Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

"On the Other Side of the Door" I think she would've been proud, As she held her head up high. That the boy she once gave... Like changing leaves into an autumn sky. Had learned to dance, Had such a sing! That her forgotten boy could do anything. I think she would've been proud. If she ever thought that all her choice would be the best for him. If her little life and it's rejoice didn't fit inside his skin. If the song, the lullabies, she sang wouldn't make him win. I think she would've been... The summer air has cooled, here. A chill is turned, again. And life is sure a place to be, When it's all about what could've been. I ask the grey inside the morning sky if what I do is right. Her answer is just a whisper, A blur passing in the night. I think, I hope she is proud of me. And all-that-he-has-done... For losing is the winner's way of how it must be won. He hides his head up, now, so high it does not see the ground...

I love this moment in flight. You've made your connection in Middleapplolis , USA and eaten the worst God-for- saken - sacrelig of a "sandwich" in the 20 minutes you have between tease touchdown, bathroom and boarding. You scored the window seat which of course means you're destined to share your row with a devil child or wild service orangutan. But you've isolated your self successfully with your swipable memoir and b luetooth earbuds ( You can barely hear the child's head exploding over in seat D-24) You've dosed. You've drooled. You've cried/lip-sang to Dear Evan Hansen. You've photo booth-ed in the mile high bathroom. The high afternoon sun is filtering perfectly into the cabin as you wake up from your most recent nap a nd you dare slide the eerily, toy plastic insert up to reveal that lake, that desert that must mean you're under an hour from touch down. The friendly attendants offer you one last cup of coffee and you, of c...

NYC don't let me down. I've come to you. Made you my town. I've sacrificed the ones I love. To hover here, Your purple dove. NYC don't Fuck with me. Tell me the truth. What do you see? Am I hungry? A lost child. Am I true? A beast in the wild. I eat your food. I walk your streets. I breathe your air. I dance your beats. NYC don't you understand. If I leave you. I'm less the man.  Your jeans aren't ripped. Your heart's unclean. And what you say is what you mean.  NYC this might be it.  But I am not about to quit. So one more day I trudge along. To your unbridled, Trudging song. 🎶

"Free Harlem" I never thought I'd ever feel free again. The price I'd paid for the escape I'd had was too deep. Too far gone. Too dark to ever come back from. But here I stand. The sun on my neck on a corner in Harlem. Breathing the restaurant-vent-infused air. The bustle of this Harlem Tavern, Where the world, This small piece of our small world is changing.  Caddy corner to this open patio lined with picnic bench style seating and bright red umbrellas is a line for a food bank.  The angle of this intersection, The irony of it's short distance.  The truth of this change is unmistakable. But so easy to miss. 'As I decide on the sweet potato fries and truffle aioli'.  A group of four young friends walk by me to grab a table.  I sip my Starbucks and the breeze makes this summer day feel, almost, Californian. But I stand here in New York City, On a corner in Harlem... As the world continues to spin and change.

"Half Sheet Hoxie" "Half Sheet Hoxie" Have you ever loved someone so much, You just had to kiss the top of their back? That, the way they shifted in their chair, Were tectonic plates, Deciding the century. We ended up kicking rubble around an empty ballroom; Nothing left. You, holding a ball made of stone and a medieval morning star. We hadn't spoken in years, And I knew it, I had to go to you! Walk into to the room next to the room I had been waiting in, And hold you. The beauty of the tender part of your back. The brokenness that fell around us. And I held you as we wept. There is nothing as tender, as the top of your back.

I hate this fucking phone. I love this women sitting next to singing along with Diana Ross. "I'm crazy to think you are all mine As long as the sun continues to shine There's a place in my heart for you That's the bottom line." A week. Pages. Scenes. Words. Memory. Age. Tired. Fried. Brain. Click. Yes. Action. Meaning. Feeling. Travel. Lug. Early. Pray. Stretch. Strength. Words. Flow. Yes. Walk. Coffee, Black Snack. Twain. Sign. Bathroom key. Hello. Beginning. Small laughs. Scene. Silence. Scene. Just words. Thank you. No, thank... you. Fuck! Question. Purpose? Moving. Done. Amateur. Train. Text. Leaving. Bye! Suitcase. Lug. Bus. Harlem. Home? Word. Roomie. Swoon. Doing? Going. Maybe. Bus. Something? Yelp. Coffee. Sandwich. Here. Broken glass. Help. Better. Words. Phone. I love this fucking phone.

Red birds against a green backdrop. Just on the hill, 'Cross the road. The birds that sing are as many as there are stars. I want satiation. I want new. New skin. New saliva. I want it all over me. Messy. It smells and tastes so good; Because it is new. It is masculine and earthy and unclean. I want, To glance at you. Follow you. Fuck your brains out, Clean you off and walk away from you In a rush. As if, I never stopped walking. If I am balding, If I am monogamous If I am defined by anything I am able to breathe into the infinity of life. The dust of stars And the depth of water The height of air The pestle and mortar. I am that native, That song, That sings. I am gracious. And generous. I am kings, And queens. I am alive! I am more. I am.