This page features some poetry and thoughts from our collective of poets & writers. Please check out our event page under the link section to keep up to date on what we are up to as well! Disclaimer: Some blogs contain adult language and themes.
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.