meet me in

charlie and the yardbird to remember cool travels
open minded only comes before headaches for some

As High As Wu-Tang Gets

on the road to mexico blue moons painting brownsville
at filters end 58' San Francisco dispelled what was pen'd
technicolor jazz with strong hints of earth and her
echos without note to remind why we pick thorny roses
seduce the gun from jesus before he realizes hollywood
children playing hopscotch over the point of no return
guided by mama's voice before mine I wish she was still here
after the line was crossed to help choose fruit offered by snakes
hands held misspell her name for just claims of not knowing her
like her like you used to.byebyemysteryjonesyousangquitewell

D'evils

i haven't written in a while
busy skippin jivin smoke contemplating lady.style
vanilla hello sorry for ignoring it's kind of hard to ignore the carribean horn riffs
dirty is humble to some overtime eventually the cool settles in and sin's since convinced
open for improvisation to of course look for autumn leaves
love supreme tastes milky like earth birth or even stick it in for what it's worth
crying over strange fruit billie couldn't have cried it any better please let her finish
in tune and soul dripping from a tendency to fill up champagne cups
park walking for understanding or demanding all leads to motels and money tenderloin
wisdom for chess and invitations of poetry all under city lights around routne
acid under confessions of urges to take friendships to next levels
pardon the penmanship and the blood it just helps me take her to december
sidewalk brother from the bus who helped you remember how you can color it in any way you want

a visit to hell once I flick camels into the neighbors garden

Word to Brotha Wise and the uncivilized

...and I'm still trying to find em
thoughts come and go but some how the pattern still seems to stay the same
it's been a while since the last letter read before that night's dinner
trees's are worth more than just imagining
paths that lie beneath streams that flow towards a penny for a thought
cheap cool to carry for later and ferment until it turns into Friday morning amnesia
it's been awkward and black since the day words didn't have to stay on pages
feed the caged bird you bought and forgot till reminded when s/he knocked
open the box it's all there when you used to take her to buy waffles and cigarettes
remember the song but don't listen until s/he tries to impress you one last time
taste the tea to memorably forget heavy ceilings that one night s/he peaked over
i mentioned the bird, and the words, and there's no one around to change the subject on
make me feel silly for living and remembering then shout obscenities when you're gone again
deliberate misspelled names to unclaim having spent any moments of forging eternal sunshine
... for those who speak to themselves and weep to themselves at thought of what the shotgun might say. won't say nothing because a speech i made has made the shotgun speechless and mute. four score and seven more, none of that shit has to do with you and me. the things i write and forge in sight the days after s/he.

noise disillusion

Televison volume and

Full Deck

It's time for me to climb out of this cave of introverts...


Truth comes in layers. Especially personal truths, up until recently I've been without sources of energy since April. Some have been on the road, some have followed the path of lovers. Slowly the layers began drift away to nourish other parts of the earth on the way to their own peronal mountain tops. And as they traveled, so did the layers. In the middle of it all, I was left with the layer that was left in the corner of my closet when I finally saw the first light after S/he left: The escapist. Yes, that familiar stranger that avoids mirrors and walks the earth choosing to only see his reflection in pen strokes and blank pages. The hermit who values comfortable couches over the child like search of ?.

This cave is familiar to me. Yet so unfamilar, as I realized. There were discoveries of trap doors every now and then since my first visit. The pen I used to first put writing on the wall still has ink in it. I love writing on the walls. Though this visit I've found myself loving writing on the wall a little more than usual. Me and this pen have interpreted the darkest shades of black to the whitest of lights. And I've found that trap door in the cave that lets my pen choose the color I want to write each letter with. Word is bond, yo... It's mad personal pats on the back fa' me jack. I can watch any television show and be entertained all of that shit now, and even though there's this, that, and the third with a slight pinch of bullshit up in the mix, I've broken personal mental barriers and I can find value in all. Which perhaps may be the pleateau of any persons journey to self actualization, the state in which there's interpretation rather than judgement and one can see value in anything, whether it be the darkest shade of black or the whitest of lights. In my journeys for now I believe that could be the plateau. But I don't know for sure. I'm not dead yet so I can't tell you.

In the current those sources of energy have found there way back to an accessible proximity for me, and I am thankful. I feel reinvigorated by what I've written on the wall in my cave, and my eyes have readjusted to the light again. And I continue my journey of finding eternal sources of energy, and yes there is a such a thing as an eternal source of energy, you just haven't made it yet. So wordlife fam, go and fuckin make that shit! I made one, I'm bout to make another one next week after school. Shieeet.


Again to those that need it especially: Peace to the gods and the earths and the Zulu Nation, it's all bouta be safe soon. I promise.

Word to The Prophet...

The Dharma Bums (remastered)

I've seen the most romantic hearts 

of my generation destroyed by empty beds,
senseless, roaming illuminated streets 

looking for someone with a spare light,

forgotten descendants of the cool note 

yearning for the understanding of stars
and a lit cigarette for who sanity ink’d 

, strung up glassy eyed sat up 

speaking to no one that was there 

exhaling their best interpretations of 

     New Orlean’s Summer Nights

colored in soul with different shades of paint 

than the usual under the Le' and saw
buddah teetering on halfway house rooftops 

and somehow still managed to be luminous,

who passed through institutions 

with subtle steps yet radiant eyes 

trying to figure out the difference 

between pipe dreams 

and moonless nights among
the scholars of vanity, 

who were condemned for the 

moment lady day took
their attention away from Jesus, 

who were violated

while still having on their
underwear and still not feeling 

the full effects of what they ingested earlier

the consent was inhibited by poor judgment 

 
who walk in straight line all the way 

through Mount Vernon on the way to
San Francisco with a sheet of Abbey Road 

under their tounge.eastcoastwestside

Who swore the return of werewolves 

in the corner of Thursday blues night… 

sipping whiskey from a personal 

hoping to find someone willing to take an offer,

Who ate dirty ice in stolen living spaces 

or drank urine in paradise alley (desperatetimesthemeasure)
or confined to their torsos with dreams, 

with drugs, 

           alcohol and conversations

while painting nothing other than 

the calloused hands

of time.stilltryingtopaintwhatitfeelike

Word to the Fillmore... I'll be there on time, I promise.

Strange Fruit

On the way to promises of things you can't even remember
Still going along just as long as the band keeps playing
And S/he keeps singing

Places to fill and wine to pour the shrimp tastes fresher here
Foxy brown sugar by the tablespoon trippin open toed type
Rock and Roll and Jazz Queen confused by rage and rhythm.needsbothforthesakeofemotionalbalance
Interuppted by phones and moans and things of the shiny bright
Lead the people on hot sidewalks memories of colder nights bring praises to the lord
Confused and high and lost what can you do they put the needle to the groove
Stanzas and notes and vomit fuck and love the bittersweet of life
Encore for more bring back lady day so I can color in this memory for detail
Streams of reminisce and pen strokes.conscioussness while withdrawn
Easier days and a maze to be forgotten and occupied by those turned away by the forgetful
Hymns and dances still have yet to be taught to by uninstitutionalized rain dancers
Crack dealing peaches stolen from folks keeping it retro starved and raped and compensated for their troubles
Unaware and seduced underneath comfortable sheets stolen merely because of soft fabric


Word to Nancy Wilson and Mario Van Peebles for soul...