FREESTYLEVISION

It’s a cold world out there,
the haves versus the have nots,
so unfair,
that the poor worry for food,
the rich without care,
certain things we should share,
imagine living without air,
or no coats for your kids and its brick outside,
black girl lost,
turning tricks outside,
and just last week one of my mans died,
victim of a drive by,
ain’t reach 25,
so much pain in our lives,
but we keep it inside,
system designed to f*ck us,
the beast eatin our pride,
but Babylon fall soon come,
instead of spittin what sells,
I spit the truth from my tongue,
lighting bolts of wisdom,
like Zeus Imma come,
not for drama son,
only revolution,
not Nasir,
but I got myself a gun,
shot the Sheriff,
now they got the brother on the run…

In a tunnel of darkness.
On a day of disaster.
With the eve of destruction.
Rising above the empire.

In the morning of chaos.
In the midday of decay.
The night air seals the coffin,
of the wounded brigade.

In the morning a silence.
By noon time still silent.
At night it is quiet ,
As we dig countless graves.

At midnight I found him.
Curved rock all around him.
As the emperor survived,
The barbarian’s raid.

And all the fleeced have gone to sleep.
The last chips collected, there are no cheap
Replacement modes to gather wits or
Count what bodes ill or otherwise.
As flies pick the crumbs of buffets
Closed for the brief time it takes
To clean the commodes before the next
Dreamers arrive to wish upon the roll
Of the die that never ends, but only
Contends with the lack of dreams outside.

Distortion/Distraction strong, feeble or weak reaction
Distortion/Distraction a leader for change and maturation for a doomed nation, this is surely a distraction that we are all facing. Fake politicians with fake words and a fake message for all of us to listen. They cook up a storm and blow smoke up our ass inside of our homes, inside my grandma’s kitchen while my grandma’s wishing her soul’s at rest while the perfect explanation for all this sh*t would be better social security. Medicare, and a government that really gives a sh*t whether your here or there, alive or dead. Then she tries to digest a pill the size of her head for her heart while the pharmaceutical companies ceo’s lye in their big ass beds not caring whether or not my grandmas alive or even dead. Now the lobbyists get the seats and then fight for something that they don’t even believe or need to survive this is the classic example of distortion/ distraction right in front of your eyes.

Don’t let words get distorted and distract from the real issues.

My whole persona real,
and don’t really care if I cop me a deal,
don’t walk with it,
but keep my eye on the steal,
come talk wit it,
and then you dying for real,
but I ain’t a gangster,
ain’t my desire to kill,
but for this freedom,
I’ll hold this iron for real,
iron like a lion in Zion for real,
and respect to the Kaya Man,
there’s no denying my zeal,
I got the eye of the tiger,
and don’t rhyme for the thrill,
my timing is ill…

This is a hilltop story dedicated to you.
One height of myopic vision
While laying supine, you see

So much blue clearly
To be had. Drink it up. Lay
One on me. Tell me something

Any order of words sounding
Any vision imagined sublime
Like skyscrapers submerged

Any version of titanium sheaths asunder on thirty-fourth
Street under blue street trees. Snails scaling the empire eating
Supper super blue-green algae. Transit fish in suits swim to suburbs

To the 56th parallel. So much skyline in the way of a seaweed
Salad plate. Lay your eyes on the rooftop landscape
A simulation of tropical visions in manageable proportions

Laying claim to topical oceans
From the 78th floor sightless to the local
View. Tending fishbowl gardens

Brimming rims, the masterminds’ topiary hairpiece
Atop Kubla Khan’s stately dome, King Kong’s pleasure pool
Pet sharks and streetcars drop shadows on the

Sidewalk floor by degree
And the sun sets early
And the evening breezes…

Frequently. Wind tunnels kick. Pushing
Shoppers, non-stoppers, strollers, steamrollers
Downtown downstream.

So much view to be had
So many angles cut waves
So much to stain the heart

And scar the options:
Stares or elevate 34 seconds
50 six floors seventy eight scoreboards billboards

Lay up to sustain the game play one-handed,
One button, one shot, monochrome, monotone,
Open. Standing alone where floorboards leak through sealing so much gray.

They demand it be simple like the possible backstory
For the bobby pin on the floor and those benched around
Laboring relatively on the beat. Rich with tentative accounts,
The suggestions will simply be decorative. A patterned housing

A leg encased in netting, the wig from which it fell. The night
All shades and hue, the possibility of shady characters stupefied
And shirtless, the districts traveled in a bumpy flash on cobblestone
Continuously abrupt, smoothing out the strays she self-consciously

Sways, pushing back the strands, sealing leaky speech. Somehow
She can seem sophisticated through a facade of unmarked doors
She wears as lockets and rings, locks and rings of pointless entry.
She catches a strand with a wrinkling hand preoccupied by possibly

Now and what will follow and as it unravels the shrapnel fellows to the
Floor just an hour before the nameless, her men followed out the door.
As slung over the local telephone wire, dangling kicks like keys on a line,
Seldom walkers wonder by and even less the dealers don’t know why.

Only details left for private eyes who notice the pin a bobbing on the
Swelling of now buoyant floor. The evidence of demented reality,
Reveals dimensions of reconstructed criminality and deeper did they
Follow steps imagined. Shadowed by the present. Hidden in pieces

Left forensic. Dusting prints. Documented fragments. Somehow some
Stories down goes Bobby pinned to the ground.

Between the painted lines, fast food scraps
And headlines break down in the sidewalk cracks like grout of front-page, Arts and Culture, abbreviated World stacks
Stunting sprouting dandelions.

A song interrupts as a jingling advert:
”What’s It All About” from that album by the Grouch

Plastic and Paper Product
Restaurant and Catering Supplies
All flies attract circumnavigating patience as a virtue. Times is not meant to go again.

The “skidmarks” bumper sticker on the tagged-up fire hydrant with the kid in skid ripped off across the street from
Wash and Dry. Forgotten fame on the wrongfully chosen color for a brick hot wall, sits as dry and silver as urban scrawl.

The day-travelers cross the line and walk the signal down to suggest which way to look at the way you think of yourself right now.

Do you feel shameful enough that you draw a bath?
Wash that posthumous grin out of your mouth. It’s deflecting powerful kisses “as effective as halitosis” and your chosen word, “hate”, proves ineffectual in its pumping mass. It lies in the hands of image-makers and downtown movers and

Orville Redenbacher challenged Mr. Clean to a duel to win the heart of Mr. Peanut who Clean showered with the acid iodized rain that the little girl with the umbrella says she’s stuck in a perpetual rotisserie-style salt glass fit and she is a smoking vampire. She begs the Daily Mirror to kiss her reflection goodbye.
Make it a ritual of passage. Sketch it out like hopscotch on the dog-sh*t-ridden-piss-evaporating sidewalk in the antithetical coloration of Easter egg. Graffiti artificial gun-powdered shell chalk particles dissipate if you stroll in an offbeat right-winged gait asking cabbies about entropy in a clean city.

Perhaps you can empty your pockets here. Take your clothes off on the corner because you initiate aesthetic aversion to your coated social scripting and it appears we chalk it up to illiteracy.
Read within the lines and color your facial enhancers, peel polish off your waxed curbside ailments next to the liquor store. Close for the holidays we’ve forgotten. Park free after six on weekdays.

We traffic, we jam down as we part ways.
Rolling up pedal pushers before getting caught in the chainrings. We’ll crank revolutions into revelations, or reverse the vice, or vice versa.
Steer clear of the potholes in the street and crackheads on the sidewalk and the hipsters snorting lines designating premature lines on their attempt at expression co-opted commercially implanted thought osmosis-like head dunking in the aquarium walls in the house of the Jones’.

It’s time to return your appliances and send a Thank You letter to the so-and-so handyman who sealed your waterlines and the cleaning lady who works a thin line between wrinkled hands and the dripping fate of the faucet, scraping between pierced tiles in the Albert Hall She’d love to turn you off.

I am more animal now than ever.
You are more vegetable.
Less human, more numeral breakdown
A cobalt dissolution

Purify my drinking water
With a sign of the cross
My heart pours in copper over the sink
So as not to drip a dipstick needle in your distilled horseradish
Peppering bloods.

One day I won’t have this full throw of hair
Nor hear the sines and waves traversing through the air.
Nor will I have the proof that I ever did.
Separate my toes and nod my head to the gift of beat no longer will I.
Going on eighty, I will release the process used in previous olfactory projects.

Hand over these boats and rays and pass on the polluted haze
Salute that sun along the bay
Squander for those fleets of flash cards and friendly folios
Overlapping knots per hour together.

On a nameless annual festival where on average there’s a shooting,
In autumn there are not shootings this year
But a bike ride means dodging doors and taxi hands on a busy street
To cap it all.

Our only desire is to die, but we just kill the time.
Executing a two-step shuffle.
“Why do they only dance ironically,” said the olive-skinned white biped of the white people dancing rhetorically
As though they argue, “There’s no such thing as too much fun.”

Can you layout the logistics of how to dance with soul
Could you hold your back along the wall, still
Now what will you belt about your wasted skill
Strap it with a nine mil’ kill?

I focus on moments of unconscious behavior
All races presume their given places in the

Basic emotional truth of ugliness the finest
Moments look awful like life with children
All brothers and sisters looking level

I level the lens preserving lies about earth
Bearing codes of ourselves taking snapshots
Of deniable circumstance

I use my device to embrace the predicament
The handicap television, the commodity sitters

As stirring up chest hair poses to be sexy
In a marriage to fashion and preoccupation in
The universal traditions of tailored hair

I autograph a portrait of the anniversary of poverty
And pawn it for a manual film camera

The objects of my visions obscure the finest
Moments of stylized embarrassment

Counterfeiting the equivalent of memory
I compile cakes and pets and obvious inhibitions
Of children engrossed in the composition of birthdays.