Could be wings are an affliction
-lee

There may be no sickness greater than an unencumbered ego. Humility: nothing less than freedom. Stay humble, stay hungry. But don't feed off of bare ambition.

Trust.

Glancing Through the Shadows.

Blastin holes in the night till she bled sunshine...
-Mos Def

Look at the city: what you always knew, street corners sparkling, buildings gaping, crumbling, murmuring something about a past that wasn't; a past that wanted to be. Your life is here, and the life you want. Their life is here: the curbside mob. Dirt, trash, faded glory; look. Life washes against the city

And look at the people. People you can't even see, people as platitudes: heroin addicts, dealers, hustlers, students, cops, old, young, broke, rich, speeding by; the city flies. People who could be those things and aren't, and how would you know?

Your imagination knows.

Think about what makes your heart beat: the thin line between order and chaos, mine and yours, sense and nonsense. A man: hooded sweatshirt, sees the siren, ducks to look at a menu, retreats--looks but doesn't check the price.

The city watches, sees, remembers. It lashes out.
The nexus
between this world and the next,
boredom:
bright lights at dusk,
between the tracks of squealing tires.

A to the K

You've seen/ a magistrate inflict visible punishment./ Now see the invisible.
-Rumi

New thoughts circulate and satisfy. Is it possible this dreary place is everything I needed?

I remember rapping Cypress Hill lyrics in fourth grade. The "Crazy white-boy" naive; brought me to a new place, had me in a new mindframe: of knowing Bed-Stuy years before I used to get banana smoothies on Bedford Ave, C-train up top, record shop down low, sirens loud, sidewalk crowded, wanderers wandering, stepping to a steady beat.

A tourist-trap for me. Authentic culture gave me a feel for the rhythm but it was a rhythm rooted in Webster elementary, no P.S. attached. But then reality has a funny way of matching itself to the ideal. Ideas (tick-tock) have a way of keeping it real.

So many realities and so many ideas. They flash in front of me:
A shanty-town girl warning me not to go to the club because someone might drug me and steal my organs, she not sharing my confidence that my body was my own.

A soot-faced beggar, enraged, hitting his mouth,gesturing hunger,eyes wide, ferocious, ready to steal, to kill, ready to drag me into his universe, even as police dragged him from mine.

And fighting off a beggar in the dark streets of a city, me yelling his death, frightening even myself, his world close enough to touch.

Sleeping with the roaches in Mejico, a house for everyone and no one.

A dirty young girl on the subway. I knew her so well; but I didn't know the wide-eyed ferment, disorientation, vertigo-stare, her look; and her infant daughter slung across her hip; her smile, my smile, and yet a gulf between us.

What is this world? Have I stumbled across reality? The memory of pain is fleeting; writing about pain verges on the romantic. If we learn to feel are we forced into the deadly present?

Ideas trickle down as images float up.
I want to float too.
Or stand tall and paint a picture: look.
stand tall and scream:
listen.

Trapped in the Sun

Then you'll remember your life
as a book of candles,
each page read by its own burning.
-lee

The tendency to freeze: time aside, forgotten,
but still marching, beyond the wind,
redolent of then: some time that did stop;
or maybe it only stops now.

The tires screech, burn towards the drooping red sun.
Pulsing bass, pulsing beat,
screeching laugh with a steely stare, frozen movement.
I see it, head nodding.
I take it in, red sun blinding.

I write: does the wind taste like death?
I read: life is in the rhythm, between the beats.

Descent

Fuck who's the baddest
A person's status depends on salary...

Thinking:
How to live more, how to spin and laugh with joy,
how to scream at the night, to terrify the darkness with the eye's gleam;
how to touch, to love, without fear of the rising dusk, the muted lights, and dim curtains,
the dripping shadow.
how to feel when fatigue washes the world away, the active malaise, active inactivity, loneliness: the apathy,
The magic of longing.
How to study a world in which few tread,
those tiptoeing past the slumbering horde.

Thinking:
bondage for the free.

Evening Hustle

and one lifts my heart
into the weighing pan opposite hunger...

Peace and war. Am I asking too much? Childhood dreams, youthful ambitions, the bridge from then to now to something great, feeding the forward inertia: to the day when the streets are mine, when the prize has been won, when the dusk keeps itself dimming towards perpetual thrill, lighted glory; when every bright window's secret is known.

Floating beneath my dreams
I crave the firm ground

to fly again

Plate Techtonics

they punish the people thats askin questions
it's just me against the world

Like what? Exhaustion exchange, shy to the jolt into community, charmed by my own damned self. If I could rip free, if people could just see it, see the spark. Light up like a blaze at midnight: inferno awareness, reading too much: 18th century slaves on the brain. Turn-table madness inside, inside the mind--only there, the peace, the friction, the spark: blaze. What does it mean to be part of a society? Floating alone on the currents of anarchy, is this time any realer to me than the past?

Pyrotechnic malaise: freedom and paralysis.

Paralysis-hype

My home is your home
so welcome to the terrordome

The present dilemma: so hyped on self. so hyped on genius. hyped on a creative process drive, on the cultures within me, carried and transmitted, contacted, built, blessed into me. Or on thinking like that in this time; this time as good as then, this interaction as real as that, and yet post-formative identities drift and wash away. Blood is thin, cheap, fleeting. Blood is nothing. But I seek it too. Object love needs blood. And somewhere they're like: "don't believe the hype!" And I'm like: "Believe!"

Object love needs that. Then subject, then spirit.

Living for the here and now in a dying present.

Set It Off

Yesterday I saw a B-girl crying
I walked up and asked what's wrong?
She told me that the radio had been playing the same song all day long...

The structural bent of the fluid world: an existence of speech, time, discussion, thought; at the speed of thought, the speed of living.

But outside of living there's a slower speed. Slow splendor: living is clearer there. Behavior is determined at that speed, though nothing is determined in the day-to-day drivel; day-to-day drive.

Monetization of desire? Valorization of passion? Sweeping changes based on these, on the relationships that come from these. Beneath the structural bent, culture, feeling, the rat-a-tat wild, shake and move, blurred panorama: moment frozen, melted by the music. Beneath culture, molecules. Or is that above again?

All I want is to hang and shit.

Navigating towards freedom, my thinking spirals. Often trapped, I'm fighting past the page.

Turn The Page

Who says all the rules are made with rulers?
We break 'em and break in their computers.
--mia

I feel antsy, anxious, good. I feel potential rushing to my head like I stood up too fast. Creeping down the gentrified paradise, late night; energy flows in and out, in and out, and I'm like: "not for you!" The future rushes at me. I can't wait for it. I want it. Day drags after day--enjoyable, but dead: the lame duck malaise marches on and on.

And I realize that soon it will end, and soon the next phase will be flashing by. How can you eat your food and taste? How can you savor your time and live? Fuck if I care. But the streets are beautiful.

Obey.

"At times I feel stranded on this planet of mine
Now should I pull the hammer, clap it out, and laugh about it
Or stand up, be counted while I cast my ballot

When the undertaker's busy and the prison's is crowded
People livin' in fear because they vision is clouded
But the sky's the limit, I ain't cryin' you a river
Gotta move me a mountain, I'm a git up and shout it"
--Thought

Power games are bullshit. Everything sucks you downward towards the ground, the root, the pedantic nonsense of rules that are bigger and badder. Gravity is the enemy.

Gotta get by. navigate. Fight? Engage? Be free. Passion. chase. float.

The creative-pro mindset, so elite, repulsive in a way. Because of the fear beneath it. But the world needs more people who are in it to be in it, who recognize that the path is long and crooked and it's yours to walk. Preachy? Hell yea. Balance fades, fog lifts, free.

Empire State

The nagging wild
The darkness.
Is it God?

Empty world. It's a missing piece: the drive from desolation, from the place where you find yourself all alone.

Deep dread, and the humor, the irony, the armor,
the need, from there, to express...what? who?

The chemical imbalance. Does anyone care?
satisfaction, peace: the nagging wild.
Because I am.