Immortal.

I am now forever alive.

Taxi

Neons and bright lights pass me by as I sit.
The driver remains cool as he begins takes a hit.
The cars learns right and its time for me to take a sip.
Never thought about it, never thought I’d smoke a cig.
But I drop some ashes as we cross this Brooklyn Bridge.
They say it’s an addicting habit. Oh well, embrace the wind.
So as my head droops and the wind runs through my hair.
My destination is forgotten, I truly don’t care.
Those nearby brake lights cause no alarm for me.
My feet are comfortably placed next to my body.
Muscle tension has removed itself entirely.
Floating along the curves and contours of the concrete.
Neither awake nor asleep.
Not Nissan, not Cadillac, and not Jeep.
No stir in the afternoon, do not make a peep.
The hill nearby is presumed to be quite steep.
So I ground myself, turn my head from right to left.
The rumble is so low, it could be heard in base clef.
I get a call, will I bet there? Mos’ def’.
I flick my hand up and whistle with my last breath.
Taxi…

Skewed.

We jump off of cliffs to jump into pools.
The pools are full of poison.
We choke and burn, scream and turn.
The dead will see us soon.
In the distance I hear your call.
The distress in your voice.
With all my energy, I tell you to not fret.
Love will bring me from the brink.

Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Caroline
All beyond the grave.
Merely apparitions or physical beings?
That’s a damn good question.
Their souls have found another place.
To avoid brimstone and fire.
But only in the depths of death.
They are now a part of my sight.

They slip away.
Leave me to my solitude.
Lone ranger walks the lone path.
He does not know how.
Motion blur and fuzzy images.
A life passes by.
The sky returns to its natural color.
And now the ground feels real.

Rocks and ridges and edges and dust.
We’re back at cliff one.
Poison took me on my journey.
Love brought me back.
Now to have experienced life and death,
Some would call me immortal.
I pronounce this unfair.
I will never know finality.

I Want to Give You This Story.

I want to give you this story.
Do what you can, post it whatever.
I can’t let anybody see that I published it.
Do whatever you want.
I just want to keep it.
But I don’t want it to be anywhere near me.

 

 

So I was on register. I look up after I ring up a turkey footlong. When I look up, this is when it happens. Our eyes connect, and my peripheral vision goes dark. I hear my heartbeat and breathing. The butterflies in my stomach are going wild. Then come back into reality. She is looking at me, conveying the emotions that I feel inside. I hand her her money and her sandwich and tell her to have a good night. As she walks away, I feel empty, but sure that we’ll cross paths again. Subway – Where magic happens.

Spreadsheet

If I was a statue I would be broken. If I was a drink I’d be left wide open.
I wanna see the world, a map’s all I got. I wanna fit somewhere, but there’s no space in the parking lot.
If I gave you a picture it would be torn. My soul’s been divided since the day I was born.
Some one has an arm, someone else an ear. On the dashboard of her car is where my legs reappear.
I’ve gone here and there, traveled to and fro. The more I leave behind, the more people want to know.
I’ve left my body behind, let my soul wander the street. This is the life on a paper spreadsheet.

Lighthearted

In the darkness, light always shines, but what if there is no light source? Do you willingly except your fate, eternally engulfed in the darkness? Or do you fight until your last breath? You’ve spent a lifetime in darkness; you’ve adapted and grown accustomed to it. Evolution eventually plays its part and eventually the concept of light becomes foreign and alien. Centuries later, your ancestor’s quest has finally been fulfilled. But how? You’ve found a way to illuminate the human body. Good people have hearts made of gold, shining through even the blackest of nights. So, you’ve found a method to harness that purity into a form of light. These hearts radiate the body with their golden light, creating change within the world. Most believe it would never last, for people don’t respond well to change. You’ve been beaten and broken, but even through your disfigured persona shines the light. Your light is honest and pure and shall never burn out, no matter how dark the night may be.

Shine light, shine bright
Through the dimmest of days
and the blackest of nights.

Without Her Hood.

Being a widow is a depressing occupation, especially in old age. When you spend a good majority of your life with somebody you love, separation is almost as bad as death itself. When you’re 82, you’d hope that you’d live your life with you partner until the day you die. In the case of Mr. John Hood, he did. The man known as “Uncle Hood” decided that it was his time and entered his eternal sleep. We all know he’s in a better place with a better authority accompanying him, but the loss is still painful in itself. Your aunt drifts throughout her house, which was once a happy household of two. The emptiness, the lack of a testosterone driven male is haunting and your Aunt Azarine, known to you as “Aunt Reeny”, can’t help but feel lonesome. Our visit, our being my parents, my aunt Deedee, my four cousins, and myself, has brightened her world with the company and attention that she has grown accustomed to and rightfully deserves once more. As our last day falls upon us, Aunt Reeny tells my mother and I, “I guess I’ll go back to being lonely once you guys leave.” After a melancholy comment like so, you can’t help but break down inside, but Aunt Reeny bounces right back, telling us how delightful our stay has been and even jokes about hopping a bus to New York, which may turn into a reality, knowing her. There’s no fuss with Aunt Reeny, but when it rains, it pours, and it seems this lovely lady has just lost her hood.

Lover’s Conflagration.

Lovers unite! Unite under the flames lit by Jimi’s fire. You can stand next to it, but the results are contagious: The soot and ash of a world of hatred. Build upon your stocks of wood so the flames of love and unity reach the far corners of the galaxy, bringing even Pluto back to our system. Gather a match and burn peace signs on wooden stakes in front of the homes of the oppressive and the misunderstanding. Negativity is the only opponent here, but he is no newbie to our fight club, so a challenge must be in order. Do you have what it takes to put love on the line and plant your roadside bomb? Will your explode into a wonderful field of green grass, blossoming flowers and tall trees? Our vehicles are nothing more than the clouds we see in the bright blue sky, transmogrified by the purple haze of our organic relaxations. We shall journey across the planet, banging major chords from pianos and guitars and harmonicas and hope our frequencies will reach the aliens and the martians so that we can embrace them. The world is nothing more than the concert playground and we are all its audience members. If you ever find yourself stranded, lover, send that message in a bottle, and a year will not pass since that first note was written. When your comrades arrive on that yellow submarine, you’ll find a whole country of lovers ready for your rescue. Torpedoes will fire at the tyrants and power lovers, obliterating the hate in the creation of love. When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace, and that, my fellow lovers, is our mission. That is our song. Our song is love.

Boxers and Wifebeaters

It’s something about dominance.
It’s something about being on top. And somehow you manage to find power in the clothes you were, the way you walk, they way you dye your hair. You assume that people do care, and unfortunately some do give their share, share of opinion, they share their thought’s on the way you breathe your air.
And they find no lesson to learn, and there is no story to tell, except for those beaten and broken under a pernicious spell. Their cries are unheard like a rebel yell, the significant others beget the world of a rebel’s hell. They look to the distance but there is no weapon, no shotgun shell, they look to their hearts but all they see is an empty well.
What do you do when your black and bruised, what do you do when you have nothing to lose, what do you do when escape is the only option you can’t choose? What do you do when all they do is confused, what dod you do when they find themselves amused, what do you do when their shelter is something that you haven’t refused?
Boxers and Wifebeaters beating down the world. Please, find solace pretty mother, and you too, little girl.

Funeral March

The pain is thick like tar.
Funeral March for those who’ve gone far
Another body placed the back of the black hearse car.
Body and soul have traveled to a distant  star.
Now I wonder what you are.
You’re up above in the sky so high
Like diamond in the sky.
But the only jewelry here are the crystals from my eye.
The mind races, we ask why.
You may know if you remain shy.

Take a glance ahead.
A funeral march for those who have been claimed dead.
Their message is clear in the words that have been said.
An iconic symbol us hanging over our head.
But this is no flag.
Stop for a second and take a drag…
…breathe the deceased in.
Wandering minds of our native bretherin.
Emotion is almost a sound that is hoverin.
And you might need some earplugs
‘Cause the sorrow might drown your ears, you might need a jug.
Or a bowl or canteen.

And now. Funeral March in remembrance.
Our feet solemnly move in order to save the last dance.
So, let’s dance today.