A Fig Tree Grows.
Witness there, at the furthest bastion of the decaying urban, in the empty lots where the snidely grass barbs the rusted gates, is a township formerly dubbed Bushwick. Rather, it was the imaginary political boundary amidst a much larger, crowded mausoleum. Names of other antiquities appear along the faded banners of olden commerce and the scattered maps; names like Park Slope, Williamsburg, Clinton Hill and forth. Bushwick, though, is the important place for tis the ruins of an olden poverty where the Sheltered of the 42nd Cavern followed the shadowy guide of the sun into their new kingdom. The Sheltered of this tribe shuffled to blindness, made refuge in the domiciles at the cornered back along the place where the dead are buried in the greening pasture. They made new homes in the dripping darkness of rising buildings, stocked with so many rooms and so many foreign mechanizations. They barricaded their windows and watched the streets during the night, for fear that beasts roamed the wasteland.
Wasteland. They watched the stretching bags of clear fiber rub along the pavement as they rolled with their contents, their feasts and their offerings, in the tumultuous winds. Rain comes with the surprise of discovery, every time treated like the lightning inherent in these mad nights, when men stood vigil at the windows and the women clustered the children behind them. Their eyes flashed with bewildering awe. The curious amongst them wondered if ever their condition would tame the vicious natures. The curious among them carried down the black path labeled Mo,fat, tearing the sheltered trashes for enlightenment and traversing the Home of Deli, a forgotten and disappeared beast; no doubt amongst the bones in the greening pastures where the worms frolicked in the footstep of the storms. They crawled for the gates, the women saw, and warned the wise who posted vigils atop the building known as Wilson Station. The worms mostly kept to themselves. Whenever a person fell to the inevitable mortality, they were chucked into the pastures, to be fed to the worms.
Winter came, and many many died. First it was the elders, those cautious few who knew not the most bitter languor of a snowflake’s reaping and they fell over one another in the whitening pastures where surely the worms waited under the cloak. Children were protected by the huddled warmth of everyone. The cold twisted, contorted, into the cracks, snapping back mothers and fathers into the doorway. The daring few, when food was scarce, ventured into the blank world to brave what could only be the cruelest of Fates. They hoisted strings to their homes and burst from their comforts, holding tightly, and burst into the homes of posthumous miracles, the realm of Deli and The New Texas. Many ropes severed. Enough held and with their return they wrapped the community and it dangled snug. They grew an aptitude for survival, but none could best an uninterpretable world with the mind that couldn’t even consolidate. They searched the wasteland for themselves when the sky died.
Waste became wanted; the forager teams struck further and further into the territory, they conquered brick masonry mountains, scrambled through the annals of banal histories where every crevice was mythology. They sorted through ashes for the faintest parcels of archive, unswept by the deluge of stagnant waters. Weeks gobbled the days and they were ripe for the lunar cycles that engulfed hope and time alike. Strong people shuffled in shackled lines, stretching arms forward to the sky as they stamped the snow, disappearing into grass, with their collapse; a resignation to an unloving struggle.The elders passed through the worms into dust, leaving the young to persevere into the unknown. This was when the snow finally departed. This was when the grass marked the kingdom of the worms and the pastures and the graves reappeared to the bow of the gale tides.
This was when the prophet Giovane stumbled upon the records of his predecessor, of an umbrage with no source. It was the longest sun of this season, at the longest distance, with the longest frailty, at a crumbling tomb of a museum called Vin’l Fanasy where he burst through the glass film to witness the great discovery of his people. It was under the fig tree, the tenacious thaumaturge that grew through a fissure at the center of the building. He stayed and excavated for hours, indulging in his discoveries as they echoed like cherubim choirs within the time capsule. He brought to Mo,fat his discoveries, the instruments to play these cryptic texts, and they reveled the night through.
They found it, in the anthologies and prophecies of Rakim, the Doctor of Dre, The Tribe Called Quest, The Ghetto Boys and the Rap God, the king of these Rap prophets, Eminem, their call through the absurd unknown.
And Giovane was their emissary.