posted April 27, 2007 01:25 AM            

The lessons we learn
The lessons we teach
All perfectly timed
Always within reach

Hello to you!
And you!
And you!

Welcome to our work of art

The experience we create
In joining
Our minds
Our hearts

First a little Anglo/Sax
Rough
Tough
Abrupt

Then relax

And go with the flowing
Delicate, passionate, embrace

Of other styles and
Other times
And other beats
And other rhymes

What’s next for us
On our journey
Our quest?

Let’s help each other do our best.

posted April 27, 2007 01:27 AM            

You look at me ------- My light inside

You touch me now ------ Finger tips stroke

I don’t see you ------- I distort your sight

I am hard and firm ---- I am heavy and stable

I keep your secrets --- I share your stories

I keep you company ---- In the cold night

A task-master --------- And teacher by day

Guess my name

posted April 27, 2007 01:29 AM            

I inspire and soar----- Sadden and gladden

We are friends -------- You dance freely

At times you cry ------ At times you scream

You worship and honor ---My wisdom and advice

A piece of you ------- Your personality

You create me ------- I create you

Guess my name

posted April 27, 2007 01:34 AM            

License and insurance please.

Nothin’!
It’s ice-tea!

Gonna ask you to step out.
(Ask him what it’s for!!)
Plate light is out.
(Can he tell?!?)
(Maybe if I start to yell)

All this because the plate light is out!?!?
(Please
oh please
Don’t let them find out)

Have to ask you to put that cigarette out.

(I
really
need
to
smoke)

(So stressed out)

Uhh, just got off work
Just going home
No, it’s JUST ICE-TEA
Are you handcuffing me!?

NO!
You DON’T
Have permission
To search my car
(I know my rights)

Fine,
Call it in.
Oh, we have to wait…

ok

Hey, will you grab my smokes?

Do I have your permission to open the pack. I have to check it for weapons.

Yeah, yeah
Gimmie one

Bob, I’m gonna need you to come over here.
Found a crack stem in there.
Now we’re gonna search the car.

Twenty rocks of crack cocaine.
Why do you have all this.

I was going away for the weekend

Yeah, but
Why do you have all this.

I was gonna be gone for two days!!!

How many rocks do you smoke in a day.
About 10
(I need one right now)

posted April 27, 2007 01:40 AM            

A nice ride, through the streets
A sunny day, and I was happy
I like to ride
With my Mom.

If I had to go to the dentist
If I was sick
We would take a drive together
Just like this
Just the two of us
I looked out the window
We were together

---you were tearing out your i.v.’s
---you kept taking off all of your clothes
---you were fighting and screaming
---i waited with you all night and in the ---morning
---they told me to go home
---to get some sleep

Am I…?

Where AM I???

Is this the Doctor?!?

I CAN’T MOVE!!!!!!

I’M STRAPPED DOWN!!!!!

I CAN’T think...
What nightmare is this!?
HELP!!!
WHAT’S GOING ON???

~~~Just calm down~~~

Who ARE you people?!
Where AM I?
Why am I TIED DOWN!??

###She’s getting combatitive again###

What are you putting in there!??
What are you putting in me!??
I want my Mother!
(where’s my mommy)

Oh God,
Have they taken MY baby?!!
WHERE IS SHE?!?
What have they done?!?
Do I have to fight for my Rosie!?!

~~~Your mother went home for a little bit~~~
~~~We are getting a helicopter ready~~~
~~~You are going to be air-lifted to Peoria hospital~~~
~~~Your mom will meet you there.~~~

With my baby?!?

~~~Yes, I think so~~~

~~~Just relax~~~

well…

I am

getting

a little

…sleepy.

posted April 27, 2007 01:45 AM            

I don’t know
If it’s right

To share the dark
And the light
Innocence
Purity

Why, oh God
Does she look
To me
With those eyes
That are wise

And would catch
Deceptive
Lies

posted April 27, 2007 01:47 AM            

Drowning
in chick flick
emotion
what was
what is
what might have been
my child
my heart
my bad decision

A circular struggle
staged for my dark
enjoyment
I wouldn’t
change a thing,
my daughter
is perfect

the one who is meant
to be my child
A choice made long ago
Before
these roles
A decision
Predestined

My mind will toy with
what is
what was
my choice in a husband
My mind will toy with
What is predestined?

posted April 27, 2007 01:49 AM            

If there’s one thing
That I just hate
It’s returning movies
So they aren’t late

Or worse yet
If I forget the date
And have to pay
Each day they wait

For me to realize
My cumbersome fate,
Sighing at my slippers
And wishing I had a mate

posted April 27, 2007 01:51 AM            

Fear wears a costume
A child
on a chilly fall evening
Pretends to be
A powerful magician
A superhero
Or a villain

He doesn’t need you
To hold his hand
But his world is ominous
He jumps at every shadow
Starts at the natural sound
of a dog barking
or a car starting

He would run
Into the road
To escape

So, love holds his hand

posted April 27, 2007 01:52 AM            

Trying to find them selves
Everyone watching them
Everyone judging them
No one understands
Anger rises and begins to focus
Grinning on the outside
Embarrassment, rage, and plans for
REVENGE
Spray out as machine gun fire

posted April 27, 2007 01:53 AM            

I remember his blonde hair
it was a little spiky on top
and we used to joke
that he took longer than

a girl to get ready
when we all dressed up
to go dancing
and smiling
and flirting
and laughing

smelling like perfume or Polo
and Drakkar Noir

I remember he was quiet
The other boys were loud
and he was quiet
and gentle
and he followed them

We would go to the cemetery
and Jon would run
and scale
the walls and stone
like a streak of red
and Brad and Dan would creep off alone
and jump out to scare us
to death
smiling yellow smiles
And Tim would puff up a loyal and heroic blue and tell them
to take it easy on the girls
and Dominick or Mark would give us
a hot, fun wink
and Russell would sit
still
and alone
and quiet
on a lone wall by a mausoleum

or walk quietly toward the trees,
looking up at the stars
and his very stillness would
stop the youthful frenzied activity
of one of us, who would calmly walk
to his side, drawn to the
peaceful green of his being.

When they hung out at Jon’s house
they were all redder
wilder
more experimental
even Russell
who followed

I remember the afternoon
they told me
he was dead
that Jon held him in his arms

probably waiting too long to call the ambulance
the only time he was slow to do anything

that he held his head
his blonde spiky hair
and looked into his eyes
while he convulsed
and died

I remember we went to the funeral
without knowing or acknowledging his family
as if he was our family
immaturely unaware
in our own grief

Russell lay in the coffin
still
alone
and quiet

a sacrifice on the altar of youth

We all went to the cemetery
our cars creeping along the winding drives
that scaled the hills
and ran along the walls

between the stones
and when we arrived
at the burial
Jon boldly led us
around the stones
while Brad joked nervously to relieve the tension
and Tim hovered over the girls

we walked quietly toward the trees
and stood
surrounded by green
and as Russell’s family moved away from the coffin
our family advanced
calmly
drawn to the stillness
stopping our
frenzied
youthful
activity

long enough
to say
goodbye

We tossed memories and irreverent tokens
into the grave
to our friend

slips of paper
with words of love
lighters because he always somehow ended up with ours
condoms
because that was all they had left in their pockets
to give
“Good luck up there,” friend!

We traveled
home
Well, to Jon’s
lost in the unknown depths of our tender emotions
and confused by the barrage of thoughts and insights
that had invaded our minds

We sprayed each other with the garden hose
laughing until we cried
so glad to be alive
dancing in rainbows under the cool blue sky
and the red, yellow, and orange sun

as we trampled the green grass
beneath our feet
without noticing.

posted April 27, 2007 01:55 AM            

The window panes are clear and tall, tidy
wooden boxes bloom with flowers below
Mom and Dad with brother and Rosie
sit together, rocking the baby slow

Aroma of cookies wafts through the air,
gingham picnic basket on the patio
family strolls out, the wind in their hair
Idyllic setting, perfection in faux

Dollhouse world where Daddy is kind, a man
who protects and provides for Princess Rose

instead of a

violent ,

dead-beat dad
supervised visit,

with someone unknown

Mommy fighting to protect little girl
within a Norman Rockwell nightmare world

posted May 07, 2007 12:21 AM            

-Girls Gone Wild-

Girl Gone Wild
or just a child
with twisted inspiration

Feminine power
Feminine mystique
from the pages of Cosmopolitan

A literary rag unnaturally birthed
from the bulging womb of
masculine agenda

children manipulated
into becoming
cold,
unfeeling

Corporate slaves and prostitutes

Over-used
and
Underpaid

posted May 07, 2007 03:01 PM            

"It is because I am Beat, that is, I believe in beatitude and that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son to it... Who knows, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?" ~Kerouac

posted May 07, 2007 03:38 PM              

Folks got the idea that Beatnik meant bums, or criminals.
Far far from that!
It was in many ways much like the Bohemian/Spiritual & Literary movement of the late 19th. and early 20th. centuries.
From Wikipedia:

quote:

---

The beat philosophy was generally counter-cultural, anti-materialistic and stressed the importance of bettering one's inner self over and above material possessions. Some beat writers began to delve into Eastern religions such as Buddhism or Taoism. Politics tended to be liberal; with support for causes such as desegregation. An openness to African-American culture and arts was apparent in literature and music, notably jazz. While Caen and other writers implied a connection with communism, there was no direct connection between the beat philosophy (as expressed by the leading authors of this literary movement) and the philosophy of the communist movement, other than the antipathy that both philosophies shared towards capitalism. This connection is questionable because of the distinctly spiritual element of the beat philosophy, as contrasted with the anti-spiritual views in Marxist philosophy.

---

quote:

---

The Culture of Movement (Perspective)
Submitted Sun, Apr 15, 2001 by Morgan

Being on the road is a multi-dimensional thing. The willingness to just hit it and see what happens is a way of living and traveling that not everyone can dig. (--you dig?) The bohemian represents a culture of movement and art that has its origins in the early ages of Eastern Europe, but has taken on a new meaning in this last century....

With the convergence of artists, musicians and writers in late 19th century Paris, the term was brought out of the annals of history and reapplied. Hence, the modern day bohemian was born. Later, the lost generation of the 1920s woke the bohemian spirit in Paris, New York and elsewhere-- through writing, art and contemporary thought. Later still, when the beat generation of the 50's was emerging, the title was again bestowed.
'Bohemian' became a word synonymous with restless, creative angst.

We all have a stereotype image of a bohemian. For some, it's a vision of an inspired Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, clacking out florid prose on a typewriter and singing love songs... or the picture of a beat poet, smoking a cigarette or joint while listening to jazz music and snapping his fingers, mumbling existential poetry with half-lidded, bloodshot eyes and a whiskered goatee.

This is not what bohemian culture is all about, though, and we know it. Like a snapshot, we only get part of the picture if we weren't there to live the moment first hand. The culture is a shared understanding of ideals- an attitude and vibe that we experience, not wear for a night out like a costume. It's a movement, but not a bandwagon.

Being on the road is a heady thing. While a poet captures part of the mood, he isn't the icon itself. He represents the intellectual and emotional aspects of linear movement- from here to there and points between. There is philosophy of both mind and heart in his words and voice. Through this we are taught to map the routes of our physical longings and explore the distance between urge and action.

The poet is drawn to remark on the way we got here and where he believes we're heading. The inspiration that rolls off his pages does not by itself motivate us to action. That role is reserved for others. The poet/philosopher is just one of many drivers, not the vehicle itself.

Being on the road is a soulful thing. It's being pulled to some rhythm that is both in and outside us at the same time. A highway is just a surface until we begin to feel inside its length and divergencies. Once we click with what it grips in us about our own path we're able to inflict others with the gut-wrenching reality of going, getting there, becoming lost and found.

The jazz musician represents this sense of soul. Through his music, he takes us on a journey, causing us to catch a ride on a brass buzz that flings us out one step ahead of ourselves- like madness. It's heady, yeah, but visceral; the taste of metal, nearly indigestable.

Clunking around in our stomachs, it reminds us of itself over and over again. The musician, too, is just a piece of it, though. He gives the search color and substance but can't take us all the way there.

Being on the road is a spiritual thing; a quest for temporary detachment for the sake of enlightened connection. We know we don't grasp it all, feel we can't digest its course, and so the bottom falls out long enough for us to float between the two. A starting point and end destination merge into each other, and we envision their only true difference to rest in what we make of the present middle.

The prophet represents this spiritual wandering. With sack-cloth robe, scudded feet and eyes ablaze, he lives outside of reason or physical urge, hollering with holy zeal at the masses.

He scares us because he has traveled through places we've only dreamed of; communed with a terrible purpose; become burned by the hand of an Ultimate Power. He shakes and swims inside fervor, but when he confronts us with voice and eyes we are struck with the absolute steadiness of his motivation. Get ready and go, he says. Forget escape. Get up and move. Seek the answers along the way.

The prophet reignites our vision but he does not take us down the road. We flail between philosophic, musical, and prophetic epiphanies on our own and in the company of others. We see and forget, feel and go numb, burn and dampen. The cycle repeats, fueling us further; enlightening others. Adrenaline.

The bohemian becomes one who is drawn and torn among three: the poet, the musician, the prophet. We create them in ourselves and amongst those who feed us along the way. They create the culture of our continual movement.

---

posted April 07, 2008 01:14 PM            

And it passed the time away
it passed the road to stay
it passed my life a la ehhhh

I don’t even care if you do it now
I don’t evennnncare how you say
I don’t even care if you do it now
it’s the same ol same ol day

numb
to feeling nothing
numb to time and (to?)space
numb with all this nothing
numb wthin this space

you don’t even hear it coming!
you don’t even know I see
you think you can’t or have or something
but really you just sit like me

the walls are here around me
walls of time and mind and pain
walls are standing all around me
bound to
what I make them

be

it’s all here now
(it’s near me)
it’s here now
(around me)
it’s here now
(among me)(eeeeee)

it’s here can’t you see

you don’t even hear it coming!
you don’t even know I see
you think you can’t or have or something
but really you just sit like me

you don’t even hear it coming!
you don’t even know I see
you think you can’t or have or something
but really you just sit like me