Where was the crossroad ..The turning point in life ?
What action begat having to defend your little piece of home each night ?
Not enough steam in Atlanta for everyone , or enough street lights ..
Not enough cardboard on the boulevard to rig temporary digs ..
Or food at the shelters to settle hungers pangs , or enough smack tonight to feed the starving pig !
"Why can't February 12th be a holiday ? A day when politicians , the media and athletes give a **** , like Thanksgiving and Christmas , the days we're on TV posing with the talking heads and the other well to do Atlantan's ?"

Baby's breath whispers beneath quiet Willows , morning sun
approaches its bold , westward salutation , inaudibly removing the nighttime cold ...
My cumbersome foolhardy days along the perceivable , well worn footpath of a venerable life scholar ..
Silent , amusing thoughts of intrepid youthful days , life's bitter traffic
upon the minds electric foray into disillusion , avenues of terrific familiarity and knowledge ...

When the aliens finally arrive and systematically destroy us for being different 'twould be an irony indeed for Earthlings to chastise them for their indifference and their racism , labeling them barbarians for their principles , sort of like the '*** calling the kettle black for instance '...

People move on sometimes and it feels so bad, it hurts even worse at sunset as darkness settles in , be cognizant of the moonlight , keeping your eyes wide open all the time for someone in your life has wishfully and secretly placed a candle in their window , praying for you to find it ..

Driving down the mountain I see the breath of townspeople in the distance , a traffic deputy working the lanes , short chirps on a silver whistle ...
Cars scurrying for work and play , shop owners studiously clean their piece of the streets , working their ads on the windows just so , feather dusting their wares nice and neat ...
The morning paper delivered via bicycle , the ice on winter Dogwoods
that line the main avenue ..
Birds of every size and color work the evergreens in town , eastern gray squirrels noisily frolic among the Oaks in city park , calm , golden streetlights on every block rest till evening now that morning has come to call ...

When the day was dying
I was back to the market.

The last time I was there
haggled with her over the price.

She wanted to sell high
I wanted to buy low.

You win she said at last
I bought high
but have to sell low.

I knew she was lying.

This time she wasn't there.

Someone said
her man had left for another woman
and she hadn't since been seen.

The deepening evening hung like a dagger of pain.

She was never good at bargain.

You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.

Ocean swimming, buoyant blue
salt encrusted hair of jewels
seaweed shimmering, waves entangling
savoring, deep her belly breath of sea
with a mermaid tail, to flash in hues of green
wearing rings and pearls, she swirls in a sea of stars
radiantly, far below the moon.

This is a subcultural song

Free energy efficient enthusiasts
Replaced the iroquois punk style
Alternatives, noisy *******; ear
Damaging drum bass boxes in da
Clubs. Ravishing rave parties in
Mini skirts, glam glossy brass on
Ecstatic strobe-light synthesis - a
Synthetic mainstream paradise
Submerged to hypnotic sucklings
On the colourful plastic pacifiers
A gummy retreat before waterless
Collaps. A dehidrated dream that
Tried to shut the world off by the
Tendrils of regression resemblance.
Adult babies aboard going back to
The false long forgotten innocence.

There is no subculture in being above
The depth. Superficiality seems a posh
Pose and a good hiding reason for socially
Awkward childish rebels without material
Issues. The sore tissue of contemporary art
Is people don't believe in subjective objective
Selves anymore. What authorities put on the
Shelves there - it has to be good-when on the
Real deal discount. You think im not of such
Kind. Sheepishly blindfolded herd lives some-
where else. I pity them. Mock the socially meek,
Unajust, fat, poor or a greek profile. It has to be
A button hot child candy nose to **** her or to
Call a beauty per se. Per american dream team.

***** are hot untill they have pneumatics, man
Are man if they whirl the banknotes under bank
Accounts. ******* act like man in disguise greedy
For more. I inhabitated all this inherently ugly
Preachy words instead of puking into a labdab
Lavatory and cleanse myself from repulsively
****** cultural intermittent artifacts. And how
Can i not subdue to its overwhelming pressure.
I'm just an indigo child of flower children. Don't
Throw me the bones fueled with the black golden
Marrow. I'm a new alternative peasant, growing
Carrots and celery at bio degradable villages. . .
Its not a contra cultural venture if your socks
Are made out of industrial cannabis, and yet
There's no need to. Think. Love. Play music.
Listen. Breathe. Live life as if yours favourite
subcultural song is repetedly on...going along

My
Parents taught me one lesson
If the rope slips from your hands
Jump over it and hold fully