I had a dream called Los Angeles

I was born in the ghettos of America, but that’s not what this piece is about because if you look up Los Angeles it will say it’s a safe diverse place, and where I live, I learned a lot and actually survived so let us join hands and read.

In my younger adult years I had a nightmare that a city was burning and the people were fleeing to safety. I quickly got up to tell my mother.

She looked at me and said, “Brian, maybe God is trying to tell you something. Give it time.”

I’ve never been to L.A., but as a child, I admit that I did play for the little Raiders and me and my street cousins as a family would rock to Tupac, D—th Row, and NWA was pretty big at the time and we were all victims of street violence praying for a dream to rise out of the harsh ghetto, but I say again, that is not what this piece is about. After the dream I saw a man at a popular grocery store, I never met him before, but he looked me in the eyes and said “Never go to L.A.,” young and dumb, his words echoed in my mind. 

“Why would he say that?” I thought. 

I’m assuming that he must have known something that I didn’t. Now an adult, I can’t escape my passion for a part of America where as a child would seem close to home. I can’t escape the reality of a people searching for peace in their lives, peace in their communities, and peace in their homes. Little children with dreams of flying like angels. So I say go, learn and help as much as you can. They say the world is burning, but I say the world is teaching us something about ourselves, I do know that if my dream was showing me Los Angeles, then God must have a plan. I believe his plan is to bring us together. I say this because there are prayers in many parts of the world that need to be answered. Brethren, there is beauty in the hearts of places that we all have never been but dream of, and that beauty is in the people finding away to make something out of nothing. I’ve never been to Los Angeles, but I’ve heard about it and their street warriors, just like the warriors on the East Coast have little humble hearted children searching for a dream to believe in. In the words of the dreamers and lyrical genius that have passed on, “To live and ——-in L.A. it’s the place to be.
And the angels go 

You’ve got to be there to know it where everybody wanna see or be.
To live and—- in L.A.” If I got the words wrong, forgive me, I’m sure you get the picture. In closing, I pray that the city of Angels and the state of California rise from the ashes like a phoenix while the angels of God spread their wings around California and bring hope with a spirit of holy vibes in the city founded by Felipe in 1781. I hope that like every tragedy on earth that it brings us closer to God and most of all brings us all together. I think that’s what the dream meant. A town burning to bring people together while seeking the knowledge to rebuild. Peace. Written by a dreamer spreading hope for a better tomorrow and a better world. Always in memory of those fighting for a better tomorrow, tipped over with a pen and a pad searching for a way to the promised land.

I had a dream called Los Angeles.

Work Harder not Smarter

Climb the mountain til you fall.

Run until you pass out.

Shovel the snow with your bare hands.

Swim until you collapse underwater.

Do everything yourself and bite the hand that tries to feed you.

Toss and turn on the bare floor.

Walk up a 90 degree angle.

Read the encyclopedia from cover to cover.

Pick cotton in the scorching heat.

Keep spiting on a forest fire until it goes out.

Lay shingles with a bare hammer.

Chew raw steak.

Chop down trees with a dull blade.

Grab your mate and pump until you run out of sperm.

Scream in the face of slackers and make them drink your sweat.

Push the body to the max and I promise you that when your soul leaves your flesh and your blood stops flowing that you won’t feel a thing.

Work Harder not Smarter

A Man’s Curse

Ambitious dreams of owning the world only to find no one to help you tend the fields and fight the animals.

Breaking a woman’s heart in search of your deepest desires only to find out that you still love her in the end.

Killing another man over a commodity only to look in the eyes of his tormented children while receiving the death penalty. Some people lack forgiveness and mercy is not their concern.

Spending your entire life working for your children only to be disrespected for leaving their mother.

Paying child support only to find out that the mother has been training the children to hate you.

Conquering the world only to realize that once everything is conquered there’s nothing left.

Writing a million books only to realize that in the end nothing matters, but the precious things you told the children. If you wrote about killing, they will kill.

Taking every moment for granted only to find out that karma is a curse that you put upon yourself.

Saying things that you don’t mean only to find out that what you mean has no value.

Fascinated with prostitutes because you failed so many times at love and deep inside you’re broken and you’re second man cannot be controlled. You fight with him only to realize that even if you had love he’s a beast that torments every man in a world filled with many different kinds of women, he can also get you killed if let loose in another man’s cave with ill intent.

Being the smartest person alive only to find frustration in a problem that you didn’t solve.

Being alone because you’re misunderstood.

There are so many things to mention, but the biggest curse of all is to lose your life without repentance or a second chance in a world that hates you.

Living a lie only to face the truth in the end, a truth that you have to fight on your own.

Fighting, killing, deceiving, and destroying the world’s righteous only to face God when you die. 

No man lives on earth forever, sadly, or gladly, we all have to face the maker.

I wrote 1 million books.

When I first used a tool to write, I scribbled something on a piece of paper. At that moment, I became hooked on the idea of putting my thoughts on display. I literally came out of my mother’s womb with the passion to write. While sticking a fork in a socket, I wrote the instructions warning other kids not to do it. It hurts. Realizing that I had a mind that never stopped thinking, I got bullied in English class for wearing a fancy orchestra shirt. Catching on to my talent the English teacher put me in honors English classes but my somewhat dreams of writing a high school masterpiece got slashed when I got transferred to another school. Heavy into church, I wrote about everything, I even painted pictures of the fancy temples that I spent my entire childhood visiting. In Sunday school, every teacher wanted me in their class because I seemed to have the gift to stir up some great conversations about theology. I found out that I was different when I got in my first relationship because I would always end up tormented by the fact that girls were very hard to understand. In my downtime, I wrote about it. I wrote about everything. When I was happy, I wrote. When I was sad, I wrote. Broken hearted, with nothing to eat, and even in disarray, I, for some odd reason just couldn’t stop writing. I think I scared a girl off that I had a crush on in high school because I was just so creative. I just had a thing for fashion trends, dancing, and using my artistic talents. I literally invented my prom outfit. Sadly, the paint didn’t dry in time on my cain, but I made it work. Her mother was an English teacher; she loved me, but I think her daughter hated me. I was willing to do anything to have her mother teach me good grammar, but in my quest, I’m sure I was made fun of. It was amazing how I always found myself in odd situations as a child growing into an adult. Somehow, I ended up publishing my first manuscript fresh out of high school. I considered myself a writer willing to write about everything, but since I was raised in the church, I wrote about Christianity. I gave up on the idea of being published by a major publisher because they were too busy trying to make money so I spent all of my money shelf-publishing manuscripts. While everyone else spent their money on the things that they so much desired, there I was publishing my thoughts. My grandmother loved my preaching, I had the gift, but I don’t think a lot of people understood how a child prodigy could tell grown men what to do at the time. Sadly, I shied away from that dream once I started reading more. After a terrible injury in the military, sadly, my mind went blank, but I somehow got better by reading the Bible. My advice to anyone gifted as a child is that when you face off against a psychologist, it’s best to not be creative. Just be quiet. I’m smiling at the thought because the moment they pulled out those black and white blot boards that’s the moment the medication came out because I saw everything differently. It was weird because my entire youth life was spent creating things and writing, but when the gift disappeared it was like some angelic force just wanted to see what a strange little human like me would do. Trapped inside of my body for 2-5 years with no creativity was torture. I begged God for my gifts back. I did everything, I prayed, went to classes, and I even would go into hospital chapels and fight with God to give me my gift back. I’m sure whatever force was on the other side got a kick out of me screaming and conjuring up the holy ghost in a small chapel room by himself while sick people were roaming around the hospital in need of a miracle. I think I fought so hard one day that lightning struck outside. They had to call the nuns and priest, people were literally falling to their knees hoping for God’s presence in their life while I screamed inside of a little small chapel room head banging to gospel hits. An entire cloud surrounded the hospital, ironically, I got my gift back, but, sadly, the hospital shutdown soon after. Each night I would fall to sleep on the floor by the computer at home waiting for a thought to write down, then one night, my gift to write just came back. Just like that, I was back at it, writing one million books. I even opened up my own publishing and production business.

I would say, “The End,” but I’m still writing. My message to anyone reading this is that even if you don’t believe in anything, I’m living proof that God keeps his promises. I’m still writing. ✍️ 

I wrote 1 million books. I’m swimming in a digital lake with paper and ink everywhere.

Cheers to 2025

In hopes of peace we head into a new year.

Yearning for prosperity and a sense of God’s infinite blessings.

Brethren, the past has made us stronger, wiser, and eager for what awaits us in 2025.

The majestic sounds of those who will be with us in spirit, but no longer with us on earth will resonate through their offspring.

Friends, be joyful, do not let hate destroy God’s anointing on us all, for we all our blessed in so many ways.

The science is clear that our Lord is merciful and full of second chances.

What man can conquer with a clear conscience?

Friends, I say, be passionate in the process of forgiveness.

Be grateful in 2025 and do not covet those with plenty, but rejoice.

Indeed, I say, be blessed with plenty of love, joy, and peace in 2025.

Indeed, I say, rejoice, for we are champions of divine truth and royal descendants of a divine will, rich in the Lord’s favor.

We can hear the Angels speaking to us in our dreams, we can feel the presence of God’s omnipotent power over our lives.

Brethren, we’re blessed.

Lean on these truths and I promise you will find divine purpose in 2025.

 

The Rebel Saint Warlord Crispy & the kid who saved Christmas

“Those kids are spoiled Claus. There are no good kids anymore, they belong to me,” explained Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint.

“Say no this year Saint Nick, don’t you hear the reverend preaching about how Christmas is a pagan holiday. Me and my rebel saints will take back what belongs to us. Why waste your time searching for good vibes Saint Nick? The world is a dump and people are evil. There is no good, don’t you see Saint Nick? All they do is consume, drink and be merry. They steal and kill each other, while you sit lonely in a room at the North Pole serving their kid’s needs. It’s all a lie. Look at their parents, Saint Nick, do you think they care about all that you’ve done for their children over the years? Giving them happy memories. Join me this year Saint Nick. Let’s make war with the people, let’s destroy the human race. Don’t you see the hidden hatred inside of their hearts. If Christ were alive do you think they would care? Do you think they remember the sacrifice? It’s all a joke to them now. All they care about are themselves. Look at how they argue over who or what God looks like. Look at what they’ve become. Soulless flesh, feasting off of false hopes. Join me Saint Nick. All I need is for you to sign over the Christmas magic to me and my Rebel Saints, and we will make the world a much better place. We will bring the world to its knees. Basic math Saint Nick. Basic math, isn’t that what you want?” Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint continued.

“Who are you?” St. Nick asked.

“I’m here to even the scales. The conjuring of hate has given me the power that I’ve waited for to steal Christmas and souls. I heard you arguing with your old aunt, you’re low on Christmas magic. Now give it all to me,” Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint said.

“No, me and my elves will never surrender,” Saint Nick said.

“Goodness is dead, the world is dark and filled with death. Even religious leaders are fighting for your power over Christmas, now give it to me. Do you think your good children will save you when they’re all scattered and lost?” Warlord Crispy went on as venom spilled out of his mouth.

“Look at them, St. Nick, they know everything but the story of Christ and Christmas, now give me what belongs to me, your purpose is dead, just like the magic of Christmas. What color are you? What political affiliation are you? Ha, as a matter of fact, what religion are you? There is no goodness, Christmas is mine now Nick. Ha! They will call me St. Rebel. Yes, the new face of Christmas, now die Claus!” Warlord Crispy went on, growing stronger and stronger while holding St. Nick and the entire Christmas story in the palm of his hands. At that moment, all goodness seemed to be no more, and the story of Christmas slowly began to disappear. Screams could be heard as Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint with his green hair and magical marks set fire to the manger that once was the bed where Christ slept. When all looked like it was over, Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint began shooting at the reindeer, it almost seemed like all hell had broken loose. No one believed in the story anymore, and the world began to grow dark as Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint set the north pole on fire.

“What do we do Sir? We were not made for war,” one of the Elves asked.

St. Nick grabbed his Bible, and like the gold color of his skin and the wool of his hair, he began to preach to his elves, “All we’ve ever been is a story for little children of all races, creeds, and colors. All we’ve ever been is a beacon of hope for the greater good of the world. In our code of creation, Elves, that’s all we were created for, on earth. Now, if there is one who believes and prays, then there is hope. Until we feel this child’s force, then we have no purpose, and we will fade like the ashes that burn. Elves, all it takes is one child to believe,” St. Nick concluded.

Witnessing the torment and destruction of the world, Phillip, the orphan slave, fell to his knees begging for God’s strength. He watched as the evil Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint set fire to his orphanage while he was forced to watch them torch his entire village. Reaching out to his sister to save her, he remembered how she was raped and left for dead as he heard the voice of an angel teaching him a fundamental lesson about life. He also recalled his cousin Nathan begging for mercy while being stoned for stealing a bag of bread and there he stood in a field of torment as Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint killed everyone and everything he loved.

“No one can hear your prayers slave. All hope now belongs to me,” Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint said.

“Why are you doing this, Sir?” Phillip asked trembling in fear.

“I am a force that the people asked for. I am a god that the people have given all of their power to. Now worship me child. Bow down to me and I will give you the world,” Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint continued.

“I know what good is, Sir. I loved my sister and brother, we didn’t get along at times, but I loved them. I don’t have anything, I never have, and I never will, Sir, but I know what good is. I’ve learned my lesson, but what you’re doing is evil,” Phillip said.

At this moment, the balance of time and nature began to unfold. The little child Phillip released a vibe that was thought to be forgotten in a world in trouble. Rising from the North, an army of Saints and Angels from the heavens came to Phillip’s aid.

St. Nick noticed his Christmas magic meter turning again.

“Hold on Elves, there is one child who still believes,” he said watching night and day return like the great light from the morning Sun. 

The Evil Warlord Crispy the Rebel Saint had been defeated, all by the power of one child who believes. Long live Christmas. Long live the story of Christ. Long live Phillip, the child who believed.

The End.

My Favorite Elementary Art Teacher

After walking into her classroom, I place a picture of my work on her desk, she tells me to put my signature on it, she then frames it with my label on the back of the frame, then kindly puts it on display.

Before class, she tells us our project for the day, she then gives us our paint brushes, paint, and canvases while we get to work on our art assignment.

Once we’re done, she shows us how to clean up after ourselves.

Around Christmas time, she has us paint an image of ourselves in a manger. 

The End.