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February 5, 2013



Walk, work, home, couple books to the dome with the seed, rock the falafel dinner lookin’ to the sunset… mind and a heart of a winner- spinner of the rhetoric, don’t let it fool ya’ – not here to school ya’ – my jewels are mine to elevate – but I lack the tools an’ tha’ the clenched fists, the mind and power to excavate entire self-aligned rhythms and the blues got me to the precipice, at the end of and beginning of the road, been back and forth to hell with this, about seventeen times- the power of reflection in this Pooled Up Well.. I took a plunge, a-little-girl-trapped and mind-just-snapped but Unbroken like the song, and unheard, seen and not spoken.. as those inna’ a Saturday night ca-fe, word, kinda like it slammed me…..troves of these pieces of my memory flaking off like dried train grease, I’m glad and mad and sad sometimes almost maybe certainly undeserving, but grateful and fully composed and  sometimes like a drunk swerving my caddy- late night unknowing and brash, regardless of these “haters” I’m gonna mash and get loud like the proverbial Harley, but with the grain and against the stream not slipping, hardly, got a batch’ brewin’….and it’s not like I’m losin’ my Grip …its somewhat like you gotta’ go out n’ get it….and sooooo many talk street, but afraid of the dark, misaligned, and too refined, and never spending a dime…or a cold night in the park, or the yard….be thankful.


Be thankful for shaded eyes and feelings of hope, liberally wandering the annals of what it feels like to “BE POOR”-or be groped…fondled and ravaged by the ever-seeing eye of the public, not able to jump in and out on command with trust…. and the fund is running low for the exposed the underfoot- trampled on by lofty ideals, dumpster-dived and those that appeal to the wild and truly connected, not to just run in and out of your experience in poverty….that of a fiend, that of the street, the ‘scene’ of a late night glimmer of hopelessness reflected in the gutters you WILLINGLY slept in, tell me, illustrate “the scene”, tell me of the thicket, the hidden spot, the mean streets, the dumpster cuisine, yes, spell out your scene, the exclusive club and feeling you robbed and pimp, so DIY, so fly, and of course in the form of a Zine.



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One Comment
  1. Kathleen permalink

    Dear nephew, I wish I could put my mind and what I really feel to words and to fruition, as you are able to. I can say I am inspired and deeply touched by your spirit and fire.

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