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.