“Spice” (A1) You know what they wanna hear: pressed play, eyes closed, and suddenly…a gun appears. Head lifted outta smoke from imaginary blunts for air. Turn all that hardcore rappin down, fam, cuz you got your little brother scared. I ain’t unaware: I know my flow’s a throne for loops. Lettin me stand in the cipher’s like givin Shaq an open hoop. He retired ten years after the last time you told the truth. No excuse is worth valuing lives less than stolen suits. They cloned the golden goose and hid the formula. Heard you on camera beggin for eggs, and then ripped your orders up. I’m just hopin for a future that isn’t coated in mortar dust, as we all dyin slowly, mournin how Father Time orphaned us. A fortune of embarrassments. Plot twist: the good guys are terrorists, crushin the neediest under their heritage, and everyone you tryna kick out the country’s the real Americans. To the victors go the spoils, but the losers spun the narratives. If some things weren’t so harmful, they’d be hilarious. White kids always wanna blame our flaws on what our parents did. Armchair pundits keep up appearances. Have a nice plate of poison and a beer with it. Pretendin the reflection in their mirror Fits, knowin that they’re scared to glimpse the arrogance, and no matter how old they get they steady cryin for their carriages. Some big-ass babies, man… “Steam” (A2) A couple hunnid thousand deaths, each cost bout a pound a breath. Bail out who they can, then drown the rest. The floodin waters you hearin ain’t a sound effect. Know the fix is in and they ain’t counted yet. The game is rigged when the house can bet. How quick the white rappers in the crowd forget, til our timelines cloud with death. Askin for grace that our memories failed. They sendin us hail and we dancin for rain. Trapped on this plane by the edge of our tail. Devils inhale and the exodus pain. Temperatures change, and suddenly roofs and foundations are waves. Surgical hands on our faces and names, the ways that they operate dated and stained. The piece of humanity data disdains, tables of food that they wasted away, evictiin a family straight into rain, claimin that they shouldn’t wait to be paid. Veins made of paper. There’s blood in the bill. Their prisons just luggage to fill. Killers in public with drills grantin supremacists coverage and shields. Gassin they engine and pumpin the wheels. You either the truck or the bug in the grill. Tradin your shame and your number for pills. Faces turn plastic at public appeals. The pain is imagined or numbin your will. A train at the end of the tunnel that squeals. Stumblin away or becomin its meal. The steam isn’t muzzled, it tumbles and peels. Mirage in the distance. I’ll run til it’s real. Even the sun isn’t bright as it was. Even the sun, even the sun… Even the sun isn’t bright as it was. Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun… Even the sun isn’t bright as it was. Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun… Even the sun isn’t bright as it was. Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun… Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun... Even the sun, even the sun, even the sun...

“Search” (B1) HOOK (x2): Another day, another tightrope. I’m tryna find somethin like hope. All the right words buried under white smoke. I’m tryna find somethin like hope. Somethin like hope. The search for a portal through this maze is as ancient as the Sphinx and immortal as its gaze. I don’t wanna be the kind of calm that falls into a rage, with a spirit on the breath and a monster in the veins. I record, and then it’s tamed, never caged for display, or exhibited til witnesses ashamed and afraid. I’m a ray short of rose-tinted, posed in the shade, out the edges of the pot to the folds of the flames. Cold in the artery, oxes for atoms. Take me back to when it was only props in the balance of the battles that we managed, or the worst embarrassments were ballads we was rappin to women who didn’t ask us. The challenge isn’t makin it. It’s keepin it, and learning by teaching how to be raisin strengths outta weaknesses. Lost, then I found the first step toward better. This the distance from the past that regret don’t measure. HOOK (x2) “Shelter in Place II” (B2) She’s a soft breeze tuggin bronzed leaves outta tall trees the first gasp of air that the dawn breathes. I love her like the smile I can hear through the phone when she calls me, like days without alarms to respect or acknowledge. I love her like she loves dresses with pockets. I love her more than her roots move, harder than her hips hug a new groove. More than she used to love orange slices and Blue Moons, harder than I hated my pockets for yellin’, “Too soon!” A spell as ancient as a crude rune. July thirty-first through June. The day’s weight’s lightened by her chuckle, savin to throw another couple diamonds by her knuckle. She don’t need it cuz she got it but I still wanna give her the same buzz as the liquor bubbles dancin wit the mixer. Bitters on the tongue, kissin til she hums. A voice in my head, like, “This is love. This is what it does. This is love. This is what it does. This is love. This is what it does. This is love, this is love, this is love...”