Ice Loc’d Out: Chris Hayden
 

Ice Loc’d Out

©2000 Chris Hayden
Profess I
Here’s the close of the ColorLine Century
And my BlackVoice sings “God Bless America”
While my BlackFace calls America a lie

Profess I
At the close of the ColorLine Century
My BlackMind is a two-headed snake
Ward Connerly warblin’ It’s Allright
And Spike Lee wailin’ ’bout bein’ robbed at the Oscars

An’ I gots nothin’

At the close of the ColorLine Century
Cuz Ice Loc’d Out
Cuz Ice
Cum to destroy you
And come to give you life
At the same time

I can see myself on the net
Grayman in the Mirror
Hollow log for a head
Dirty strings hangin’ from my chinny chin chin

Green nightmares
Bust like pus from red sores
On the black stiff middle finger
The distaff branch of the Tree of Life

I Profess eye
Cum to destroy you
Come to give you life
At the same time
Spiffy in my split-level ranch style straight jacket
Holdin’ off the Thought Police
With a shotgun to my head
Screamin’ “Go ’way or I’ll shoot!”

A straight jacket
The clothes of the ColorLine Century

Ice Loc’d Out
Everybody’s Cuzz   Anybody’s Dogg   Nobody’s Brother
Giddy with self induced hysteria I wail
“If I’m So Smart Why Aint I Rich And Famous”
All nite at the top of my lungs
Then wonder why
I can’t never get no sleep

And today
I cast my Prophet’s Eye
at the Open of a New Millenium
Open like an old wound
Death on my behind and hellhounds on my trail
And see nothin No-nyet-nein-not-nada
But a fist of iron nihilism in a glove of velvet capitalims
Clutching a club of corporate communism

And I cast my Prophet’s Eye
And catch nothin’ No-nyet-nein-not-nada, save that which is less than zero, 
that which is left when my ideals have been dragged through the dirt and 
dismembered like the dead body of a black man down lonely Texas roads 
(wasn’t there where only lovers go?)

And I be Ambassador for the Damned, spokesman for ghosts, telepathic epitaph 
of the Last Days, when America is become the dancing floor of war for Europe 
and Asia, and you know I still can’t bring myself to destroy Dr. 
Frankenstein’s wonderful creation even though it was specifically raised 
from the dead to kill me

And a lonely bastard I am, no Mama No Papa No Uncle Sam
All that was clean in me once has been dragged down dirty and dismembered 
like the dead black man down lonely Texas roads, where only before lovers go 

. . .Ambassador for the Damned, and spokesman for ghosts . . .
. . .and you know I still got the gall to have hope?
[click to view introduction]