K R A V E N
Somewhere is your heart.
Memories of you
play like a symphony in my head,
as I dream away on a stream
flowing down my bed.
The river wasn’t turned enough,
to ferry me back to your heart,
so I float along, all alone.
The warmth of your glow gone cold to the touch and dark
Singing a hollow song,
beating my tired and broken drum.
Wondering why you’re not safe where we belong.
I don’t know where the water will carry me,
but I imagine somewhere, there’s another shore awaiting me.
Where I won’t be left to drift so aimlessly,
drowning in a flood I poured from misery.
For now I’ll keep hold of our shipwreck,
The sweet romance under her twinkling lights, I’ll never forget.
If I sail away to heaven under the moon and stars,
in another world, a pause in time,
adrift here in the seabed,
Surely I’ll make it somewhere,
‘cause, out there,
somewhere is your heart.
The Biographies of Love: Poem III
Accustomed to meticulous fixes of human display,
while you were exalted, cast from a mold and made —
bandaged and entombed in the most colorful war-torn clothes
fashionably falling apart
anointed in the stench of your own funereal cologne —
Love clamored for just the natural answer from your heart,
she pounded like a storm at all your doors and windows!
Fighting tirelessly to subdue your mounting ignorance and self-obsession,
left to be accosted and arrested.
A sworn enemy to our prized laws of time,
the great contraption perpetually pressing and aging us, but clueless to when Love will finally arrive
Deep in your slumber or long before you rise, no matter,
Love is well worth waiting for on this side of life
The Biographies of Love: Poem II
An ancient discovery of hope
glistening like raining diamonds in the sun,
poised in the sands of bustling shores,
Love is simple to find,
contrary to popular wisdom,
But she can be awfully difficult to recognize,
if recognized at all by blackened hearts, closed minds and solemn eyes
I’m reading one of the most influential books ever, titled The Human Machine by Arnold Bernett; first published in 1908.
I was pretty excited and digging deep into the text when the phrase “idle as a nigger,” came out with the grace of two wayward and wacky arms smacking about aimlessly like a flustered republican in Congress.
Ironically, it is, in large part, because of what the author outlined well-before and -after the phrase that I was able to overlook the instance. The book has spoken to me with simple ideas of catastrophic importance to our evolution. Maybe a man like Bennett, holding such valuable keys to life, never knew (or wished) that a black man would be digesting and increasing in wealth significantly off just one of his many books. In his defense, I’m sure in 1908 even his ill condition of the mind wasn’t easy to recognize and detach from.
Therefore, I shall continue to read and enjoy The Human Machine because I tell my brain to do so (and I am the master of my brain, as the book states… If that sounds elementary refer to the image, I’m barely scratching the surface) and especially in honor of the so-called nigger(s) he was referring to.
My Country Tis of Me: Miss America, The Beautiful
Staring at her own pretty reflection each day
She’s as proud as she can possibly dream
given her past, pomp and future circumstances
In her custom-designed mirror on the social network wall
the ritual is perpetually, virtually on repeat (for all)
as modern boys and girls would have it in so many instances
Her looking glass reveals the brutal sins of father Warbucks far-away
obscenely staring right back at her half-and-half face
deep into her eyes fashioned in darkness and light,
day and night
Yet with flash-of-lightning rhythm of a petrified heart
the only lineage from her lonely ancestral mother traced
finds itself deleted, erased, forgotten and wholeheartedly denied
right from the start
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams… A book that is quite arguably far more effective at outlining and explaining critical life lessons than 101 Buttery Biscuits by Paula Dean, a Welcome to Welfare pamphlet, and leather-bound variations of the Holy Bible of which it looks remarkably similar to.
A Semi-Prophetic Excerpt from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
“The President in particular is very much a figurehead—he wields no real power whatsoever. He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage. For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character. His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it. On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had—he has already spent two of his ten presidential years in prison for fraud. Very very few people realize that the President and the Government have virtually no power at all, and of these few people only six know whence ultimate political power is wielded. Most of the others secretly believe that the ultimate decision-making process is handled by a computer. They couldn’t be more wrong.”
-From what is now my most favorite fictional story in existence: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy [SN: the movie was okay, but did the book nooooo justice]. A warm thank you to the late author Douglas Adams, I don’t take it as mere coincidence that my copy of the book, which also includes the sequels, looks strangely similar to a typical leather-bound Holy Bible. :)
Time After Time
I happened to meet my future self
At the intersection of our times
he pointed to my former self:
“keep flying in his opposite direction, you’ll be just fine…”
Just Right
It’s like waking up to every breakfast food of your greatest delight. The aroma let’s you taste it before it even hits your eyes.
The texture of your eggs. Just right.
The burntness of your meat. Just right.
The fluff of your flapjacks. Just right.
Hand me the golden fork and knife.
It’s like walking out to a morning coastline, even though you know the closest beach is a million miles away in your mind.
The wind against your skin. Just right.
The smell of the salty seas. Just right.
The warmth of the sun’s glow. Just right.
Why can’t this life by the sea be mine?
It’s like walking down the most intriguing street. Meeting the strange and stranger, the friendly and familiar. Noticing the brilliance of surrounding architecture.
The colors around you. Just right.
The songs flowing from the jazz bar. Just right.
The way it feels like Neverland and home all at the same time. Just right.
Where has this side of town been all your life?
It’s the way you make me feel right at home, even when I’m across an ocean. It’s not waking by the sea, but to Love in my corner again. It’s the way you dance night and day, deep inside my head.
Your colorful, beautiful mind. Just right.
The richness of your beating heart. Just right.
The life you brought to revive mine. Just right.
And when my dreams choose not to come out in the light, there’s a dream to hold when I awake. And that makes life just right.
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