Cracks
Sun goes through the pavement cracks.
Lack of life underneath. Old smokes,
packs, beer bottle taps and school sacks.
Resting comfortably in the Sunday air.
Looking fair, resting in joy. That’s where they
lay.
Imagination Land
Gone too long. Gone way too long. Been playing ping pong.
Not really. Just been goine. Summer Twenty-Eleven. Here. Gonna be gone soon.
Remember when I was seven. Nineteen Eighty Somethin’. I was gone back then too.
Imagination land with a few Kool-Aids in hand. Hulk Hogan doll in toe.
Eagles were the big band. Today’s Special. Thursday and Tuesdays. 6.30. Funday.
Hocus Pocus. Gone again. Imagination Land. I re-appear. But I like to be gone. Visit the Imagination Land.
I wrote this poem a while ago for an anti-drug comp. I lost. I never thought of it again till today. I shot this video today to go along with it. This one means a bunch to me. I hope you enjoy. Below is the poem.
Drug induced. Corner room. Never thought it would end this way. Caught the morning news. Heard that his hero passed. Gassed up on some heroin. I guess. Doesn’t really know. Been there for a while. Different stuff. All the time. Would give anything to walk a mile. Not be on the different stuff. Confused. Never thought it would end this way. Was on K. Then Anti-Depressants. It would get all blurry after that. Sitting. Waiting. To hear any word. Any word. Good or bad. Mating with the white walls. Nothing to do. Never thought it would end this way.
An Artist’s Artist
Inward looking. Wondering what. What does it mean. A writer.
That’s what I am. Writer. Fighter for the better word.
Inspirations from nature. Landing bird. On my patio.
Lantern. Writing about my dream of when I went to Saturn.
Or drinking in the downtown tavern. Am I an artist? That’s the
real dilemma. Being honest. Using my creative powers to express myself.
From the darkest pits of my soul. Fame being modest. An artist. A Writer.
Digging up feelings that are the farthest from my waking self. Remember oneself.
Be true to oneself. What I always tell myself. But I forget as I reach for a tall boy
on the ice shelf. I’m a writer. A writer. Fighter for the better word.
An artist’s artist. Modest. A poetical florist. Watering words to grow. To live.
I’ve promised myself that I will be a writer. A writer. The fighter for the better word.
I did this video yesterday. Just for fun. Then, this evening, I ended up writing a peom that I realized later would fit perfectly to this video. But adding a bit more to the whole spectrum. Stay tuned. It’ll be a good one.
Dine with Mother..
Dancing. Heat. No Rain. Clouds hitting vibrant
beams of nature on the window pane. Bodies underneath
enjoying the September game. With Mother. Smothered with
the grand prize. Heat. No Snow. No Rain. Just the shine. Would
love to dine with Mother all the time if she chimes in with these
types of days. May in September. Feeling free.
More in Me?
Dancing. Heat. No Rain. Clouds hitting vibrant
beams of nature on the window pane. Bodies underneath
enjoying the September game. With Mother. Smothered with
the grand prize. Heat. No Snow. No Rain. Just the shine. Would
love to dine with Mother all the time if she chimes in with these
types of days. May in September. Feeling free.
Like a Sade Tape...
Like a Sade tape in the cold of spring.
You sold me your smile that first day we met.
In that late summer sun. After 8 it was.
I couldn’t think it was fate. Eyes were on another.
Through meeting your other mates while you were on other dates.
We nodded hello. Saluted. Shook hands. Hugged. Nice to each other.
The lands were never close enough. Didn’t get to get a chance to see
one another.
But when we did we were happy. Always excited to reacquaint ourselves.
Delved into what was going on. Spoke with one sided talks.
Stared at your curly locks. Loved your smile, eyes.
You became the best verse over a Primo beat.
I cursed to never let you go. Even as a friend.
Never did. So far so good.
I love you kid. You keep me wanting to sing out loud.
You’re like a Sade tape in the cold of spring.
The Freedom
The freedom of being regulated into one spot.
Corner of a room. Feeling like that dot.
On the huge map of life. Strife. All day.
May came. June here. What can I say?
Sometimes, I just need to be alone.
Get into my zone. Need to type properly.
Too many mistakes. Thinking freely.
Errors. Headaches. Things I’m supposed to make.
Gone wrong. Too long it seems. Till I get it right.
Out of sight. The jackpot. Just the stresses.
Lessons learned. Cleaning up others messes.
The freedom of being regulated into one spot.
Corner of a room. Feeling like that dot.
Words to Go Along
Beat in my head. Thinking of words to go along.
Hand in hand. Side by side. Words with a song.
No music. Just words. Words positioned like they belong.
Together. Jot down. Lick the end of the feather. Ink to paper.
One more hit from the bong.
Open mind. Creativity inspires. Chai by side. I really hope you don’t mind.
Me. Finding the perfect words. To go along with the beat in my head.
Thinking of words to go along.
