To keep the still in frames

2009-11-27 14.44.21

 

I take more pictures in winter, to keep the still in frames
I sometimes glimpse a bit of spring, through melted snow and flames

The chilly sent of icy rain, hangs throughout the town
The frosty breath of frozen lungs, while snow is falling down

I see a river flow beneath, coursing cold and runneth green
I see a North-bound, rusted train, barreling down with steam

The glow of warmth, bright with light, there’s one I call my home
I pray for the broken, ragged few, who spend this night alone

Where would I be, without this place, into a man been made
I often doubt and cry aloud, hoping again that you’d save

It’s Christmas time in Cincy-town, soon a city colored white
I will rest and spend good time, with my family here tonight

Bless us, Lord! Keep us safe! We fall down on our knees
We pray for much and forget to thank, but now we’re begging please

We are your kids, we hide as such, breaking all the joy you built
We placed on him all the shame, but still carry around our guilt

Take it all! And throw it out! I’ve been hanging on too long
Hope you’ll accept these feeble words, that now come out in song

I am one man and a broken one, you’ve asked to humbly serve
I will fail and fail again, because I haven’t got the nerve

The season is right and ripe with joy, only good comes from above
I pray for heaven coming down, I pray for your unfailing love

Gaslight, Clifton – 4/4/17

One hundred years of insulation
rained down on my head
Shit, literal shit
And I could’ve stayed in bed

Plaster, drywall, ceiling tile
Confetti you wouldn’t want to eat
Tear it down with garden tools
In this mansion ‘cross the street

Dust in lungs, soot in eyes
I look like another race
Shoes stuck with nails, bleeding socks
Hair in my fuckin’ face

Break the lath over your knee
Bend back all the nails
Into the bin with most of it
And throw it down in bales

It’s like another planet,
The look of mold from Mars
Scoop it up with snow shovels
Throw it out – but miss the cars

It’s all swept up, shit’s all gone
No debris at my feet
One hundred years of secrets
That I intend to keep

Writin’ Raps

It takes minor reparations
And major excavations
Higher elevations
To each and every nation.

Now, Spark a conversation.
Come back from your vacation.
Speak on their sensations.
And Kill with vaccinations.

My plan … hesitation
Control the population
Learn some fuckin patients
And stare at constellations

Learn peace from the Hatians
Learn more from your complacence.
Subtract all the vagrants
And come up from the basement

Tryin to become famous
Instead we should be agents
Changing modern into ancients
Let em feel our fragrance

Listen to my cadence
My word flow is blatant
Pound my fists to the pavement
leave em stranded at the station.

Nameless, sacred, statements
Lead to
Hopeless, naked, patients.
I got no more patients for
Broken, empty conversations.

Make moves, dudes, subtle or rude
Change your blued tune, till your prude bubble mood pops with trouble crude.

Subtle again

Blue pen or black or red.
Make marks like a teacher
Teach her that worth is not a man.
Teach me that its also not a girl.

Place something in that number one spot.
Watch it rock your world.
Watch her spin and twirl.
Lady libtery calm and free
Talking bout poetry
Rap will never last
And neither will rock and roll
Put your foot to the gas
Pop the watchmen on patrol.
Pop rocks from the coal
Diamonds are forever
Let your girl steal your soul.
Let your girl steal ya world.

Vampire bullet

Black and white kinko copycats. Jacknife plinko to bring the money back, honey that’s a mystery or minstrel. Makes no sense like History channel reality shows. And reality blows when you’re working 9 to 5 cleaning toilet bowls. Shit or get off the pot. Another way to say make up your damn mind. Life can be unkind, we all know that and if we all know what Bo knows then we all know rap. All star whether with a football or a baseball bat. I bet he hates all that. Rather go pro being myself than be an idiot trying to be somebody else.

Fame called too but got a busy signal. Is he single? Nobody’s asking that. Stoners hit on bongs and then on hacky sacks. Wickety-wack tracks made by sissy science cats. Rice crispy, sticky-icky, Saturday, Luda raps. Who was that? Magnetic mellifluous wordsmith SAT. Vocab to rehab to bring the 80s back. Empty cap guns spit quick puns, son. Nothin’ to do but run from the blast. Volcano flow. Spit hot lava till your brain’ll blow. Rock cocainal though. Or K9 rhymes bearing teeth at your tanlined sandal feet. Downey brand bleach your sheets quicker than gentrified neighborhood meet and greets. To all my peeps. Rockin’ jeeps. Down the street to the beach. Save a Corona for me. I’ll bring the limes and good times but the bud will be out of reach. Keep carving a niche. Best is yet to come so I’m starving the streets. Best there ever was? Naw, that’s Shad’s decree. But silver never tasted so good. The vampire bullet is me.