This is another Facebook chronicle -

There is no reason to leave it alone
(Like some twisted dance,
A place that I land and explain
In order
To really tell you
What I want to 
Really tell you);

In the telling, 
I plan to explain
What I plan to tell you.
Yes, I need to be a centerpiece
Here in this conversation.

I get lost in the sampling tones
I can't forget the Lost 
And the written tones - 
The Forgotten Spills 
Over waterfall Helicopters - 
That landmass, the Intriguing Ivy 
Laugh stands in to the Yeti abyss

What are the words 
That land in to foggy myths;
Times Once Spun 
To the lucky ones
Across dancing lands:
Nymphs could claim those;
Fortresses, civilizations, legacies: theirs.

Now we vote, lost upon the ill 
Gotten characterizations 
Those socially exuberant
Media-twisted gags and coughs - 
Like the ones that standup 
Routines across the face of the skeptic.

To not believe in the fantasy language: 
you poor unimaginative light... 
And a toast to the awkward force!
Carve the mind into the bended sphere!!!

You know the lost hemisphere
The get around here
The rhyme cuz I spent time there
As if that wasn't fair
The be here
To be there
Don't tell me this doesn't play where you are.
Cuz we are here.

Awash

An apology lost, twisting in wretched metal
Laughs cackling in the distance
Like sirens they ring hurricane poetry
Curious faces stare into
An abyss funnels down pipes
Clouds stream the colors of the universe
Physics seizes in the eyes of the frame
Anonymous statues kick the tires
Electric car maps drive themselves to the party
The rest of us walk slowly into the distance
Light flickers like a broken screen
The frowns explain the poor taste in humor.

Hapa

All around the room

As if there was a right answer

Again against a wall of uncertaintly

It gets old doesnt it?

Or what is fatigue'a longing ending?

Is that tiresome?

Or what really bores the mind?

Lost in a syntax of a carved stone cell?

Lost in the stones' throws of escape?

Hugging the sand will not be enough

Where green fountains of vegetation

Fall down the mountains like the waterfalls

A person can internalize the moment:

Bird screeching chickens Cockadoodle do

A sensation of being immersed

Water tea kettles to a whistle

The body seethes a certain stress and burns the heavenly oil of rest

But to turn the while island to a bridge of championship?

Yes, a bridge to champions.

So much gone to the wind and seas

Massacres or legacies turn on the same swipes

But to touch the whole of the island-

To touch it at all and breathe the tastes of generations of feelings

There is no solution.

Rest easy in the messing ingredients of eternity

For what is untouchable and untastable

Is certainly touched in everything that we can taste.

Ice Cream in the Freezer

When grandma died there was ice cream in the freezer

There was a lot of ice cream in the freezer

Grandma had ice cream every day

Especially as the days gave way to night

It makes sense there was so much left over

At the end of days she ate lots of ice cream

She must have thought it would help her live forever

Along with all that ice cream she left in the freezer

Un Muerte in El Cajon

The box, a cage, to pack up the belongings of our history.

The relics of our past that move from each our homes

The images and icons that are tucked beneath glass

Save them for the history books of your little box.

What if we unpack it now?  To see what's been inside?

The years of anger and war mud surely line the bottom 

Beneath those neatly packed memories must be the Horror

That rests beneath the cross and the rosary beads.

The pictures of the children rests on top of the Horror

Those books that they nurtured their mind must be in there

Even the fantastic ones are surely there - submarines and squids,

Dinosaurs and genetics, whales, captains and other Big Friendly Giants

including windmills and many other sweet things.

And what languages are packed in to the box?

Would a box by any other name be the same?

A box?  Der Karton? El Cajon?  La boîte?

Who chose the words to go in there?

The ladies who moved those first boxes across,

Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria - such sweet names.

The language of the oppressors disguised

As seekers, in the name of crowns and jewels.

A deadly triangle persists, a death in the box,

Ein Tot in dem Karton.  Un muerte in Cajon.

This is the new middle passage, here far from the original

There is no slave ship to box up them up as cargo

No, they are already here, without a ward, without a way home

The live in this box from which there really is no escape

Beneath the ground and the water, in the skies and the magma

There is a stench of death that does not discriminate.

Each vessel of life will eventually smell the stench of death.

But in this box where war and blood and imagination and truth

all battle for the respect of generations of life

The occupants forget that they are all in this together

In the box with all the words and pictures of a torrid human affair

With the earth and its many other speechless inhabitants

The scream of superiority belches forth from the cracks

The undying human need to be special and unique

And where does that get the people of Earth

Look in side that big box, Mira en El Cajon

A refugee stuck in a box that does not speak his language

The refugee in a box with no name and no free currency

To trade or spend or save or give.

When the box is closed and there is no light,

only vague moments of illumination are possible upon the epochs

And our common experience teaches us nothing 

Amidst the closed, dark and ruinous box.

A man beaten in his home and forced to other shores?

This is not just an old story from within the box,

No it happens still!!! People forced to hide in the shadows

People that run from the light - because the light is dark.

And in the darkest shadows of this box mankind still wants to kill

To maim, to harm, to control, to show any kind of force.

Because mankind is afraid.

Open the box and let the light shine on all our heirlooms

And in the corners of the box where almost all the forgotten 

dust of humanity collects and covers our greatest victories

Celebrate the sun that pours around our awful

but very hard fought victories as people.

And use the past to unleash a power of empathy and compassion

So that we do not simply pack the past in to a box

But that we shine a spotlight on to all our hearts

taking brothers in arms from anywhere 

they may have been lost in the box

And love them all as family and friend.

For the seas are rough across this middle passage

and under the water are the ghosts of mankind's hate

but on deck there must be room for everyone

for everyone's box of memories and contributions

to be exalted by all so that the shots we hear

are no longer gunfire from the frightened citizens of our planet

but the celebrations of achievement that humans can find

in each and every babe and parent

Because the answers are inside this box

But it must opened to the light for all 

to truly cherish all of our wonderful accomplishments.

Amy, I Told You I Was Trouble

The thermos spews a silly steam

Like a beehive gone awry.

The brim steams only with vapor now.

Naturally, the water burns.

To touch a scalding pot of coffee - 

Oooooh, such danger.

Don’t wake up.

When the singe blisters the skin,

Those burn like tattoos

Covered and lubricated and nurtured in the sun

Vitamin D pulsing all the same

With that dream deferred all the same
With his old same old safe bet…

Or maybe it was the caffeine 

But those are just stimulants.

What really wakes you up?

A dizzy spin turns the mind

When it waits for the splash of Joe -

That acidic blast down in the veins

Like an arctic wind or a solar flare -

Something cosmic and galactic.

(Too grandiose

For you).

The ornery evening splashes the gut;

It coats the senses with a heightened sense, 

Nothing more than a general tone of self-importance.

I cheated myself like I knew I would.

When they pour whiskey I know it’s for me

So I’m kind of a big deal.

Pople idolize bourbon brands;

Who could blame them?

Everyone really has the right, 

Particularly, in this life 

If you’re allowed to pick your own poisons.

HOSSANAH!

HOSSANAH!
Who dat be?!?
Be dat me?!?
Who you? Who me?
Just this dark Negro, G.
You know. The blackest man you'll ever meet.

The traditions are far flung and gone. Forever fought and won, and lost again all for fun. In the heartest of the darkest heart, deep in a congo river dream, there slinks a shadow of light - brightness so dark you can never see.  Woolen hair from the script for the Darkest Negro dat ever be.

Just a dark Negro, like you think you've seen.

On triangles and ships, monster trips touching on all God's Inquisition and venturing to certain inadequacies. I repeat rhetoric. I repeat rhetoric. Just because we will never see.

Hossanah?

Who you be? Be you he?
Dat ain't me.
We'll shet dat do, sun, shet dat do kna so's my eyes can see.

See who dat what? The darkest Negro I can ever see.

What's it's take to hear that sound, that dripping deathly sound. The things that I hope you might see. Even just to hear them, that's what I need.

CAN YOU HEAR ME? Who's the darkest Negro you don't wanna see?

NIGGER!
NIGGER!
NIGGER!

HOSSANAH!?  Can you fucking hear me?

That's the darkest Negro you'll ever see?

Never, nosirree, NIGGER ain't s'posed to be seen.

Been there, done that, missed it, learned that. That has nothing to do with the darkest Negro you'll ever see...

Or, more seriously?
Clandestine ships, in midnight economy.
HOSSANAH!... Skeleton crews of shyphyllitic conquest.
Built on sand mountain avalanches of God's word.
Twisted bazaars of carnage.
Chicken coups and scape goats of God's mighty evil.
Who that be? Don't matter much to me.

Warring brother worlds of free market determination.
Blood spewing guns dripping in guilty death before a shot fired.
Coagulated hate sticking specters to the land.
Dusty crops of devalued greed.
Handcuffed and bound by the powers that be.
HOSSANAH!  Who ever layed that down?
That's where the nigger be.

"Sunrise at dawn makes for redundancies.
Dancing to the illogical frustration,
Hosannah, I can make no more frustration than that,"
That's what the Negro said as he disappeared before me.