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.

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. 
 💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

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.      

Carolina

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.
 

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.

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.   

Collage

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.