Do you know where I live and eat and breath, what sustains me and kills me, how and why I am what I am and also seek to be?

Bah, who wants to read that, who wants to know that, unless of course it has resonance within us all.

And yet, one piece of experience, one pen pouring holy writ, the breath of a tiny slice of one person's understanding of existence, ah now that may indeed prove worth some pondering, some meditation.

Isn't music emotion as sound, isn't poetry passion on paper, isn't what we try and communicate to each other, by any medium we can muster, a thing worthy of praise and contemplation?

For are we not all continually Transfiguring, are we not all continually following, and growing and flowing and metamorphosing, as we proceed through our lives?

So go on then, read to me from your sacred book full of songs
and half articulated dreams, spinning irresolutely toward a destination I have no name for.

Show me these images and portents, these slow chords and rhymes, high and low and inside and out, reaching into me and twisting the screaming infant of a heart that I need to so desperately give away.

Commanding me to step outside of my own experience and my own fear, asking me to follow you on outstretched wings of wax and gull feathers.

But I have known your kind, was one of you once, those figures of myth and meaning, swept away in an instant by the music that I hear and desire and suffer for, and yet shall not be beguiled by.

But what I write now, this sort of struggling epitaph of straight razors and crying boys, this is not a specific tirade against you, or my irritation at having been seen through, no no, none of that is really the feeling that I am seeking to evoke.

........................We Are The Sum Of All We Have Been,

The poor weeping ghost of William Blake back again to sit by me and wonder, what many things the world may hold...............taking me by the hand, we follow.

And yet we may and will continue to grow and flow through the ever changing riverbeds of soul if only we try, if only we seek, to overcome this thing, this empty hole that I can see following us all.

And yet, somewhere in the six inches immediately in front of our hearts, there seems to be this kind of faint glow, a multifaceted hum, projecting itself forward into a future where both end and beginning form a wonderful, beautiful whole.

Or should I say ride?
Should I say rather,
burning down the highway far too fast and wishing that maybe
just maybe I could find it out there somewhere
that was place where I could stop existing.

So I push the boundaries
push so hard to get through this unreality
drugs and ***** and ***
or alternatively
faith, religion and morality?

I've walked both ways
the straight and narrow
as well as the crooked and wide
and NOTHING has ever satisfied
the burning need to feel
alive.

So tell me readers and writers
inform me if you please
or perhaps sell me something
gimme some peyote or holy water
anything and everything
to explain why in all this self-induced rage
He has yet to simply let me die?

Because something inside is not of me
a two faced fiend with no imagination
and a jealous heart looking on the world
with scorn and derision,
knowing that there is a world out there
that I can see but will never be.

And apparently no one can teach me what to do
can't seem to inform how to simply be
seemingly the easiest of acts
but some hole in my soul
will not allow me to achieve.

Cello was not at all happy with what I told him. The call didn't exactly go well, but at least he gave me a slice of information that made some sort've sense. "Those two you told me about, the situation, it's very fluid right now. I need you to go talk to talk to this girl. Tonight. Now, actually. Don't worry, we have this Alan ******* looked after, as you heard. But, um, Wanda, as you call her, may have some things to say, under the right persuasion." Slightly taken aback by what Cello was implying, I said nothing. "Look, I know where you've come from, I know the kind of work you've done, so just find her and figure out what the **** she's been ordered to do for those Coalition *****, OK?" Besides what I may, or may not have done in the past, all this was a little bit more than what I had been contracted to do for Cello and his cronies. They didn't pay me enough for torture, they only paid me enough for listening. Cello put me on hold long enough to get the go ahead to pay me another two grand evidently, since when he got back on the line all he said was "Find her now and get the story, money is in your account, call me when you've got everything that ***** has to say". I said "Okay, thanks but I'ma do it without the whole missing body parts thing. You'll get what you need, but it's my call on how ja?" Cello gave the ok and that was all that was needed to get me moving.

We are the forgotten ones
The ones who can articulate
beyond the guns and knifes.
We don't need a beat
Our word flow through emotionally.
We are here to capture and decipher minds
Teach them all those things school has left behind
How history is only written by the victor
How there's more to blacks than Rosa Parks, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr's his..tory.
Let's not leave out the truth.
Poets stand up, fight for the youth.
We share our truth about love
Let's share the truth about knowledge
Forget the cliches of if life gives you lemons make lemonade.
We freed ourselves from the British.
Then enslaved Africa and made them forget who they were.
Only of Britain would had thought of that first.
Let's not sugar coat the past
Let's control the present and the future.
Poets stand up
We are the symphonies of hip hop, rap and r&b;
We are the class.
We are the Billy Holliday and Marvin Gay of this new era.
Like the fitted cap we fit snugg.
Poets stand up.
**** speaking on unicorns and rainbows
The sunny side of the chi.
Just last night my Lil man's got shot by the cops.
I use to say he was my son
Now I plan his funeral with his mom.
Poets stand up
Bloods, crips, gangsters, thugs re unite as the black panthers.
Poets stand up!
Poets stand up!
As they say ok ok your 15 seconds of fame Is up. No more from you today Mr. Ananymous.

Dogs are running loose
Horses hold a kings ransom
streets are dark
shining with lamplight

Nobody knows when the yoke will break
Slaves keep marching along the lights

Barking men keep the score
horses into dogs meat
of every mans wage
nobody gets more than the Masters