of his truth in her crater i have found the library where all dreams deferred were stored catologues of cultures indexed by communal disappearance mayans are metaphors for astral doors left cracked by children afraid to sleep in utter darkness i am unafraid to utter darkness i speak a shadowed truth like a newborn wrapped in a blanket tucked tight enough to resemble its mother's celestial cave i am handing this child to you the godparent of a foreshadowing soon to be revealed when you remove the plastic seal come see how death is a myth there are no deceased only deceived death only awaits those who believed i surrendered my beliefs and found myself at the tree of life injecting my story into the veins of leaves only to find that stories like forests are subject to seasons i am the deads latest experiment a midwife birthing afterlife the unborn are fully present we have disguised ourselves from ourselves so that our daily thoughts may not sabotage our spirits' ascendance thrice immersed into the wordly we are self-forgotten for our own benefit i am forced to disassemble my being to fit into your monitor i hand you my spirit as i walk through customs i am to be reassembled after the final check point sorcery of self: a phrase i coined and now surrender to you it's as if i've swallowed an interior decorator i like my heart where it is i cannot make your past disappear only rabbits, my love, only rabbits depleted memory banks have grounded our emotional economy we have been forced to create a new currency one that will truly allow us to love our neighbors for reasons beyond guilt and pity i have offered myself to the inkwell of the wordsmith that i might be shaped into new terms of being only through new words might new worlds be called into order i stretch my body into your symbols of statehood i am a citizen casting my vote and net in the same breath i dare not keep what i reap i am only fishing for momentary companionship 4: i have commited myself to adultery i will only sleep with GOD's wife our affair is no secret he gets his thrills from watching us i cannot tear myself from her eyes i am, indeed, her pupil and no longer fear the unseen teach me thy ways o lord steady my hands upon your breasts and guide me to your altar swallow me whole so that i may be born again a great one has said that poets are midwives to reality yet these words catch me when i would have them let me go TOMB that cross did nothing more than make a death chamber of a nursery i became as a child only after i had entered the kingdom introduce me to your after-life let me see if i can tempt it from its cloud form those white robes are the very cloaks of your enemies and their leader has the brazen tone of your shepherd maybe you shouldn't have prayed with your eyes closed open eyes plainly see the resemblance a prayer stamped return to sender tables over turned in a temple bitten apples that encourage you to think different God has hair on her pussy and waits burning with desire for you this is no blasphemy you have erected ancient penises in your capitols and prayed in the name of a father a male child and a ghost i am only revealing what is hidden under the floating white sheet the same sheet you crawled under to reach ecstasy with your lover the same sheet under which you created life and progeny unfasten you mind from your fears you cower behind your God as he leads you into slavery and war your curren(cy)t-sea reflects an army of dead men the moon is ignored you, too, can become her cyclical sacrament your children drown in the cross-fire you throw search parties for a profit (f=ph) and pray to your rev.enue your dead ancestors re-die in air tight vaults they conspire to seduce your children you have done nothing to protect them from the evil eye i serve a living God she is a distorted horn solo fingered by the hand of a master time's signature has done no more than punctuate her curvature God plays a human instrument wind pipe horny when tongue kisses reed heart beats bump over-turned tables heads nod in affirmation yes, yes, y'all you don't stop not even when every sign tells you that you should you father's diet kills him and you hire his chef you wage war on minimum wage and the people purchase their delicacies from Target maybe you should aim elsewhere 3: a prince sings of thieves in a temple you call your doctor complaining of a migraine she loads 2 leaden pills into a 3 pound needle and asks you where it hurts hers is the song you cannot get from your head you blame your thoughts on magdalene and let bostonians wash your feet your sidewalks scuff your wingtips your angels fly through barrels monkeys laugh at them intelligence is intuitive you needn't learn to love unless you've been taught to fear and hate your students kill each other and their teachers they are angry at not being taught that pink and floyd were blues singers quarantined from the source of power that would project their image as well as their sound and those who do not know their history are bound to repeat it unbound, she made her residence on the dark side of the moon she detangled herself from her bed-post and washed your crusted fears away "massa always do dat when miss betsy done gone to visit her sista. he cain't wait to tie dat poor sarah up and have his way wid her" your ancestors smile up from your backpockets you buy another candy bar your teeth rot your head still aches you've gotta do something about this migraine your analyst works overtime your borker calls urging you to sell your stock in a certain prescription drug company before tomorrow's news hits the stands your life savings in dead men's currency you keep your gun in your desk drawer movies have taught you your hiding places silver screens with bare walls behind them the illustrators of bare walls projected their dreams beyone their fears theirs were the walls of pyramids yours are the walls of crumbled towers the truth still stands alone at the dance waiting for you you take her hand you only need ask you sit behind your desk ready to aim at the cloaked thief in your temple the spooked groom who mistakes his bride for a ghost she can no longer hide her form behind her veil you are a cocked trigger smuggled into a house of prayer the statues arouse your blood to wine her essence cupped in her being she has made herself available to you she needn't steal your heart if you give it to her the cops and robbers of your childhood neglected to teach you such simplicity 2: i came to know her before she overthrew my government it was no conspiracy only an unraveling of a fist her charm is in her silence she speaks in extended parenthesis hers is the voice from nowhere the earth her diaphragm she speaks through wind always giving reverence to her molten core fathered by sun and sky we are offspring of spring reborn from the bounty of her nourishment our father gives in the one way he knows she makes the dough and bids him bake our daily bread we set our table at twilight and hold hands offering grace to the wind acknowledging that even he who shines was born out of the mystery of her darkness our mother holds no judgment she absorbs our father's light into her flesh and blood regenerating an offspring universal God is a single mother to the eldest of her children she is known by many names they build their fires in the night and tune into her windsong each dance is known by heart and foot and mouth the frenzy of the fire is our own unquenched desire to become the one she takes into her house have you ever been? are you experienced? have you ever been to electric lady land? did you drink from the fountain? did you bask in her molten core? did she call your name and guide you to her peak? did you feel her quake and tremble? did you feel the need to restrain her? did she unmask her loving fury? did she frighten you? did you question what it felt like to have someone inside of you? to swallow life and incubate a world to come? did you ask her how it felt to be a God incarnate? to be a daughter of the moon bearing the sun? this is her body this is her blood tithes and offerings made to the father have kept buddha laughing he knows that dharmin needs are karmic deeds undone a love supreme summoned from dreams fuses now with the hereafter as spirit to flesh is melded by the sun oya, kali ma here is an offering these words recited from my heart to yours and yours i am thankful for the trees shaped into coffins that we now shred to bed these words within our cores paper milles may you recycly all the was stolen and/or lost so that these newest testaments might come at lesser costs 1: what is the cost of freedom? and how is it paid? to be free of the rigmarole of age old traditions based on submission and fear one must pay with the courage to stand alone to be free of the restraints of a culture that instills the will of material possession and domination into its citizens one must learn to honor the substance of their materials and the etymologcal roots of their findings mater: fr. Latin.meaning mother this IS a material word your priests and presidents no longer matter only you and i, my love in order to commune we must dismiss the false gods we have granted domain over our will and testament this earth is our sanctuary nothing more need be built our mother has erected mountains of quartz we only need climb to synchronize our hearts with hers the truth erupts from her core we court a corrupted institution subject to the division of its faculty we are tenured students of intuition professors of a truth beyond reason schooled in the over priced cities in the valleys of our consciousness we are charged for our own discharge we look to the mother knowing that our imposed tuition will be covered install our payment plans in pele's tears all disaster is both natural and preventable but imposed force will only manifest your fears come, my love we have mountains to climb wilderness to wander you have shown me a love that cannot be given or taken let us bask in the fullness of ourselves a simple kiss now blood and breath both awakened a balanced diet to sustain life and health we will wax and wane in attention given from our father we can trust he will return yet, she is here she has granted us this land to forge her cycle and when we doubt places the ocean in our tears come, my love we have oceans to sail the painted nature of this earth is water-based and will fade if not tended let us retrace the origin of a kiss they have ravished your heart and mind but your breath travels freely out of your mouth and into mine there is the current i wish to sail here is a love uncharted throw away your map and swallow this cratered pill pull it from the sky and let it dissolve under your tongue it is only a matter of time before we are timeless do you feel it yet? wow i can trace each shadow back to its origin can you feel it yet? drink more water take deeper breaths wow why have i been so afraid of love? so afraid of being vulnerable? so afraid of being open? it's like every mannerism and gesture was a lie some sort of shield to protect me from the judgment of others oh my god turn the music up wow do you feel that bass line? it feels like a snake how could you now yield to temptation? why would you not? dance! yeah! w0w: eve was just open and that's what scared that father/sun god ha! that's why they named her eve they were just afraid of the dark scared of their mother's own womb afraid of the unknown 1: what happens to a society when mystery is labeled as evil? it yields an ever-connected chain of false labels and misinterpretations the indigenous are labeled as savage terorists and plotted against the open-hearted are manipulated into slavery the vulnerable are penetrated by force of law citizens where is your allegiance? why do you pledge with a covered heart when it needs to be opened? why do you bear arms with balled fists and closed palms? why do you call yourself a patriot (pater: fr. Latin.meaning father) when your greatest love has always been for your mother? this loaded phallus has becum the prevailing metaphor of the day you've spent your chi on cheap versions of the virgin you've worshipped loopholes in a story and war shipped mythic men to glory if in god's image then your god's a plastic surgeon a tyrannic dictator a coward behind a curtain with a megaphone an aging oil tycoon on viagra ramming his plow into the earth turning up disease and disaster out of an ever-drying womb you will become her cyclical sacrament menstrual minstrels footing your own bill of right left right marching blindly into a moonless night another dimension where children use chalk on the sidewalk tracing their bodies for the precriminal investigation: of their paternal inheritance: murder! men in uniform take note love refuses to take cover the cloaked enchantress of your faith now prevails if you refuse yourself and her then take the fire from your holster and LEND YOUR BREATH so that my love and i may sail ready aim fire! water earth wind ,Said the Shotgun to the Head by Saul Williams |