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from the Saul William’s newsletter, Nov 2, 2008
hip hop booking prices
Image by Foxtongue
video

Dear History,
For too long have I pondered your meaning, memorized dates of battles, years of servitude, decades of injustice, named eras after movements, mourned the extinction of species, cursed founding fathers, worn vintage suits and cloaked myself with references of your hold on me.

I have walked through museums wondering how it is that greatness had lived and died all before my time. Parts of me feared becoming great because it seemed to include a price of death and a postmortem glory that my memory could never resurrect. I’ve stared at paintings dying to catch glimpses of the painter, closed my eyes to listen to songs that drunken ghosts dance to, and all the while I’ve fought to FREE the present to BECOME.

In 1995, I stood with poets in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, barking metaphors at the new moon of the summer solstice wedging words into it’s craters, sewing seeds through nightly wind.

In 1996, I forced the ocean back with words, fathered planets, climbed pyramids, and began to decipher the sirens song to conjure the dream-filled Children of the Night.

In 1997, I stood with prisoners in our nations capitol bending bars with the power of thought as wordsmiths served sentences and Hip Hop diddy-dandified itself: stealing golden calves from the Old Testament to smuggle into the lavish crib of Pontius Pilate for it’s birthday party

In 1998, I swallowed fear and sun-danced on film reels, projecting a me that had not been into a me that ever shall be.

And HERE I stand, ten years the difference and witness to changing hands.

Dear History,
I beat you. I stand a generator of generations bearing witness to a world that we are holding accountable for past actions. Me and my friends, we’re changing our diets, re-inventing marriage, check-mating capitalism, re-defining ethics, replacing cruelty with compassion, and have sworn not to re-elect the sins of the father.

We are casting our votes for so much more than a lesser of evils, but for change, and greater insight, for wisdom out of the mouths of babes, for races that bleed into ONE.

Dear History,
You are behind us and we are no longer looking back. We are standing on the threshold of new times, new days, new worlds, and charging forward without battle cry or trumpet, while cynicism, apathy, and cowardice take their place beside you, behind us.

Dear History,
We no longer believe in you. We have invested our our thoughts and dreams into the present moment and opportunity to shift our reality into one that does not resemble your dog-eared books.

We stand on the shoulders of those who have dared to dream and on the necks of those who have wasted their time and ours proclaiming a past past its prime.

Dear History,
Blitz! It’s my turn now. You can have your mounds of flesh, leather boots, cannons and sabers, nooses and guillotines, warships and fighter planes, trails of tears and blood, genocides, dungeons and dragons, ghost stories and fairy tales……….

Come on guys! Help me out! ~ Saul

from the Saul William’s newsletter, Nov 2, 2008
hip hop booking prices
Image by Foxtongue
video

Dear History,
For too long have I pondered your meaning, memorized dates of battles, years of servitude, decades of injustice, named eras after movements, mourned the extinction of species, cursed founding fathers, worn vintage suits and cloaked myself with references of your hold on me.

I have walked through museums wondering how it is that greatness had lived and died all before my time. Parts of me feared becoming great because it seemed to include a price of death and a postmortem glory that my memory could never resurrect. I’ve stared at paintings dying to catch glimpses of the painter, closed my eyes to listen to songs that drunken ghosts dance to, and all the while I’ve fought to FREE the present to BECOME.

In 1995, I stood with poets in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, barking metaphors at the new moon of the summer solstice wedging words into it’s craters, sewing seeds through nightly wind.

In 1996, I forced the ocean back with words, fathered planets, climbed pyramids, and began to decipher the sirens song to conjure the dream-filled Children of the Night.

In 1997, I stood with prisoners in our nations capitol bending bars with the power of thought as wordsmiths served sentences and Hip Hop diddy-dandified itself: stealing golden calves from the Old Testament to smuggle into the lavish crib of Pontius Pilate for it’s birthday party

In 1998, I swallowed fear and sun-danced on film reels, projecting a me that had not been into a me that ever shall be.

And HERE I stand, ten years the difference and witness to changing hands.

Dear History,
I beat you. I stand a generator of generations bearing witness to a world that we are holding accountable for past actions. Me and my friends, we’re changing our diets, re-inventing marriage, check-mating capitalism, re-defining ethics, replacing cruelty with compassion, and have sworn not to re-elect the sins of the father.

We are casting our votes for so much more than a lesser of evils, but for change, and greater insight, for wisdom out of the mouths of babes, for races that bleed into ONE.

Dear History,
You are behind us and we are no longer looking back. We are standing on the threshold of new times, new days, new worlds, and charging forward without battle cry or trumpet, while cynicism, apathy, and cowardice take their place beside you, behind us.

Dear History,
We no longer believe in you. We have invested our our thoughts and dreams into the present moment and opportunity to shift our reality into one that does not resemble your dog-eared books.

We stand on the shoulders of those who have dared to dream and on the necks of those who have wasted their time and ours proclaiming a past past its prime.

Dear History,
Blitz! It’s my turn now. You can have your mounds of flesh, leather boots, cannons and sabers, nooses and guillotines, warships and fighter planes, trails of tears and blood, genocides, dungeons and dragons, ghost stories and fairy tales……….

Come on guys! Help me out! ~ Saul

LONG LIVE HONESTLY — HONESTY : handler and the open hand : san francisco (2010)
hip hop booking prices
Image by torbakhopper
PRESS PLAY
walk thru the intro… tip-toe forest and bunny rabbit know nada….
still into pause and groove
turn it out
and!!!!

we all believed in something,
i know
cuz i was there
i saw you
ante down
and profound yourself to the
table’s gift
the card’s
got thrift!
like a zi
g
zag
a zig zag.

i know you still need
i know you still need

still need

still need…

i need some zig zags,
i need some zig zags
and i’m not shittin
in fact
i
m not riggin

so it goes like this…
a longggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
slow intro….
seriously, how long can you KEEP IT UP!!:?!:::!

in case you don’t know me already,
uh huh, uh huh [i introduce myself before smoking a joint]

let me let
don henley
introduce myself — attach yourself to a bloody mary ….
what=?!?!?, he passed out on acid?
and something like that cuz
we are now bonded
like something permanent
like the water and grist
holy shit
wassit?!?!
wassit!::!>!>!
is that a bowl of chkn noodle?

i gotta get by
OUCHHH!!!!
i gotta get by
i sense the fly high
fly high
sing this twice fast exact
like a tack

ok, si guitarra…
i better get by
i better get by
that bowl of chicken noodle!!!!

IN fact…
still pause
i get all poetic and jam with your band,
so sensual,
so impulse deregulated insensual…

who made it up?
who said your soup was kung fu
or residual
on your way to rio
and what the hell
the hardy boys are trying
to drop me!!!!

how long can you freak the fuck?@!
how long can
you
freak the
fUK!K!:!

i want the farmer’s man

i fact
theres
simply no
turning back
igotta jam wit’yoh!!! band!!!

if you never let the fearless speak
won’t your terror just
be the repercussions of the
fearful and
the meek?

one of my favorite songs,
fk you,
east coast rivals,
what the fkcu???
who are you?!?!

can somebody speeeeed this shitz up ?
<! hello q-got-no-tip ,
slow damn
the vibe
and
speed up the
tempo. shit

it’s been a year
and several months since
i finally figured out what a supreme piece
f deceptive blackness
and lethargic
waste you were
and had always been — despite
my beliefs and hopes,
not in spite them.

at least there was that…
you were a permanently broken
human
long before
i met you.

still, i take all the blame
for myself at this point —
i was such a natural magnet
for humanuranium
235 toxic
sludge producers.
my bad!!!

well, not exactly…
in all fairness,
not a trait of reality, but retrospection,
we can chock that one up to
evil doctors
and hateful mothers,

but ya’ll sure helped whack
a number
on
a
very real
person.
INFACT
the pharcyde is coming intact… <<?!

how long can you freak the funk?
how long can you freak it up?!

well you got obama,
you know i don’t want your momma
but if you sell the dissolute
for a song
on a silver
flute
and fk it to the critics…

"i met her in a trio,
supped up some shit…
flew her ass to rio,
i used to deal
but the fuxzzzzzz
popppped me
….

how long can you freaK the FUNK!!?!??!??!!?!"

my guess,
shld i be envicted of the fact,
turning back
bucket root,
loot,
licorice and delicious
let me jam in the lamb…
no beats in the head,
beats on the down stroke
on the
down stroke!

souped up
a bow
l
of chicken noodle…
dig kung fu
who made you my
favorite man of menudo?
a jalopy,
a hardy boy’s
book of mystery
and innuendo ??
freak the funk
he’s the farmer
man
the farmer man…

yeah,
you
guessed it!
shot him in the ass on the down stroke…

uh huh,
uh huh
it ends on a down note…

you know
how long can
you freak
the funk?!
ho w
long
can
you
FREAK
the funk

he’s the farmer man,
you want the farmerman

don’t roll the dice if you can’t
pay price,
i got more flavors than a 7/11 slurpee
if

he can’t admit he’s got AIDS
fuck it man,
i’ve got herpes! [the bravest FKING LINES in hip hop EVER!!!!!]
and i don’t have herpes, but
i salute the man who
is HONEST!!!