A Little Room in the Village

My whole life spent searching relentless for adulthood. No I'm force-grown and well fed. I had sent out misery signals over angels and airwaves. I procrastinate less in these latter days. All work, all sleep, all eat. No beef. Lack of drama and a future baby-momma.

I like it like this. A pentatonic hum--rolled on my snare--drum. I drink a beer for sleep before i brush my teeth. I wake up for work like my middle name was "Good Sleep". And this winter we're moving out. Found a house by my job. No more pushing papers for the stoner mob. And I found a new release in peace of mind and clarity.

Ten minutes of rock drumming every day before I'm on my way. I stretch when i wake up and it works out just fine. I am still trying to call Trisha sommmmmetime, because this friendship is crack and i can't get enough of her back!!!!

so put a [bass / / snare / bass/ bass / snare] kind of beat box to this one in your heads.

i. am.
a fresh money maker with my prospects on the incline.
a second level dealer who's been dealing from a land line.
the first rate killer of the rap game, in prime-time.
i will be there standing as hip hop falls down to the ground, mang.

check your engine levels as we pull into the verse and
don't forget to reset all the verses you've rehearsed and
from the 50 milliliters. i put mine down first, mang.
so what's with the discussion over who must feel the worst.

i'm ten strip tripping, like we're going to hong kong.
my white paper stretches further, almost twice as long.

and anyways, i'm in the grade of some better men.
heard what tey're saying, and i'm trying to get some dividends.
my rap flow is so slow, can't freestyle.
but catch me at my desktop, and you know i put the beat down.




more on this later.

and the Sun's Hiding in the Shade

So i broke her heart like that, right there in the driveway. One hundred bad reasons all rehearsed through summer season. And it's not alright for me to walk like this. Hunching over like the bad man carrying weight through the bad lands.

Honey, you were merely a transition. From lonely, to better. And from this point on, I'm honestly honest. Lacking of all inspiration.

And the last thing she said to me tonight was "i don't wanna just end up another song in another notebook you've been recording at another studio on another sober day between the haze of your drunken ways."

so maybe i'm a problem starter. sniffing glue and problem drinking. but these legs of mine can't kick no more, so he's sinking into his reclining chair. and i'm watching him throw away his old ways. relaxing into purity. and reclining. now channel flipping. now beer drinking. and now glue sniffing.

and god damn her voice is sad, but my face is smiling. so on and on, i'll be honestly honest.

"I've got the Good Lord is going down on me!"

I wanna seem more subtle and indirect, rather than my latest vents of personal stress. Clearer than the clean glass on the tallest wreck. more turp to the canvas from the jar spilled in the back. washing clean the notes and words you've constructed. all spoiled the the crude oil, like a chalk board all erased up.

Emailing Prose to All Lost Souls

the weeping trees hung sweeping over the Old Mill and the roadway. On sunny Saturdays sitting casually by the lakeside, watching the auto's coming by. going by the water to gaze into the rippled murky reflections. beaming sun and blue sky perfections.
Caitlyn sat tiredly by the way side. feeding squirrels from her brown-bagged lunch. Doritos, Doritos; the squirrels away would munch.
"i'll miss you little friendly fuzzy creatures, with your wide eyes to humanity, and your cuddly buddy features. Miss you when i'm gone back home, away from text books and research paper trodden teachers." Said Caity to her brown eyed mates, all munching her brown-bagged lunch away.
my good freinds all say you can swallow the bad times away. bottle by bottles your troubles all mellow and you lack interest to meddle.
but Cait had a bad debt to settle. empty dorm room once over flowing with clothes, books about animals, and burnt cd's of underground hardcore bands. Those things now packed into cardboard amd moved out like piano players.
"back home to the B-lo" and then she drove seven hours.

In My Early Days

Of my later ways, I was screaming. Crucial attempts at developing a clearer head. Avoiding the gluten bread, and the wheat flour. Sticking daily, to bottles of water. Reading nightly, and writing every morning. Writing every mourning was the start of evolution. From that gray mass of insubordinate waste covering flesh with anti-body and procrastinating to consume me.

But I shook off the rain with a couple of dry clouds. The moon grows so big and the stars and I've got dry eyes now. The angel's got you. Plucking her feathers to soften that deep fall. Riding you kisses so you don't have breakdowns. Calling doctors, alert the Mrs.: Heart filled up so much, he exploded into several pieces.

Call this "tide" that I'm in; the more I try, it's sink-or-swim. Call this "crowd" that I'm in; we cry and cry "let us in!". Call this "stride", that i move with. Our hearts'll fly, if work permits.

Tereza and Thomas

Let's sail away. Momma, that paint black mirror acts like it's faint. Packed my cigarettes up, and continued hand movements to light. Baby, that sweet smile's gonna get you in real deep. Don't miss the murders under water down beneath. Sweety, them soft words are gonna bring you back to me. Under water, music blasting, waves crashing on the blue dead sea.

My home life couldn't be any richer. I spend close time with a paint brush and a bottle of some strong liquor. I spend personal time writing, typing, riping over pads and pads of white paper. Letting lightning words all unrehearsed fly from his head in A-B-A-B verse. Granting wishes to the dope man. Paying stitches for his dope, man. Swimming like fishes from the ope den. Grinning like Christmas towards a fresh black pen.

The artist mumbles quietly into his wholesome drink, in his lonely pad. This is his house for creativity, and resentment, and fertility, and anxiety, and reliablitly, and resentment. As the half highted, necromaniac strolls cross the floor, finding the dead legs much softer, sexier, pleasurable than any legs he's felt before. A strong, overpowering realization of erotic and erratic compulsion. "Let's fuck dead people!!!!"

in the wind

in the wind, my sail keeps me going, but that don't make no sense at all.
memories i keep saved in boxes--clutter stuck up in my crawl.
water runs my ship, tank, and harbor. i take nothing, unless it's clean.
those honest words i spoke as your brother, still, with this love, i sure do mean.

i leave love for all the pretty faces.
folks who want to show their teeth.
so i'll just walk around those kinds of places,
no hand to hold and envy green.

now i find this debt to registration,
no pal or partner sharing names.
a field has grown up thick with vegetation,
and there alone will stand a tree, and that's me.

with the wind, my sail keeps me going.
but i cannot find what that's worth.
cause shreds of hope, they change with direction,
so moving with this wind's no good.
chemical will cause quick infection.
opposite a cold-mirrored reflection.
i would like some lonely time for me.

I Was Meaning To Send To You

the time was about 4:00 am. where had i been? somewhere deep in this shallow head thinking friends could stay friends and beds could be beds. Somewhere on the gigantic ocean, floating softly to the music pulsing from my headphones. here comes five o-clock. here comes "hope i don't wake up". here comes me mumbling, you stumbling, time running, school in the morning and yeah, you're a fucking piece of shit too. you know, i bet they make robots worth more trust than your trust. i bet they sell airplanes to fly me ten, maybe twenty times higher than your highs and your lighters and your merchandise from under your counters. put that fucking shit back, you doped up fucking slave driver. keep your hands out of my goddamn pockets.

my miserable is easily put aside for your short temper and furious eyes. how much is my mouth shut? how much is my say worth? how much of that is MY buck? and how do you transcend your standards but lay those same on everyone else, below their belts?

so here it is, he said "don't worry brother! i got this shit for free. i couldn't possibly make you pay me. and no man, you won't have to pay me back, your pay is the fun that i'll have."


so then the next week, "yes, i will lend you ten dollars but only if it is not going towards drugs."
"no, oh well i have to pay someone back and they will be pissed if i don't. i really need the money, if you can get it."

that night "yeah i can sell you a whole one for six."

so three minutes later "i'm taking half of this becuase i gave you tons of free drugs last week"
"ok, that's understandable, but give me a dollar so i can have enough for substantial amount of gas"
"what the fuck! [i'm a whiny bitch] you are asking me for a dollar? after everything i fucking do for you?? [i am a greedy asshole]"

so then five minutes later "man, i don;t ask anything from anyone. i help out my friends because i am, able to. plus i don't have to pay for anything i get, so i might as well share it."

so then the next sentence "yo, you're gonna give me that other hit of acid. i give you tons of free acid. even though that shit won't be HALF as good as what i get."

so the rest of the night was me backing down. handing out my money like a fucking welfare institution. this little bastard is so tied up in his chemicals, he begs you, and prods you, and pokes you, and assaults you, and bashes you in, until he gets what he wants, only to satisfy him for six more minutes. the rest of the night spent listening to how great his product can be, guaranteed to flip ya. in the same boat, my products are high priced for the kick, not the flip. you flip this shit just to compensate for the little dick. i try new things because i am not scared of what i might get.

the rest of my time spent belittled and sarcasted. fuck you for your drug doses and your expensive plastics.

so then before i left "you only put in five dollars [which i cried to you for becuase again, i am a pussy bitch] and i put in ten. you aren't getting anything out of this bag."

hey you fucking drug face, get your goddamn hands out of my pockets.

Think I Said Too Much, Think I'm Bread Too Much

i conceive that i was pretty unfair to her. tuning up them strings for the remedy of painful things. and whose to think i wasn't thinking? whose to say i haven't spoken? but i'm firm and my words mean more to me than grand-pop's tobacco pipe burned. and in the flutter of things, i was dumb blind by the order of things, and in no time was i border-overed, but also not too sober and smoked too slow her side on my times.

like almost every word was typed to the margins' maximum and bold font reading aloud from "words that will guarantee to break her heart". and each one of those words, i wrote down in the start. and every one of those words was spread quick until it reached simply, a lot. so much in fact, as to furtherly distract me from the public setting. public setting; that's what i believed to be forgetting for the mystery of what my mouth running can really do for me. talk talk talk talking like the wind or some other typically hippy, new age, positive outlook bullshit. and to quote, "Revolution Evolution". outlasting bombardments of drugs and high wage consequences. no pay circumstances, pay-day fantasy bashes, pro rate mentality trashes, and brain cell reconstruction fashions.

so she up and walked from her seat. how k, way to beat fucking feet. t says he's just hungry so there going home and making a late dinner. clapping fucking hands for mr. bread-winner. so she's up to her tall building, looking at the painted ceiling, remember that ancient feeling, and yeah he's really been through shit and through hassle.

but on my drive home i spent some lonely time. turning the roads until nearly fiveam. I was blinded by the bedsight but god, it just felt good to lay cozy, in my sunlight. and on that long drive, k i realized; Sony's fucking cheap. the several disks we've bent and twist from too much controller clicking, flicking of the wrists. and i'm awfully shamed by that drunk guy singing to the blue light and how your eyes weren't worth his real time. but now you're grown, and now you're obligated. i'm still shown by the things that irritated.

I Can't Imagine Myself Ever Being Apart

Over and over and over again, I try to make a mess. From time to time I can smile though, grinning my yellow teeth, which for once, are less yellow than the sun in the beaming sky. And for these times, I am at least satisfied with something. Whether it's the weather or my friends, whether it's the promise or the kiss; my eyes are looking bright, sparkling at the future.

I will try to understand, everything has it's plan. Either way i am gonna stay right by you. Until my last deep breathe before my vast attempts. Breathing buckling down to nothing. Waves all crashing on trashy pronouns. With wings all flapping like some syndrome's pone cooked up from ashes laid over stone. It must of the been the summer weather burning up my native supper. Looking up from Aden's cupboard, for a cup to fill with water; I realized the dumb, dreaded, dead headed, actions all regretted piece of yuppy-fuck-scum i had so willingly become. Big headed and colorful t-shirts, counteractive by handing out research. Mean spirited, hypocrite, dream fearing kid, all ready to make a plan to bring down his brothered man. And I was fixing to sell out hemp-dwelling and bud-smelling for a new grasp at the bulging cash, under a pretty Ringo Starr mustache.

I like to dream of troubles all away on a bed of California stars.

Sometimes War Is Necessary

In a short discussion, she was trying to make this point about WWII. I just disagreed and stood there strong. You can't say that a man with a well advertised genocide plan wasn't right in the hands of the UN and the Common Land. No, you just can't tell me that the US was defending the rights of a molested culture. And no, you can't lie to me, and tell me that we had gotten into that mess with the intentions of ending suffering.

You could however, tell me all about the atom bomb. Tell me all about where the world went wrong. Tell me all about the protest songs that never got sung and the war that violence won. Tell me all about them passing planes that saw an island decorated in army tanks. Celebrated the yearly dates. Bombs were dropped for what was claimed to be fate. People dying and shadows burned in place.

Yeah, for sure. You totally know all about the cold war, and the old war, and the "rights all sold" war, and the time before before. That time when the clothes you wore, were all worn before. The time when your mother wanted to buy some groceries but she just couldn't afford.

And I looked back and her and mumbled. Says I manipulate her words into fumbles. And imagine you were younger. Imagine you had to dance across the water just to save your family's heritage. And I;d imagine you never said that the US was there to stop them fucking Nazi's.

Because we let them all breathe. It was the poor Japanese that caught the long arm of our armies.


yeah we only got into that shit becuase some communists blew up or pretty little island, and though yes, that was pretty terrible and fucked up, still no reason to ruin two beutiful cities.

Creativity is a Plus for Sure

Today, i recieved an A on my Communication Theory research paper. hooorrah!~

The boundaries of man to man communication are found within the empty space between physical and psychological selfs. In my spare time, i'd like to concentrate on building stronger relationships regardless of personal distances. As to better myself, and others, I am starting to think deeper and read better and see clearer and breathe heavier. As to better myself, and others, I am starting to listen hard.

I am walking slower than the rest of humanity. Taking the longer path, straying from short cuts. There ain't nothing wrong with a little bit of scenery. Scenic routes are more comforting to the desires of my personal self. To take in, to breathe in. To fit in amongst the dead men. To offer sustaining life to the ones still dying. To fight and rebel. To revolutionize this enslaved society.

I'm gonna talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk and nobody here can stop me.

The Melancholy of Stevie Keys

In the shade of a corner, their sitting down with his eighty eights...fingers sliding and gliding all down the ivory cost. the neck of a sweet guitar lying in the background. the leaves of the great rely on the money. voice of raspy, heart of gold. his body sold to the orbit of a full moon blasted back by the muted math of the piano. "don't cry, you can rely on me honey..." and i fall ever so miserably in love with the boy singing soft.

my main man. my Maine, man. nobody told him that his plus sized, Sunday to Monday to calendar. breaking free of the weekends. making sleep with his lady friends. didn't anybody tell him that the phone was off the hook? making numerous mistakes as to receive all sorts of dirty looks. and rotten.

but my love is up for Stevie Keys, his singing makes me week in the knees. the kind of boy i'd blow kisses to. the kind of kid I'd write in my blog about.

Generative Poetry

My mind's eye. My third. Wait, you mean my forehead?

Water cascading down the falls like a brick thrown from the roof of your house. It was this kind of murky green up top, and this flowing puff of clouds made by water down towards the bottom. And even the froth seem to transcend from liquid state, as this net above the creek's surface. Making it's arms wrap tight around the beauty of water. In the shady spots were speckles of misty rainy flaky droplets, soaking up my sneakers, and warming up my heart.

I sat and stared at this waterfall for what seemed like an hour, just sitting there, breathing it in. Loving it in. And you know, as I'm sitting there seeing this glow, watching this flow, feeling this strong blow of physical and emotional uplifting; i started to hear something too. I always heard that the sound of moving water has a message. That if you focus on the harmonies, you'll hear what you've been longing for. Like the fucking Cry of Shambalah, this melodious humanoid type reverberation through the bowls of Mother Nature and all her choirs.

And now I'm writing it down, trying to play it out. She must have been playing a 32 string with one darbuka and another ancient domback. Instruments I'll never find. But when i get back there, I want to learn the words, the notes, the pitches. When I get back there Momma, I'm planning on singing along with you. That fucking Cry of Shambalah, baby. Opening the gates for the dakini in modest return and ever flowing respect. Just like the waterfall, ever flowing respect.

refered by estelle getty

don't really read the hype of the mainstream. don't really feed the media daydreams. don't really plant seeds for that whole thing about hate mongering. don't really deem guilt upon those who are undeserving.

do read the paper on a Sunday to Sunday basis. do bead the gems out over hemp to make a necklace. do plead with God, but I've never really talked with Jesus. do seem to wake up early, just for breakfast.

and in my sleep i get these wild dreams. i can't imagine what they mean. so many flashy faces. so many familiar places.

she was sliding down a slope on a dolly, arms around me, telling me she's sorry, telling me she loved me.



actually in that same dream, Cosmo Kramer went into A-Plus to buy me cigarettes.