Anticon.

[Doseone, Jel, Yoni Wolf]
A dead man's tag on the electrical box;
Through which god's hand this hell of naming?
'Till its black birdcall is let from its locks:
A thrown shadow of a thornbush hanging
To lure with its lines this volume of doubt:
Do the bees brew honey in the lion's head
Or is one, in fact, crowned among the fowl
Convened curbside for a bag of old bread?
Between a climbing sun and a sinking one
The world, it intervenes; "Can any be saved,"
The tag, it asks, in a tongue so church
That all sing who pass to quell a moment
The lowing lawsuits of a boneyard's throat
And when the rap ceased, to which was said
"You was let down, at least, with a golden-
You was let down, at least, with a golden-
You was let down, at least, with a golden-
You was let down, at least, with a golden thread"

O let me down, at least, with a golden thread

The spell of remembering, sung by the left rear wheel
Of stolen shopping cart on the shadow banks
Of a gravel lot, that dark-brushed blot
On the haunted catscan of a mapmaker's skull
And beneath its pulse-rattle, a vox humana demanding
"Do you rest each moment in the palm of the beginning?"
Have you washed body and all in the blood of sirens?"
A cart-driver, one smashed heel in either world
Black tarp lined against the wind like the flattened husk
Of the dark that falls behind him
In a city settled by a gold rush
Cold renning razors down his lung's length

[Yoni Wolf]
Meanwhile, in the eye of a sinking second
The renegade province of a lone leaf
An omen drowning out a song's demands
With it's private weight against a brittle stem
Drifts into it's whole self
On a desert stretch of charnel concrete

[Sample]
"When is the time to start creating a life of adventure
Rather than a life of maintenance?
How about right now?
Welcome to passion, profit, and power..."

Imagine my embarrassment
On Take Our Daughters To Work Day:
This dollar book of selected Lorca
The office of grass in Oakland
Where she might watch a bum move ten feet
Every two hours to stay sleeping in the sun
(because his crushed can caravan carries the night)
Will I point at the ledge of the Hotel Nash and say
"Line-break in the cloud-book,"
Or at an old man in a window
"Single drop of bottled father"?

Some things leave for which there is no comeback tour
Things this humble album of hours
Cannot hope to record, cannot help but record

And this
Is this a test press of wet flesh?
Or the release date of a breastplate's shallow breath
Billowing a shrink-wrap net
Blown by the aspirate at the head of the deathless
"What's next?"
Noting my share in a subsid of Sunset Casket Outlet
I ask aloud, "Is a record label not a miracle yet
With all the mortal prayer, furta sacra, and forgery
You'd expect it to beget?"