Wednesday, May 9, 2018

The Good Eye

The photographer takes a picture of me waiting at the drive-thru, all I hear is the camera snap the picture. The photographer is hiding, but I know I heard a camera snap a picture. 
The purpose of seeing has a lot to do with identifying what's around you. I think they call it: "Awareness." The magic is what happens after you open your eyes and see things happening on a full live display, so in first person, I'll chose my words cautiously, because you may get something out of this piece. First let me say that I don't think seeing is everything, because a lot of it has to do with perception. Let me explain: I drove a broken car to pick up my mother's medicine; I know this, but to someone else: I drove a nice car to the drugstore and to a blind man: He heard the car go by. While at the drive-thru, I noticed children playing kickball on a small cement playground from afar. Realizing that I used to be in that state of thought, I noticed a tear falling from my good eye. I won't get into the left and right brain chemistry but my other eye was watery as well, so I'll exclude the thought of a mental breakdown. I'm a grown man who's been through somethings, so don't ask me where the tear came from. Anyone would be moved by what I saw but there was something special about this magical display of live human interaction. The magic was that the children had no clue that a complete stranger saw them playing. If seeing is believing, then I believed that there was something pure about children playing. As an adult, I have a responsibility, yet, I tend to understand my own role in this picture. The light flows through my cornea, into my anterior chamber then through my pupil and my lens focuses on what I believe to be seeing. The tear came from some where deep in my soul. The sound of the children playing hit a nerve, I felt something in my soul as a human being. I don't need sympathy because of what I perceived to be pure, but I noticed something clear about this picture. That may be why the tear fell from my good eye. I then regained my composure and drove off, in my broken car. Maybe it was my sinuses. 

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

She Passed out on Stage

"I love you Sasha," Johnny said.
"You don't love me,  you love Katy," Sasha responded, slamming the door in Johnny's face.
It was her big event tonight, a big show, with fans from all over the world coming in to see her sing. In all of the talk about her selling her soul to the devil and all of the other mess that came with the entertainment business, she still couldn't wait to get on stage and sing her song about bringing people together and talking about her view of the universe. After a life threatening phone call, it was clear that Johnny wasn't going to go away. He even paid to have some nasty pictures of Sasha put out to the public and with less fans that was less money for Sasha. Feeling the heat from her father, she decided to dress modest for her big event, even though she knew it was going to be hot on stage. She even stopped drinking. It was clear to the world that Sasha was turning into a more mature artist and the fans were soaking it in. The feeling was mutual, but the hatred that came with fame had got the best of her and in the middle of her new song, she passed out, and a stagehand had to drag her off of the stage, in front of millions of fans. It was clear that whatever demons that Sasha had been dealing with, they had caught up to her. The strange thing about Sasha's story, is that she was always afraid to fly until she got on stage. Johnny, and all of the hatred towards the attention that she had been getting, had put her in a coma. They got the best of her. In her coma, she was like sleeping beauty waiting for a kiss to wake her up. Fan after fan had written her letter after letter, hoping to hear some good news. They prayed and prayed for Sasha to get up out of her hospital bed. The video of her passing out, had somehow seemed like the last image that the world would see of Sasha. Thirty years after that event, she awoke to a tune that a nurse had been playing. She woke up singing. Doctors, and the last of her relatives, rushed to her aid. The news hit the front page. In the thirty year span, all of the talk about her being possessed and being a lunatic had faded away. Single, cripple, and in a wheelchair, it seemed that she had lost everything, but the good lord spared her voice. At fifty years old, she got on stage in her wheelchair and finished the tour that had crippled her. If she was possessed and had somehow sold her soul to the devil in the past, God had saved her from the wrath of a nation that she represented. Sasha was an American artist, American born, and American made. Through it all, her story lived on, and, til-this-day, people still sing the last song she made about her personal relationship with the angel who woke her up singing. Sasha's story saved the music industry, she brought life back to a dying art. On her death bed, she opened the hearts of haters. Sasha's voice had the power to cast out demons. On stage, she wasn't afraid to fly, and when she died, the sun came out in the midst of the clouds. Sasha spread her wings and flew away.  

Saturday, April 14, 2018

How I lost my mind

At first I thought it was folks obligation to acknowledge me, but I later found out that in all reality, until you earn people's respect, no one really cares. They care, but it's like, it's not them, so why should they. Some people just hate you for just being you and there's nothing you can do about it, so why try, like I said there's nothing you can do about it, leave it alone.
I started having these strange thoughts after I saw people who lost their limbs in wars and later found out that drug dealers were shipping drugs in their coffins, my mind went blank after that. I guess some people lose their minds first and when you lose yours, then that's when they start asking for forgiveness. Has anyone seen my real father? I sure am glad someone stepped in and took over the load. I've always tried to be a good person, I don't know why a parent wouldn't want to be around me, maybe it was something else, something that I don't know about. I wish I had the money to pay back the man who stepped in, but I guess that's the great thing about sacrifice; I'll vote for him to make it to heaven, my heaven, at least.
I somehow made friends with a guy who tried to commit suicide because his wife left him and probed him for child support. After seeing him crying in the hallway and listening to his word selection on the phone with his ex-wife, I decided to get married myself. I didn't make it. I guess that's why everyone breaks the rules. At least I tried.
Two days later I saw this lady with no cloths on and decided to watch, I later was told that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain and shouldn't look at people who like to be naked in front of other people. I guess the corporations don't sponsor stuff like that because they can lose money. Once again, I lost one. I'm a sinner, I'm sorry but after it's done, it's done, and I can't go back and close my eyes. The thoughts won't go away, you know.
I decided to apply for a job but they told me I was too qualified so I decided to start building engines and selling them for a cheaper price than my competition. When I started making money I actually felt like a somebody, then my girlfriend got jealous because other girls were excited to see me. Strange things started happening when I started making money and somehow my engines were not the hottest thing on the market anymore. I guess that's the price of winning then losing.
I don't like hurting people but for some reason I couldn't help but notice people didn't mind hurting me. Oh boy, I'm on to something.
I tried to entertain the crowd, so I told the truth about how I felt and they booed me off stage and banned me from ever coming back and performing again. When I woke up the next morning, I felt like trash for getting what was on my mind out to the masses.  They say honesty is an expensive gift. That maybe why I'm kicking the can down the road.
What really was the tipping point was the night when no one showed up to my event and went to my buddy James's event instead. He killed someone and I found out that he made a lot of money for what he did and for some odd reason people keep giving him more of their money. Um, excuse me officer, I think you may be arresting the wrong guy.
I started to feel paranoid when all of these people started asking me questions about my financial situation. I know there are a lot of people doing things that they shouldn't be doing and succeeding at it, but I'm broke and they keep bothering me. I wonder why, but it's fine, I enjoy the company. I guess I found my answer.
Sitting alone in a room every night, I start having these visions of what life would be like if I were not born, but it's too late, I'm here now, I have to make the best out of it.
After trying to reason with so many things that don't make sense, I just have to take it as it comes and that's how I lost my mind, I think. I may have lost it when I thought I was king of the world and everyone bowed down to my statue, nah, it may have been before that. I may have lost it when I realized that I had given everything away for free and found myself broke. Yelp, that's how I lost my mind, I lost it when I thought everything was free. That may be why I have to pay for this pill now, I have to pay for it so I won't forget to remind people that everything cost money, even my own medicine. And that's how I lost my mind, I lost it when I found out that everything comes at a price. A price that someone will eventually have to pay for. 

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

The Show that Saved the World

"I'm afraid Rios, I'm afraid," Cassandra says, taking off her costume.
"Afraid of what? Cassandra, we need you to get it together. I'm tired of being booed off stage. We finally have an audience and you're afraid," Rios says, while trying to coax Cassandra into getting back on stage.
"I'm tired of this. I can't do it."
Cassandra runs and locks herself in the bathroom backstage. She falls to the ground shaking.
Looking at her script, Tasha notices that she only has one act before her scene and the audience is enjoying the show. Tasha frantically knocks on the bathroom door.
"Cassandra, we're going to need you to get it together," Tasha says, in a high-tone whisper.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Cassandra tries to ignore them.
"I can't do it."
Tasha begins to rub the door as though it were Cassandra's back.
"Cassandra, I need you to listen to me. Show business is all I have right now. I've lost everything. This is the only thing I have left that makes me happy. I'm going to need you to get it together. I don't know how word got out but we have a good crowd tonight. Please, Cassandra, I've lost everything. I need this show," Tasha says, begging, eager to get in the bathroom to convince Cassandra to finish the show.
Silence fills the backstage atmosphere. The whole crew, even those in the act, now have Cassandra's part on their minds. Then the knob on the bathroom door begins to turn. Cassandra slowly walks out of the bathroom and heads straight towards the backstage curtain. No one says a word, they just follow. Peeking from backstage, she notices her father in the crowd, the audience is really feeling the show. She fixes her costume, grabs her prop, looks at her fellow cast members, then enters stage right.
In the midst of her performance, flashes of articles of dead friends, school shootings, and lost loved ones flow through her mind, over and over again. In character, she tries not to notice the huge crowd, but that's really all she and the crew really ever wanted, nothing more. Exiting the stage, Tasha thanks her as the audience applauds and stands. Throughout all of the hardship and heartache, throughout all of the mayhem and destruction, the show went on. As roses fly on stage, everyone proceeds to curtain call and takes a bow. Cassandra glances at all of her fellow cast members, and waves towards the good audience. They all take a deep breath, exit stage left, while also walking over the roses on stage.
"What a good audience," Tasha says, noticing the lights fading to black.
"What a good audience." She says again, then sits down backstage and says no more.
 Everyone places everything back in order for the next show.
Cassandra's dad takes the footage of his daughter from his phone and uploads it to YouTube. For some odd reason the country's mood went from sadness to excitement.
It was a good audience.
That show, somehow saved the world. 

Sunday, April 1, 2018

Purple Schizophrenia

A dentist studies oral specimens like a surgeon studies organs.
A preacher will talk about things from the heavens, while the nature of a prostitute can hold a man from reaching the temple of his brain.
Psychologically, rhythmically, and harmoniously, a writer must search for words to relay his or her message.
Some words have meaning and some don't, but a person is forced to wear purple when misunderstood.
Laying in her hospital bed, in her mind, she sees mass amounts of followers tugging at his robe. Words from choirs singing in her head.
Wool hair with the rays of the sun resounding from the temple of his head, like the hair of a lion. The knowledge of a psychologist cannot explain that which is not of this world, that which she is holding on to, that which is telling her of another world. The voices won't go away. 
The mysteries of dying lost souls, searching for a savior.
Isis, Osiris, Horus, and Set.
Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and Lucifer.
Amon, Amun, and Amen.
She, who hears from the Gods.
A breakdown in the relationship between thought, emotion, and behavior, leading to faulty perceptions.
Withdrawal from reality with inappropriate actions and feelings.
Fantasies of heaven and delusions of heaven and earth coming together as one.
The dumb, the blind, and those held as slaves, all leaving the presence of this world to follow him.
The voice in her head telling her that he is God.
Jumping up from her bed, she notices Mary Magdalene standing in the corner of her room, telling her about a man who would listen to her.
Born king of angels, speaking of things other than this world.
A universe in his own mind, clothing made of fine cloth, a shepherd for the sheep.
The alpha and omega, a feature with feathers of sparrows surrounding him while healing souls.
Monotheism, a threat to the rulers of earth so that every knee shall bow and worship him.
An ankh, reshaped in the image of a man being tormented and crucified on a cross.
Could this be the answer for everyone's woes.
Rising for the sins of mankind, only to bare the burden of such a cunning and sinful creature.
Pages from old scrolls with magazine pictures of old Pharaohs with their noses missing.
"If you choose to pay close attention, you may find the keys to Zion in the old artifacts, look closely they're laced with gold," another voice whispers in her ear. 
Lying back down, the smoked mirrors separate her from the other psych patients, blinded by truths, truths hidden in plain sight, in the shapes of triangles and pyramids in the forms of wires through the looking glass?
While her mind is dissected and fed medicine to heal her lost soul, the sun stands still in the sky as the medicine puts her to sleep, only to rise again in the morning.
In a field of scholars, two wise men become distracted by a married woman with children visiting her wearing a purple dress.
In repentance, they contain their thoughts. 
Blinded by the light, glaring from the sun, they notice a few disciples in the distance pointing to a swinging pendulum on the clock. Visiting hours are over.
She speaks of flying six point stars and children in the slums of Israel, running from fragments falling from the sky.
"Don't leave me here alone, please don't go," She screams, while crying, as her visitors exit the ward. 
Unnerved by lack of attention to the matter, she watches as her sovereign family fades beyond the horizon of her padded room and on their voyage through psychological academia they grow to understand that a poor woman's makeup is the dirt on the ground. Although delusional, she tries to follow, and at the end of her journey she finds no one at the cross and a tomb with no one in it.
Awe struck, and a prisoner in her own mind, she steals a purple cloth from the psych ward then jumps into a crowd of people labeled with the sickness called: Schizophrenia. A man in white scrubs chases her into the crowd, wrestlers her to the ground, only to baptize her in a sink of medicine. She later awakes, reborn, with a fresh start in a padded room. When she is set free, she spreads her message while holding on to the purple cloth. It appears as though she has found a savior. It appears as though she has been born again. It appears as though she has been healed.
All the while, everyone else thinks she's crazy, but in reality she just sees things differently.     
She's a believer.   

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Get back up and try again.

You may notice a few bruises on a champion and you may see some people get eliminated from a spelling bee.
The magic is when you see them try it all over again next year and are forced to retire from doing what they once believed that they couldn’t do.
After getting knocked out and eliminated so many times, they almost make it look easy, once they get it right.
When their run is over and there’s nothing left to do, they sit down and talk about it, so you, and people like you, will get back up and try again, just like they did.
If taken care of properly, a broken bone will heal, but don’t you understand it’s motivation is to heal and get better.
The moral of the story is to get back up and try again.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

The Ghetto

Okay, first let me figure out somethings.
A genius is suppose to be someone unique, in some pretty normal or odd circumstances.
That may just be my interpretation.
I woke up and realized that sometimes a normal situation can be just someone's interpretation of normal.
So in reality what may seem normal to me may not be normal to you.
Forgive some of my wording but I'm just typing to give you an idea of a "ghetto" interpretation.
The definition changes because the word has a harsh meaning but if you're reading this then I'm sure it got your attention. 
I guess I'll use myself; being raised in some rather unusual circumstances, I may see things that I can relate to that other people cannot.
I'll try my best to explain the situation.
I woke up on the street where I used to live when I was a kid.
Don't ask me how I ended up in my old room, but I did.
I decided to come back.
Running from reality, I asked my dad to stay at the house where I spent the majority of my youth.
My intentions were to take my retirement money and help him get things back in order.
Don't ask me why, but he kept the old place; that could explain why nothing worked the way it used to.
There was a rat about the size of my two fist hanging around, so I killed it, or him.
I think it was trying to be my friend, I don't know, it kept popping up in some odd situations.
Realizing that there was a dead rat in the house being consumed by ants, the word "proper" popped in my head.
Proper is a term that could mean something different to those who don't know what it means, especially when you see artist or volunteers spray painting ideas on other people's property.
To the doctor, none of what I'm seeing or experiencing is proper because a rat can spread disease and people shouldn't be painting other people's property.
To the scholar, that's not normal.
The reason why I say this is because to the painter, it may seem proper or normal.
If only my nose were unclogged, I might know what the smell is that's making me light headed.
I can only imagine what plant the people across the street are hiding. 
Kids can find some amazing toys in this neighborhood, she seems so happy jumping on that dirty mattress on the curb.
The water man must be painting the curb to mark his territory or it could be that someone just didn't pay the bill.
A teenager on the roof with a tarp and a wooden ladder laying on the spouting, it must be about to rain.
A firing range must be on the other street because someone let off a few rounds last night.
I wonder where all of the people went that used to live in this neighborhood, it used to be so filled with life. 
For some odd reason as a child the sun seemed to shine so bright in this neck of the woods.
I guess it was because I saw things from a different angle or was just too young to see things clearly.
Now the houses that once stood are all torn down.
The people don't seem happy at all, there's a big argument going on down the block.
I've just come to accept that by me coming back here, I'll never be taken seriously again, but I'm fine with that.
I've always considered myself mentally challenged for always willing to give others a helping hand,
Or maybe I just see things in people that they don't see in themselves.
The selection of music seems to be displayed in the oddest fashion because all I hear is bass and for some odd reason maybe just a few houses seem organized.
I guess the people who bettered themselves left, never to return again.
I guess the girl who got beat up on the corner some years back, cursed this place.
Looking out of the window, I remembered how this place used to look.
I remember flashes of the big dude and his gang waiting for me to come out of the house so they could finish me off.
I remembered telling my mom to tell them to go away because I had no more fight left in me, I could barely see out of my right eye.
I have a positive outlook on life though.
That maybe why I'm one of the few who came back to try and save this place.
I could give up at any time now.
I figured if I spent all I had and came back, others would get the point, that maybe why they fixed the pot holes in the street or it may just be because someone complained.
Realizing the lack of hope, I looked around at the dirty walls and remembered the day I left for the Navy, only to be injured trying to fight Captain Hook.
Like Peter Pan in Never Never Land, I came back for the lost boys, only to find that they all grew up and found a new home.
I missed the memo that some lost their life defending their territory when I left.
And some struck gold, never to return to the ghetto again.

Monday, March 19, 2018

And God said let there be Work

And when God saw man working, he said that it was good.
After the 8th hour he noticed that the man became tired so he created the 30 minute break and it too was good.
Then the lord saw that the woman needed work also so he gave her something to do and as she began to work she began to complain, so the lord gave her a 30 minute break as well and it was good also.
The lord then saw that man needed a reward for his work so he created money and once he gave the man money he was pleased and he and the woman began to spend the money together and it to was good. On the seventh day when the lord rested he saw it fit to give the man and his woman a vacation and that to was good. It was all good.
They began to make babies on the vacation and when they were born the lord instructed the man to put them to work also. Once the children began to work the lord saw a need for the now old woman and man to retire and get ready to meet him and after this last testament everything that the Lord created was good. All good.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

The Human Principal

No matter what, the more pleasure you seek, eventually it will amount to pain.
And the more pain you seek, eventually it will amount to death.
To comprehend nature, one must understand balance.
Balance is a steady pace; in the wake of to much consumption, nature will eventually fight back.
When this process unfolds, everything else becomes irrelevant.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

The Dictator, the Con Man & the Peacemaker

The Dictator:
Everything that I say is right and no matter what you say I'm still right. If you say something against what I say then I'll either kill you or fire you.

The Con Man:
Give me three thousand for the piece of trash that I bought at an auction and even if the car doesn't work, I'll give you the runaround until I come up with another con game to get your money.

The Peacemaker:
Everything will be okay, God will handle it. Everything happens for a reason. The money will fall from the sky tomorrow and we'll all be happy. She borrowed $1,500 of my money and is taking half naked pictures of herself on, it looks like she has no intentions of paying me back but everything will turn out fine you just wait and see. I still love everyone. It's a good day isn't it. The good lord has a plan. Let's join hands and sing.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

All I want to do is type

Oh the woes of the world.
Give me a computer, a typewriter, a pencil, or a pen and a pad. I don't want much, I'll just type or write my way to happiness.
I don't need women or a lavish lifestyle, all I want to do is type.
Forgive me for not fitting in with the laws of the land and the ways of man.
Forgive me for getting in the way of the schemes to take over the world.
I don’t care about getting sweaty and throwing balls around.
As a newborn, all I needed was a good story to settle me down.
Sweetheart, I don't want to spend money on you that I don't have.
I don't want to get on my knees and ask for your hand in marriage.
I'm sorry, but all I want to do is type.

Friday, March 9, 2018

American Women

I picked up my mom today from work and for some odd reason she was in a good mood.
As a child she would often drink her problems away but that time has passed.
In my service to the country, I saw pictures of women dressed as nurses aiding men and comforting each other.
Like every man, I often fantasize about being some woman's inspiration but don't worry a smile is enough to keep me going.  
Although I may die a single man because I failed at marriage, I have no hard feelings when I see American women smile.
Often left alone to care for their children.
Often criticized because of what they can and cannot do.
Not all women are bad, I guess, but there is something special about an American woman.
In her eyes are dreams, even when daddy is not around.
In her soul is courage to comfort and care.
Although most of her lessons are learned in the end, she never gives up on what she wants in life. 
In my younger years, my sister's friend threw a block for me while playing tackle football. She laid a boy out so that I could score a touchdown. 
She's able.
In his own repentance, my dad has been humbled by the fact that my mother still cares for him even after so many trials in our life.
He once pulled me to the side in the heat of an argument with an old lady friend and told me the hidden strength that a woman has.
As I pass through this life, in all of my sorrows and lonely nights, I can never say that a smile from an American woman has not made me stronger.
Like every woman, especially American, at the end of the day, all they want to do is be happy in this life.
This piece is only made to inspire.
For some odd reason when I saw my mother smile today, some angel from above softened my heart, I wish these moments could last forever.
I think I'll go watch reruns of Oprah now.
Thanks for reading.
Inspiring words are all I have left to give ladies. ☺

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

The Man who Invented Heaven & Hell ♋∞

"Jenny, what are you doing? Stop it!" Victor said, vehemently yanking his daughter away from her sister.
At that moment, it hit him. Bad people had to face the consequences of their actions so he spanked his daughter, urban folks called it "whipping" because it reminded them of slavery. To Victor, there had to be a place where people burned for their behavior on earth. In a state of constant thought, he felt that if they didn't face the consequences here, then they had to face some punishment in the after life. He was not a religious man but studied often. To test his theory, he started stealing and doing everything that his wife had preached him not to do in her beloved bible. Victor had been playing with fire and would soon find himself on the ledge of the building where he lived. While standing on the ledge, looking down, he noticed that the people that he had hurt were there to talk him out of trying to take his own life. They were encouraging.
"This must be what it feels like when you have so much bad weight on you that you constantly feel like your mind is burning," he kept repeating to himself, while standing on the ledge of his seventh floor apartment. Karma had caught up to him, so he discovered a way to undo the hell that he had created from his bad behavior. He started doing good to undo his bad will. In the process, he became wiser and did twice as good as he had done bad. He also started having a constant flow of positive thoughts. After spending his entire life playing with fire and ice, he wrote his philosophy down and published his very own book. Victor's reasoning of the afterlife stood in the middle of basic human actions. He stated that if a human being were to stay in one spot and do nothing, they would eventually attract some form of energy or become so neutral that they would become nothing on earth and die. His focus was on how the mind and body had to stay in motion, moving was the only way to keep the cycle going. He also wrote about training and how if one did not move they would eventually become like a tree, stupid and dumb to other humans. Over the course of Victor's work, he spoke a lot about fire and ice. His hypothesis that hell was equal to too much negative energy and heaven was equal to too much positive energy—wowed other philosophers and theologians. His basic concept that the human mind was built to stay in the middle could not be challenged. What won him an audience was his logical theory that everything that we do on this planet can only come from two forces that will eventually try to keep us in the center of life's eternal equation. In his final book titled: "The Man who Invented Heaven & Hell," Victor took readers into two worlds made of fire and ice. He elaborated on how one cannot survive by being totally present with fire or totally present with ice. His basis was focused on staying in the middle, he stated that if you did not stay in the middle, eventually you would become too loved or too hated and human nature would try to pull you in either direction. Although he could never show people heaven or hell, he believed that on our quest to be born into this world, we beat out the competition to get back into the middle, racing with our own bloodline. Victor felt that the rotation of life was never ending. He concluded by stating that we were just energy flowing constantly between two hot and cold elements, and the process never ends. His last chapter focused on the genetic makeup of human intellect. It talked about how our genetic makeup is ultimately a design from God to keep things balanced with an unlimited supply of creativity from his branches of DNA. Each genetic branch is given a chance to live in the center of the ultimate eternal cycle.♋∞

Thursday, February 22, 2018

The Wild Wild West

A typewriter fell in my lap, bye God, it's a computer.
I could’ve sworn it was a typewriter just yesterday.
Laptops, Googles, Ipads, and Galaxies.
Flying liberals fighting at a drugstore, everyone duck-duck-goose, she's got a gun.
Conservatives eating with Russians.
Indians and cowboys, blacks and whites, bullets flying everywhere.
Tweets and eagles fighting in a white house.
Black Panthers fighting with African hippos, oh my, Mickey and Minnie too.
Naked women in 3D.
Is that guy a Mexican Jew?
Gays and Lesbians jumping through rainbows, midgets dancing in the street, somebody check the safe.
Muslims and Christians behind bars with tattoo artist screaming rape.
Smoke at a weed factory. Who knew?
Women with red hair and pink pajama paints too.
Jumping Jezebels on  public radio.
Jesus on B.E.T and in the Rolling Stones.
Lawsuits all over a poem and a poet with a broken pencil on the kitchen table.
The bank in the safe, the safe in the bank, no reserves for the robber, he's shooting blanks.
Teens on drugs and pervy neighbors peeking through little Suzie's window.
Guns in school, Guns in church, Guns in bed, Guns and roses.
Presidents with golf balls dancing in their heads.
A mixture, a reservation, sober people escorting drunks.
Ships in port, passing out condoms to spies.
Oh boy, what a Jubilee.
What's on the next channel, I hope I don't go blind.
I just remembered, did you pay my fine?
Drug infested stars, children speaking adult language.
Boxing matches in old churches.
Little furry dogs with headbands on.
Chickens running loose at the zoo.
Tigers in Vegas, bye George, there's hookers too.
Buses, and sleighs filled with starving children on black Friday.
A king drinking at a dirty fountain.
Presidents dead in the streets, doctors wearing white sheets.
Working nine to five in the land of the free.
Rappers, Barbies, Dick and Jane.
Anonymous, does anyone know my name.
Divas, peasants, and common people, jay walking on busy streets.
Ashes in irons and old folk tied to hospital beds made with high tech remotes.
Houses on the open market some of them sold.
Sports players, some of them bold.
Smile for the camera, are you talking to yourself?
Is that you on the tube, cleaning up blood in the snow?
Is that you on the tube, punching that girl like dough?
Can anyone comprehend?
Lawyers with empty stomachs, judges with wooden teeth.
I think I've lost my marbles, maybe I should head east.
Wigs and cotton, sea to shinning sea.
Breakfast in bed on the last day of the week.
There's something about the wildness that makes me assume everything is free.
Buy; sell; solicitors on the phone.
I walk outside but no one's home.
Wall Street with a corner store. 
Maybe my medicine will keep me sane.
Oh boy, I forgot my name.
The woman's hockey team beat Canada.
The paperboy dropped out of school.
A nun trying to hold on to the golden rule.
Different people everywhere, I must be lost.
How much does that penny cost?
I then wake up from my dream getting arrested by the cops.
They take me in and explain my rights.
I've woke up in the West, the Wild Wild West, butt-naked flying a kite.
Two professors dressed like hippies pass me a test.
"What a nasty world we live in," she has tattooed on her chest.
I'll try and do my best, wait, on second thought, maybe I should rest.
I promise I won't ask the fast-food girl for anything fresh.
Wake me up when it's over.
I've lost my mind.
Hold up, I think I'll be fine.
Crazy, no, try wild.
Hey, get that camera out of here!

Tuesday, February 20, 2018


What's the point of trying, it's already been done?
Nobody cares anyway, there will be more people that hate you than love you once it's done anyway.
Sit down.
Take a break.
Why pay the bill when the owner is getting the service for free?
Why get married, in a few years she'll be with someone else anyway?
There's a tax on that land, why buy it?
Food stamp card, Hah! Rich people are wasting food.
Give me medicine because you make me sick.
Call me stupid because you wrote the book.
I eat sleep and breathe just like you.
Call me colored, call me white, what the hell;
I'm trying to find a reason to be here just like you.
What's the point of winning when you'll lose next year?
What's the point of hitting the lottery when all I'm going to do is get taxed and spend it all.
As soon as I'm caught up on everything there will be more bills.
Why's that dummy on top of that building, doesn't he know if he hits the ground he's going to be dead?
What's the point of killing yourself over someone you love when the world is filled with more lovers?
Leave the job, move in with mom, she needs the company.
The world is yours.
Why read, why exercise, what's the point?
I look at the doctor and he sticks a needle in me, he makes me sick.
Why try, when all they're going to do is pick on you?
Don't take my advice, do what you want, it's your life.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Why losing is good

In life, there is one fact: Everyone will eventually lose. When you win, you feel good. You attract mass amounts of followers who love winners and enjoy the hype of winning. When you lose, you work even harder to win. Losing is the understanding that life will eventually end. Losing teaches you the reality of life, it's encouraging. My friend, there is nothing wrong with losing. Losing shows you that friends who encourage you and make you feel like a winner even when you lose, are good friends. These friends are always around to teach and work with you to become a winner. Losing shows you that those who do not practice your profession and criticize you for losing, actually do not have an accurate understanding of your field of study. Losing is good, because it teaches you how to become a winner and how to win even when you lose. The ultimate reason why losing is good, is because it makes you try harder. Losing also creates miracles that are often called luck because everyone always expects you to lose. These miracles give others the ability to believe in something greater. That is why losing is good. If you're a loser, be good at it. Talk to people about how it feels to lose, scream at the camera, shout at your teammates, get angry at yourself and I guarantee that you'll soon become a winner. Good luck in March.😉

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Ash Thursday

I gave it all away when I heard a small voice saying, "Follow me."
In the middle of a massacre, I couldn't help but notice angels carrying innocent victims up to the heavens.
Was I seeing things?
While noticing a blind man jump in front of a virgin girl to save her life, it hit me.
I took everything I owned and began to follow.
When the bullet hit me, I noticed the light.
There was screaming everywhere but there was no need to fight.
I left all I had and I took his hand.
There was nothing on earth that I could take with me.
I surrendered, when I did, I was told to go back and save as many souls as I could.
I was told to be a witness to the joy and peace on the other side.
There was no need to cry.
For infinite wisdom had created an understanding of two worlds.
I entered one and then the other.
On my journey, there was no need to look back.  
I left everything, and with nothing left I realized that my life was worth much more, for my soul was welcomed into the light.
Is ink burnt wood and water?
Is ash also burnt wood?
In that thought, my soul began to float like ashes in the wind.
With less, I had less weight.
My soul was set free.
No longer a slave to the world, there was something attractive about the other side.
Less rules, freedom to fly like eagles.
When I began to fly, I saved the date, signed my name in the book and called it: "Ash Thursday."
For they called me by my real name.
I'm home.

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Big Time Love

This is big time.
Even when tragedy strikes, I won't let go.
When it all falls down and all is gone, I won't give up.
You can call me Mr. Love, that's big time, that's big time love.💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝
Love is sweeeeeeet.
It may cause heartache, but I want more.
I'm addicted.
I want more.
My name is Mr. Love, that's big time, that's big time love.
That's all that people want, that's all that they need.
The radio is telling me, the television is showing me, the phone is ringing and it's talking to me.
But all I can think about is love.
More Love.
That's sweeeeet.
That's awesome.
That's big time, big time love. 

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Dissecting Typewriter Model 60 & the Imperial Underground Railroad

As the clock struck twelve, I could feel my fingertips swelling from typing for so long. In section one, I noticed the margin scale a tad bit off, this was after I had just checked my margin indicator but I had to keep typing. Poor Scarlet had just got word that two of her slaves had been caught trying to escape, I scrapped that page. At that moment, I put my paper locating guide a slight bit more to the left. My report had to be brief. The line space adjusting lever seemed a bit rusty but it's getting the job done. I then took notice of the line spacing adjustment indicator. This report was critical. The history of the underground railroad was recorded with every letter that I punched. With every sheet of paper touching the platen roller, I had little time for mistakes. I then proceeded to flip the carriage release lever and then the platen locating release. Struggling to get the paper out, frustrated because I spelled Harriet's name wrong, I fought with the platen clamping lever and the platen clutch release. Feeding the typewriter with a new sheet of paper, I quickly turned the platen turning knob and tapped hard on the carriage clamping wedge. I had to finish this paper, I was getting thoughts of plantations all over the south freeing slaves. On the last word, in the second paragraph, I hit the line space lever. Sweating from the heat, I took the hem of my shirt and wiped off the hinged ribbon cover. Some loose threads from my shirt got caught on the stencil switch and I made a mistake and hit the color change lever. There was no time for this, I was reporting on colored folks and the damn ink had to be black. In frustration, I mistakenly flipped the type-unit release lever. In the process of correcting my mistake, I noticed two initials engraved on the type unit's front plate. The initials were "A.L." how ironic, I wonder if they stand for Abraham Lincoln. I have little time to think, I have to keep typing on this old typewriter that I purchased from some new generation abolitionist to help them raise money for weapons. I punch the back-spacer, quick, then the shift lock next. Locating the feed roller release lever, I hear someone screaming my name. "Get in here and shut that damn door, don't you see we're on the break of another civil war," I shout back at my daughter as the door slams. I then tap the "Quickset" margin lever and adjust the paper shelf. The bail bar lever is in place and the auxiliary feed rollers keep rolling as I shift to the next paragraph on the page. I notice good indentation measurements on the bail bar, I'm cruising now, and I'm almost done. Punching letter after letter, I can't help but feel the rhythm as my line indicator stays put, while the paper rolls through. The ribbon center guide allows the letters to imprint on the paper and there is no need to adjust my line indicator locking lever. The sound of the type bar fork keeps me in tune with every word. Deep in my thoughts, I have an inkling to hit the ribbon reverse lever. I pass on that thought and adjust the tabulator setting key, concluding the last section of the report, I hit the touch adjustment control, then the margin release. I look at my checklist and finish-up. I hit the type-unit runner, the writing point indicator looks good. The paper is almost done, so I hit the tabulator bar then period and space bar. I use the shift key for the last line, now all I need is a signature. I notice that I have a typo by the names: "Moses and John." The first page of my black history project is done. I followed all of the instructions given to me by the teacher and used one of the oldest typewriters that I could find. Realizing that I'm going to loose points with the type error, I take a blot of black ink and correct my mistake. In the midst of my correction, I then realize that I've got black ink all over my shirt. In my own little cleaning ceremony, I realize that there's nothing I can do about the past, but I can make the future better.      

Wednesday, January 31, 2018


After the bomb, there was only one town left. In the distance you could see it. The entire electrical grid had been scrambled, some towns had lights for one minute while other parts were dark.
"I want you to keep that door locked and don't let no one in. You hear me? No one! I got word from the sheriff that there's enough heathens left from that explosion to fill a ballroom and we only got enough food in this house for us," Greg explained to his wife.
"I do what I want, Greg, all them there heathens is the cause of the people we voted in power. If one come, I'm gon feed em. You do what you won't. You ain't nothin but a ruthless bastard anyway. I only married you cuz of that damn stubborn preacher," Vickie replied.
Greg threw down his gun and pushed her up against the wall,
"Now you listen to me and you listen to me good, I don't got time for your stupidity. Right now it's about survival. I'm the man in this house and if I say don't let them in here, then you listen to what I say."
When he let go to pick up his weapon, Vickie grabbed a pot off of the counter and cracked it over Greg's head౼knocking him out. She then heard someone at the front door. She proceeded to answer when her daughter came running into the kitchen.
"It's one of them, mama, it's one of them. What we gonna do? Daddy said not to let them in," Shanna said, trembling from the waist up.
Peeking out of the window, Vickie took hold of Greg's gun.
"Well I ain't 'yo daddy, 'Izz feel real sorry for folks who ain't don no harm to nobody. Them folks 'is innocent. Now I want you to make some room at the table. God loves all his people," Vickie said, reaching for the doorknob.
Shanna looked down at Greg laying on the floor, "But what about daddy?"
"You do as I say. Daddy ain't got nothin to do with this. He, the sheriff, and all the men of Carolina ain't nothin but some ruthless bastards, who only care about themselves. They don got everybody all revved up and now they wanna starve people who just wanna eat. They the cause of this. You hear me? They started this mess," Vickie explained to Shanna.
Hearing another knock, she lifted the chain lock off of the steal door. When she opened it, she noticed a little girl and her mother.
"Mam, wez' got nowhere to go. Wez' got no food. Please help us," the woman said.
Vickie opened up the screen door and welcomed them in.
Shanna came rushing from the kitchen, "The table is ready momma."
Vickie put down the gun and they all walked to the dinner table to eat what she had been cooking before her and Greg started arguing.
While eating, Shanna noticed Greg with her peripheral vision, he was rubbing his head with his gun pointed in their direction.
"Vickie, I told you, you damn women don't listen to nothin a man say. Now I want you folks out of my house," Greg said while waving his gun in the poor woman's direction.
Vickie stood up, "Ya'll ain't got to go nowhere. If they go, I'm goin with them."
"Daddy, put down the gun, please," Shanna said.
Greg looked at his daughter and glanced at the woman with her child.
With his gun in one hand, he fell up against the wall, rubbing his head with his other hand.
"It's hard ain't it Greg. It's hard takin' on the problems that y'all caused. Now you gon, have to man-up and hunt for a family of five now," Vickie said as she sat back down to finish her meal.
Greg slide with his back against the wall down to the floor holding his gun. While he watched them all eat, his eyes began to water. Everything that he and the men were fighting for had resulted to nothing. For all they had been fighting for was no more. All that had been left of Carolina was a vision to protect the region from being divided, but the state of Carolina had one problem: The poor and unfortunate had gotten stuck in the middle of a fight between the middle class and the rich. In the midst of the madness, Greg sat there on the floor with no choice but having to face the reality that no matter how hard men fought, the poor and innocent were always there to pickup what was left over and until they too became fat off of the land, they took every handout given to them until they themselves became the providers.
As the war between the middle class and rich ended, this is all that was left of Carolina. Nothing changed. It only got worse.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Human Behavior

Some say the soul is what makes us human.
The ability to function, the ability to comprehend.
In my deep thoughts, I cannot help but wonder why we're here.
Are we here to be envious of one another?
Are we here to judge?
Are we here to be selfish?
Are we here to progress and obtain all that we can?
With age comes wisdom.
What was once important to you at an early age, somehow fades away as priorities change.
I too had ambitions far beyond belief at an early age.
Visions of the world accepting me, even in my illiterate state of mind.
I cannot explain why age makes life more complicated,
Having to find a way to survive and stay afloat.
Why some people have to sit in a room and fade away in their last moments can never sound fair, but reflecting on the past is a burden that we all must face.
There's so much to learn in this life.
So much to keep up with.
Is that what makes us human?
To watch two children fighting over who will play the main character.
To have a conversation with a prostitute, and later realize that she is human too.
She too has thoughts and ambitions.
In that thought, I begin to read and try to understand logic when in reality it's simple math.
The complex things of nature are hard to figure out, but if you try hard enough, eventually you'll find a solution.
Then you later learn that somethings cannot be explained. 
A man who cannot control himself, locked up behind bars, he too must leave this earth one day and face the mysteries on the other side.
Don't ask me why, but something or someone created us.
A vision of life giving us breath.
A human phenomenon.
As time passes and our ambitions slowly fade away into the past,
Our dreams of creating a legacy soon merge with the reality that the world can only provide us with so much. Maybe less is better.
Some kill, some fight, some steal, some desire to rule the world, some love, some hate, some succeed and some fail, but I guess that's what defines human behavior.
Why not decide to pickup a good hobby?
Why contemplate on the woes of the world?
Humans will be humans.
It's been that way since we were created, nothing is new. 
People of all races still battling with the realities that shape us.
In this deep thought, I take a break and rest.
Am I a good person for returning someone's lost dollar?
Am I a good person for confessing my imperfections?
After years of being provocative, I don't know why some women decide to change their ways.
After years of pleasure, I don't know why some people take the road less traveled.
Is it the soul that makes us human?
Take a breath and listen to a crying child for a moment, it's normal, it's human behavior.

Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Theater in the Middle of Nowhere

This piece is in honor of those forgotten and whose stories have never been told.
The bones scattered in the fields of oppression.
The vessels of many different faces, cultures and ethnic backgrounds, on their voyage to live a dream.
It's graphic but will motivate you to understand the pain of the past and present.
Views as displayed on stages in theaters all over the world, depicting the woes and realities of life.
I hope this piece will open your eyes and give you some sense to try and live a better life.
If this piece offends anyone, then forgive me, as I forgive you.
In the midst of my typing the clock is stuck on 8:08pm.
The workers on the assembly-line try to stay focused, realizing that they are living the dream.
My typewriter on the kitchen table is leaking old black ink so I use the computer instead.
A piece from a falling building hits me in the head.
I fall to the floor, dizzy, I see two twin buildings in the distance.
I'm a poet, who has lost his marbles.
I wake up at a theater in the middle of nowhere:
A school history teacher stands on stage with whips and chains.
He is the MC, a prostitute and a preacher are playing the lead roles.
A woman who aborted seven babies in her lifetime is on the piano with her throat cut.
The show begins when the MC leaves the stage with his chains rattling.
He trips and falls over the proscenium arch into the orchestra pit.
The people in the orchestra pit pay no attention and continue to play, knowing they have to appeal to the many different types of people in the audience.
The show must go on.
It has never been like this: Catholics, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Pentecostals, Atheist, Scientologist, and Baptist; all sitting together to watch a show.
The projector turns on with a ship sailing for over 400 years trading human-beings with women and babies falling overboard, on a huge silver screen.
A man with a white hood on, stands up screaming in the audience, I'm assuming the worst.
When two flags fly on the screen, he starts throwing tomatoes.
The show is not his cup of tea.
It's evident that the director is sick.
He has a swastika on his shirt, sitting in the front row.
A woman with numbers embedded on the skin of her wrist screams.
Someone then shoots the director in the head, not knowing that the symbol is ancient, meaning: "good fortune" or "well-being."
Oh no, I should have read the disclaimer.
I'm a burden to society, forgive me.
When people look at me they often think about someone hanging from a cross or dangling from a noose.
They repent. The hair on my arm stands up. I'm filled with water and electrical molecules.
The Scientologist then cheers.
It's evident that I've lost it. My sailor buddies are all drunk and hungover. I don't drink so I have to drive them home.
One lost his arm heaving around and the other got blew up by terrorist and no one wants to be bothered with him.
My other shipmate, Stanly, lost his legs, I found him in the hallway crying by the phone because his wife left him so I invited him to the show also. We're used to this stuff. That's probably why we're still watching.
I would be lying to you if I told you that this life was fair.
I would be lying to you if I told you that I had good credit and could get a low interest loan.
The truth often haunts me too.  
I confess, I built this theater with a payday loan, I built the stage, me and some illegal immigrants.
I built it in the middle of nowhere because I wanted to see who would show up to the show.
In a land where everyone dies trying to get to with no fear of testing those in power.
Maybe they just don't know.
Oh boy, skeletons at the wall.
God told me to write this.
Forgive me I'm schizo, let me get back on track.  
Why do good people have to suffer?These thoughts flow through my mind as I continue to watch.
In all of the chaos, some people have walked out of the theater.
I have to keep watching so I don't forget those who suffered on route to this point.
Just think, some people waited in line for hours to see this show and a rapist paid $1,000 to sit in the front row and everyone shook his hand.
When you're pleasuring your brains out with your neighbors wife, what's scary is the fact that you think you'll never get caught.
A woman dressed in black sneaks up and stabs the rapist in the heart.
He falls to the floor slowly.
The theater is dark and no one notices the carnage but me.
This show at the theater in the middle of nowhere was not PG.
This show at the theater in the middle of nowhere was not rated R.
The show really happened.
The blood was real.
At the end of the show, there was a standing ovation.
The people drove out to the theater in the middle of nowhere to see scenes from the past and reflect on ways to create a better future.
They walked over bodies on the way out.
If you made it to this point, then thank you for watching.
At the end of the show, a kid with autism lit himself on fire as the priest threw holy water on him to put out the flames.
At that point, roses filled the stage.
The kid with autism, in all of his burnt clothes, bowed as curtain call proceeded. When everyone followed his lead, he put up the peace sign, if only those who left would have stayed til the end. 
The Theater in the Middle of Nowhere.   

Monday, January 15, 2018


A leader on the verge of suicide.
A president plotting to build more golf courses. 
People divided by their views of a dream.
Green dollars being divided by two types of people and the truth cannot be accepted.
Two parties fighting for power, tax dollars spread all over the world. 
Simple minds robbing those with intellect; those who provide, hiding in big houses, guarding the goods from those with nothing left.
Who will create something to live for, only to have it taken away so someone else can move on.
Oh, if I had only stopped the fun and paid off that loan.  
Missions of statements driven by businesses holding on to their last dollars.
Someone holding on to their religious belief, still searching for answers.
Opinions with standing ovations and a man standing on the ledge. 
Balls being thrown up and down a court and a field with injured players being forced to play.
Planes sliding off of the runway and little girls on a screen barely clothed.
Poets, searching for words to explain, standing on corners with empty cups.
People high off of sex, porn, and drugs.
Alcohol and cigarettes everywhere and yet still it's never enough.
Young children watching television with visions inflated by what they see and time passing by as they slowly lose their minds.
In the midst of the imagination, a preacher sits in a pulpit with his wife and daughter passing the plate around.
From a distance, there's a small sense of reality, because the preacher's daughter is provocative, and in the painting it appears as though she is trying to steal his sword.
Realizing the reality of each situation, some people have awaken from the dream.
Just like you, I too am stuck in the collage, searching for something to hold on to and something to eat.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

The Man with the Gun

Can war be a symbol of integrity? Can war lead to justice? Can war satisfy the soul? Can war create heroes?
What will a man do to win a war?
What weapons will he create?
How will he fight?
There are things used in war; things that kill.
A man scarred, on the run or left for dead, is a threat to whomever scarred him, whomever made him run and whomever left him for dead.
Let me bring you inside of a mind filled with rage.
To an informant: the mind of "A CRIMINAL."
Let me open up a gateway so you will take heed to the signs.
Look at his face.
Look into his eyes.
He has been hurt. 
This message is simple.
He no longer cares about your tears or your crying babies.
In that statement, there is a message that his heart has gone cold so beware of the weapons that he chooses.
My friends, there is no mercy in this poor soul.
His mind is now trained to be focused on one thing: "Justice."
For the Gods of war have tailor-made him a weapon, a weapon to pour out his wrath and show the power of a man driven to enforce the power of his own will; a will of grace given to us by the creator that we in-turn use for our own pleasure.
At this point, He, the man, no longer cares about the consequences.
Feel the force.
The force of fear; the force of bitterness; the force of justice, is now in his gun.
The design fits firmly in his hands.
He has a strength and a reason now to pull the trigger.
There is no losing in this game, my friend, he wants to win.
His mate is a female, she took on his responsibility.
She now has a gun too.
An instant way to win a fight.
That sounds messy.
Especially when love quickly turns to hate.
At times, this situation becomes random.
At times, an accident becomes regret. 
Yet, all secrets are confusing and lies create a yearning for the truth.
When no one hears you when you cry, a small voice begins to whisper in your ear.
Your pride, your strength, and your manhood, has now found a place in the palm of your hand.
A new tool for war, a new weapon to protect yourself, a new way to be heard.
The sound of the bullet is set free from the barrel.
The finger is then released from the trigger as a new calmness vibrates through the air.
A life is lost.
A new war has emerged, and those you kill, create a force that has no forgiveness.
The man who invented the gun, used his brain.
The man who shoots the gun, uses his force.
The "rest," falls in the hands of justice.
The Man with the Gun.

Saturday, January 6, 2018

The Female Rapper

It was an odd show. A few metaphors and a few punchlines, nothing major. I had the choice to leave early to catch a flight back home to rest, then I heard her. Her lyrics were insanely delicate. Poetry from another level, another universe. As soon as she began to flow, the crowd got involved. She somehow managed not to use profane language but wowed the audience with an intellectual dialect, with a selection of words that was much more superior than the other rappers. She was not afraid to say that which needed to be addressed. Although her clothing selection was bright, her style was supreme. The magnitude of her performance indoctrinated me and everyone around me. She moved with every verse, she was in-tune with the melody and the crowd clapped on the twos and fours.
As we all engaged in the hook, the beat made me feel alive. I was one with the sounds of her music, which she herself produced. I was drawn into her every word; I was satisfied. She motivated me to approach another level in life, while demanding respect and love. She was certain. At the end of her performance, she went old school and told the crowd, "word is born." The crowd then went crazy and I fell to my knees eager to embrace the female rapper. After the show, on the way home, I spent every dime downloading her songs. I started to believe in music again.