Tried black in white
Write off in white in black
Ten woke businesses of shake
Stilled at the bottom of a lake
Wasted air drunk
Jest ranks of just.
Hubris in corpus Christi

my desperation
     isolation
   trepidation

           Ole!

Welcome to early start education
As you turn the corner
Tiny homes for tiny criminals

Predominantly belief based assembly bills evaporated in Watergate

More fraud than you can carry in a term
Assemble an Irwindales empire with child prisons, save a billion with thousands dead in the streets of lost angels

Now for some more classic jazz tunes from out to lunch.

Gotcha homekey sweepstakes winners

Cuz you was gonna sign that Joyner rapped up some beef
That a rupi joyner

Practicing intentional gratitude is how I met the happiness family.
Manifested in many forms, each has a unique charm and beauty.
On days I am mindful and present, I encounter them frequently.

It is a blessing to share morning tea with a spouse who genuinely cares.
A call from my son, excited about art, writing, or life, I love hearing the insights he shares.
Drinking water from the kitchen tap, with no thought of germs, is a stark reminder of privilege.
This old picture of me with bouncy hair takes me back to the time when I was young and full of courage.
I feel elated when happiness comes knocking on my neighbor's door.
It's delightful to celebrate and spread joy, regardless of who it's meant for.
Each moment offers a new perspective that counters the pain I bear.
Instead of continually seeking happiness, I aspire to become a happiness-watcher.

They chase the straight and narrow path,
A line from birth to tomb.
Blindfolded by the myth of math,
That life’s a goal, not room.

They measure steps and chart the skies,
As if the stars align.
For those who fear what truth belies,
That chaos is divine.

I’d rather dance through winding walls,
Where every twist reveals,
A deeper voice that softly calls,
Beneath the turning wheels.

Let others chase the final frame,
The scoreboard or the prize.
I court the dark, I kiss the flame,
Where every answer dies.

The maze is home, the dead ends sing,
Of things not meant to know.
And joy’s not in the conquering,
But getting lost below.

Each circle I mistake for square,
Each shadow I befriend,
Is sweeter than a perfect prayer,
That’s hurried to the end.

So mock my path, go walk your line,
Your purpose plain and proud.
While I explore the undefined,
With questions speaking loud.

For freedom isn’t reaching there,
It’s never being done.
It’s building temples out of air,
And running just for fun.

i am a cliche of broken words  
a reminder of dreams forgot

a passerby
a second thought

a mistake made
time delayed