I think it must be my perspective. 

 I feel about as common as a drugstore novel. 

Mass produced under government standards.

  I need that deviation form the norm to give me an inside edge. 

 Bob was right.

 The road less traveled would make all the difference.

  So how do I get off the highway, if I’m going way to fast? 

 Abstract abstractions fill my mind. 

 I feel Mary Jane

  She works my brain ,

straightens the curved in thousands of waves.

  I can’t regret a single session, no need for intervention.

  I’m not a mind addled youth, I’m grade A. 

There’s not a cop who would question me. 

 White is really the place to be, if you want to roll so free. 

 I invited my friends over to West Palmdale

 but only half of them could go. 

 I think it has something to do with the dough flow that gets lost in the lingo of race

I’m sorry linguistics, to be specific and (no place for modesty) terrific.

  So my structure doesn’t lend itself to mass appeal,

 but keeping to all I understand to be real. 

 Zealots in the 2-4’s parking lot,

when I drive the block for a blunt to smolder down to the top. 

I’m terrified of pot shots, critical melodrama, and subplots. 

 And No, I don’t think this is all that,

 I have higher intensions brewing in the vat. 

My mind comes and goes with Hurricane speeds,

 spreading disease with the pencil pushing fleas.

   Dissecting bitches into slabs,

 respecting ladies and lades

 when I press my paper to my pen. 

 The blood I pump is laced with adrenaline,

of the uncertain persuasion.

  God damn!

 look at all those Asians.    

 

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