Monday, January 31, 2011

Stay In The Box

sit. don't speak. don't think for yourself.

yes, do what i tell you to.

no, don't think for yourself.

oh you want to play the guitar?

nah, how about the piano?

I think it better suits you,

but really you're not that musical

so why don't we just forget the whole thing?

sit. don't talk. not a whisper. shh.

don't get out of line; especially in public.

you know what'll happen.

your father's gonna hear about this.

your mom will hate you for what you've done.

you'll never go anywhere doing that.

just give up. really.

seriously, on the carpet? i just cleaned that.

go to your room.

and don't talk, don't think, don't blink.

i'd rather you not be, but you are

and as long as you're in my house;

don't....do....anything, at all.



-Talik T.

Distilled Youth

Broken belts from broken father figures.

Busted faces over bloodied wounds; more injury inside than out.

Dysfunctional approaches to fatherhood, manhood and material relationships.

Results are, one Angel gone from this world over rusty needles,

haystack pressure and a motherless outlook.

We wonder what happened on the other side of life and when the light left her eyes

like the car that left her outside the E.R., did she think of us?

She had had a rocky childhood, as we all did.

One time, at age 8, she "fell" off a 5 foot wall and busted her head open on the concrete.

Another time she let young men touch her younger person and liked it, though she didn't know why;

it must have been the attention.

Often times she hated her family it seemed

and even had her brother beat to the ground by a thugged out,

ogre, drug slanging "gang banger", wanna be boyfriend,

who was told, that the brother was gonna "Whoop his ass for touchin' his sister..."

in ways he'd rather not have know at the time; much less deal with at age 14. Angel was 13. Barely.

She sang with the grace of a hundred Goddesses and could out maneuver most on the soccer field.

She played with a masculine competitive aggressiveness

that was seemingly unmatched; sadly even by me.

She was tough bodied, strong willed and weak minded.

With narrow sights in her scope, she couldn't see past blunts, baby talk, boys and bad habits.

Bleak at best with the beast's roaring at her side.

Fueling her passions for outside-lands where anything could happen and did.

So she's gone and she was 19, not a child, but still a kid.



-Talik T.


Sunday, January 30, 2011

Living Dream

He focused on the smallest things in weird ways.

Falling in and out of time like a traveller from a far away universe.

Life in the linear spectrum didn't seem to apply to this young lad.

Perspectives on ants like beast on mountainsides,

slinging dirt clods over their backs to be the builders of the future.

He too often nurtured these activities and this led to many days in detention,discontent and disillusionment.

He found resolve in storytelling.

Spinning tales like squirrels and grasshoppers; racing wits, speed, blades of grass and sheer nuttiness.

Stories that stretched the galaxy for days without starships and rocket fuel, just imagination.

He was blessed.

Soaking in the sunlight just as much as the moon's shine, he would be the drunkard of nature's wonders.

A wanderer of thoughts and the underlying scapegoat of minds, his treasures were divine.

Doused in dream juice and jungle magic,

he danced the holiest dances with demons and ghosts, angels and humanoids.

Purposely forgetting his insect repellant, walking into the night,

hoping to attract any creatures attention so he could speak with them.

Dream with them.

Imagining the fanciful and fantastic fates of man within the grasp of his own hands; he sang to them.

Drifting in and out of space losing focus in the face of fun time.

Seemingly chosen in the throws of swollen toes, stubbed,

and closed eyes and open mugs mouthing insanities like:

"THE DREAMS GO OUT AT NIGHT! THE DREAMS FLOAT OUT AT NIGHT"

What a sight to be seen these themes of mind running rampant without reality reasoning, just 'cause they could

and they did and he would continue this road of tidbits on small time

with big thoughts lost in visions of his yesteryears.

DREAM BIG! Go long! Never quit, never surrender! Render beauty with your fist!

Put ugly thoughts in your pocket and forget them in the laundry mat.

Make the days stretch wide and the nights open up while making real what makes you smile.



-Talik T.


Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Flash Tactics

So, I was thinking...

I decided to figure it out, I'm tired of playing the guessing game.

I'm just gonna jump into a parallel universe, and knock this fool out.

That way, I will have the satisfaction of fuckin' him up,

yet I will face no criminal prosecution.

...it's perfect.

-traveler

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

haste, waste, make chase.

Today is not a waste. I move to make mountains shake. My steps were gilded by the heart of Ginsberg, though, till then i walked the streams semi-Iron Clad in faded jeans. So, though, I may tread water because I'm stunning from my soul, I'm shunning the dummies who glitch off pitch control. My convulsions cause emulsion, so let it layer your mind. I'll be back the day after to make prints for my Rubik's design. I'm finding it hard to resign or let my light decline. I'm holding harder the the days haste, even if i'm only scraping by on threads of sunshine in a tiny space. This little light of mine; I'm gonna refine till time speaks my lines in historical chimes like letting the wind pick up syncopations using the utmost patience to catch the riddim(s)--chanting and pausing properly for exact inflection to enact reactions in the throws of affection and compassion; blastin' my message to the heaven-hell-hereafter. Mastering my mystical makings in the creation of thump, thud, thump, buh-buh-bump. Jump for jubilance and be joyous in choruses singing high off life even if off key, but please, try and find the notes. I mean we're all trying to find the notes. Getting close to hope and hopping in, both feet, arms and legs. Completely immersed in the refraction of letting go, but getting a grip. Still slipping into the everything where nothing is impossible. Where you can put heartbeats to dreams and lean on Langston Hughes for your preferred affirmations for building things. I've got a couple hundred cans of worms ready to slither and slide, slimy secretions there and hither, henceforth, forthcoming and cunning; overwhelming the sensory synapse, collapsing the linear fractions of truths, like tiny confabulations would never see the light of day, but nay i say: the contrived will lye in the lullaby's of the afterlife and I will speak freely without oppressions from the summation of lies. Surmising that my tries are trite or in error of trial or made in light; is the precise definition of reasoning of plots in this "so called" poor man's plight. So I won't teach my children to build castles in the sand, I'll have them in the back yard with bricks and mortar in hand. Bound to a religion that kneels to the earth, covered in dirt, wielding their wounds helpless with myrrh working hard to know and show their worth. I want them to be one with the universe. I'm gonna chase these roads in the haste, but sensitive to the signs that will lead me through the race, though life is not a race, but time is not of mine as it is of all and so I must not stall or stand stupified in the eye of the most high, exalted call from the skies. I will stand true, long, strong and determined. I will face adversity to curse the thieves who leave burden(s). Let the I not be me alone along this tremendous task, let it be we. So that we, of sound mind, body and spirit, shall last. Past the fiery blazes and gases, let these trains of thought ride the tracks of time and tell the tales of rites of passage. From the bitter bones of the "savage" to the littered tones of madness. This will speak humble and dear, but loud and clear.