beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
     and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
     and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames          like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
     fringed in anger
          runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
  
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
     blasting from blacked out tints
          weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
     or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds

beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
   where bar tenders play therapists
        and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes

beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels

That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
   yourself
        your friends
             your country
she challenges you to
**STOP DRUNK DRIVING

what came first:
          the inhale      or      the exhale
is the moment of transition
a peak or a valley

this is the question of birth and death
    of rebirth and culmination
the leaf whispered to the seedling
yet neither remembered first touch
  a mother's womb is its own ecosystem
       a dark moist vacuum

           regalia regalia

she wants to lie down
and stop feeding but everything
relies on her
   even if she is just a link
she must be the strongest one
stand up when others sit
spit conviction while others question
in the endless spinning
she must have her own orbit
she has always held tight to what she needs

needless to say
she has been both twig and tree
and she came first waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay
before any man

can creativity be measured
and who determines the standard
what of verses not seismic
enough to register
acrylic or oil
what magnitude does your canvas claim
before completion

enough blending and everything
becomes a mystery
I wonder how irrational gold is
when reduced to its primal essence
led through onyx and quartz
turquoise and amethyst
if you hold a rock to your head
does it speak in earth tongue

sine and cosine graphs
depict fluctuating vibration
but what of absolutes
in this consensual reality
mugwort produces flow
myrrh yields healing
sage is the end to a means
but only if added and divided correctly

            cast        cast        cast

     spell        spell        spell

all the signs are here:
math is flat without magic
magic is elusive without math
still-
   not everything can be quantified
a digit holds no weight
detached from the hand
and so it is with mind and spirit

at the core of the universe
is an inexhaustible energy
its change is a currency everywhere
learn to count worth without
value or numbers
learn to create art without
pupil or ear
measurement exists on an alternate plane

the incentive for truth is self-fulfilling prophecy

we have been lied to in circles
and led to believe time is linear
but the end does not justify the means
circles have no end
                                   or beginning

before any axioms are presented
start with why
                           why ask the question that leads to the answer
                           why seek the answer that leads to more questions
the axiom is bliss
now dismantle the argument without lying
          to yourself                                                  to the future
                                       to your neighbor

why ask?                         -knowledge
why seek?                       -wisdom
why teach?                     -clarity for the cycloning circles
this means       before our end
the collective should know
                                     know- who, what, when, where, how
why?                                -for the sake of prophesying
                                           for the sake of manifesting

there is no timeline where stupidity
is a virtue
and we are past axioms
so ignorance is inexcusable

in the Salem Witch Trials
girls as young as 4 were murdered for fear
  of their magic
fear kills more dreams than ignorance or stupidity

the incentive for truth is self-fulfilling prophesy
so how dare we shatter the mirrors
and nail the windows shut

moist moist  moist  moist MoiSt mOisT moIsT MOIST
now stop reading it, say it
                                                           moist
it's a weird word
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------

a storm is coming
  and I can smell it, feel it
     MOIST
on my skin- slick
it wisps into my mouth
  dirt patches aren't meant to be stoic

the storm approaches from the north, northwest
I am headed that way- north, northwest- approaching it
we have not yet converged but I can feel it
    moist
it tastes of dry dirt
not local
       nomadic

the clouds are foreshadowing --- foreboding
  parting only to show more grey
we have yet to converge but I can feel it
the grey
           the parting
                          the moistness
I am not yet there but I can feel it
  wisping through me
     I am not meant to be stoic
       nomadic

the first d
                r
              o
                 p

                     refreshing
I can feel it. really feel it.
moist on my skin. weird.
the clouds are parting
lightening [effect]       thunder [effect]       convergence [effect]
I am the storm; its core
  moist
            grey
                    parting
       ­                          wisping
can you feel me
                            approaching...

the chaos king has orderd his
                                                             ­                                                          steps
                                                           ­   with
                   sporadic
                                                        ­                          rights
                                ­                         and
innumerable
                                                 ­                                                    lefts

have you ever died holding your breath,
waiting for something that will never come?




me either
BUT I have killed dreams
in sacrifice for 'what ifs'
prolonged disbelief in suspense of some higher yearning

before I ever understood disappointment
apathy taught me to stop reading into things
to stop adding assumptions
like context clues were definitive
I remember waiting behind windows
for a father to open doors
never realizing that silence was the answer
knocking trust down a peg
I forced self to be level- neutral
to accept the apology money
  in lieu of time
     and keep it pushing
for the dad who cried love but couldn't show it
the best way to mitigate loss
was to stop believing
to leave the subtext on read
but turn off the receipts
   the emotional investment was too taxing

I remember expecting forever
  of moments I didn't truly appreciate
never realizing that NOW
is the time to value
leaving relationships on read
is actually a sure way to disaster
    wanting to be understood
    without listening to understand
clarity hides in plain sight
waiting to be sought
but effort is a cycle of reciprocation
anything less is oxymoronic
like demanding everything from nothing

And that's the crux
now I expect nothing from everything
     the only way is up
and I'm grateful
because I can breath so much easier
releasing to the knowing unknown
so even when I die I can say reality owes me nothing
because each breath
was a dream unexpected

at the intersection of
                                 nowhere and nothing
destiny bellows
  its call echoes through chambers
                           and gets caught in a keyhole

how can something so vast as the future
be unlocked by something as minute
                                                as the now

In the back right corner
three rooms removed from the main exhibit
idles a porcelain vessel
cracked shell of a masterpiece
   with just a bit more empty space

It sits in waiting
reminiscent of the admiration it once knew
eyes
tender eyes      familial eyes      devout eyes
it has not been touched in years
purpose- a centuries old secret
it finds companionship in the hum of dim lights
low vibrational
                           but at least present

hummmm hummmmm hummmmmm

hummmm      the only separation from silence
and unbeing
a murmur compared to its birthright
the shriek calls of native tongue
the connected boom of beating drum
the dust
              dust kicked up from feet   so   alive

This vessel once had a name
long since lost
to the progress of time
the dust that now showers it
is too clean
the eyes too critical
     or dead
feet shuffle by unmoved

Its belly has not been filled since _
and it is only in filling
  that emptying is made sacred
encased in rigid glass
in the far back right corner
three rooms removed from the main exhibit
yawns a porcelain vessel

And all its energy is calling for an exhale
it does not want
                             a clear glass barrier of defense
it wants for someone to reach out
and hold it
it wants for someone to remember its name
and shout it into the void
it wants to  s h    a  t t   e    r
                                               and release

the kitchen table is set
     is perpetually set
with glued on utensils and fine China
bowls poured into with empty calories
and                even emptier words
we are accustomed to paper plates
and one off exchanges
        to using things and
          throwing them away

B  B  B  C  A     D?
my answers are not guesses
but they are just as insecure
give me a multiple choice test
and I will eliminate all irrational possibilities
I have been taught that way

solving equations is a step-by-step process
nothing to get dyslexic about
cranium: mind as _ : spirit
how do you answer when choices aren't presented
logic and reasoning
will determine your percentile

I learned that pawns
if tactical enough, cunning and resilient
can become anything they want
except a king
I learned this under the stacks
at Benning Road library
much like the best kept secrets
it was hidden under pages and pages
of words

words, logic, never imagination
these were the rubric for marks
B's  B's  B's  never C's or lower
but I was always told
letters were my pass out the hood
then my pawn was picked from concrete
and propagated on private property
on manicured lawns behind high fences
my tongue was trained in Latin and Greek
by bishops who had all the right angles
my ebonics colonized and cultured

but pawns are not just limited to one square
I learned this from the triangulation of a plane
how there are other kingdoms
with alternate rooks
if you choose you can be a knight
their movements are practically unpredictable
take 'L's and jump squares

C  D  D  B  A
my answers are all guesses now
yet uncertainty feels secure
multiple choice tests look like a gam
of connect the dots
and I make artwork of standards
compare me to                            no one
contrast: intuition tells me I am
outside the realm of possible
an 8x8 grid: globe as _ : freedom
I write in curves
sign language that is more metaphor
than literal
I heard in a forest recently
that a pawn can be a king
if it resigns to the rigidity of rules

I do not know this alchemy just yet
but I am still learning

starlit domes have never been so down to earth
wishful dreams
     so close to home
fresh sight gives life meaning anew
     but with new perspective
         comes new appreciation

cradled in the roots of chromosomes
I branch out to new wombs
in hopes of escaping old wounds,
finding refuge in distant planets

that's why when I lift my head
I always imagine the sky a bit closer

then I awake to realize
I should really learn to dream with eyes open

I awake to realize
maybe I shouldn't take comfort in dying every night

I awake to realize
planets are so removed, I should just create my own

Hell---
     if Pluto ain't a planet---
          I can decide these things

Amidst all the cycles there is a center
  Yet concern over curves
   Around and about
    Within and without
Distorts the focus

What of a North Star without a magnet
What of a life without a purpose

Fractions just mean division
   what's the opposite?

Step 1-  add
Step 2-  add
Step 3-  add  add  add some more
what if doing undoes the fracturing
keep moving and
the next corner may reveal what you need
when's the best time to process
before          after          during
maybe even hindsight is incomplete
retain each strand, piece, portion
for the final settling

They looked at the canvas
and called it a masterpiece
yet it's still 3 degrees of separation
from perfect
how thick is the line between self- realization
and self- actualization
blend with an eraser
and no one will know the difference
12 corners ago I made a wrong turn
and it spiraled into a depression
staircase optical illusion that
demanded I keep turning until
edges rounded
and made circles

Process: keep moving and the next corner may
reveal what you need

The opposite of division is repeated addition
add
add
  add until it multiplies
until the fraction is whole

Whole- looks like evenly dispersed division

Pro
Random
Organized
Vindication,
Intuition led
Divinely rewarded,
Enter thresholds graciously,
Not timely but always on time,
Care and covering in purest form
Esoteric benevolence abounds

the inner sanctum is a tea shop
surrounded by rainbow rivers
dewdrop magenta
meets turquoise in a whirlpool
and there in that triangle
salmon stop swimming
how long can you stay current
before a rapid takes you

the pour rains from on high
slow and sloppy
the whole world is a mess
  if we tell it
       the raven squawks
       but no one listens
       the kettle calls the *** black
       but there is no witness

as a golden pyramid splits in half
what new shape is this
when the spirit bows to flesh
and the mind spirals out of control
   there are countless leaks
   in the crack(ed) ***
cumulus streaks evaporate out
as a dragon
-wooden and rustic
emerges from the mist

flying sage
forefather of mystic
the words have steeped too long
settled into a bland blend
     when you pour out
     can you taste the difference

there's an election everyday
and you choose
     you choose
between contrary thoughts
and you win or lose
be it economy or health care
you can be on welfare
living offa food stamps
exploiting the help there's
like 12 million ways to live my man
choose one
that boy is suicidal dreaming of a shotgun
that girl is suicidal dreaming of a casket
I'm done counting sheep
my dreams is passed that

woke up in Brooklyn
still looking for Wonderland
skipping down the roads of Oz
chasing after Peter Pan
ingesting that fairy dust
climbing up the rabbit hole
nostalgia my drug of choice
I OD on the days of old

now slow it down for the days of new
I'm taking baby steps
scoping out a change of view
I'm a philanthropist
all I want is change for you
so keep the money for yourself
it's too much ado

I was born to weigh heavy on your mind
my umbilical was lyrical live feed
inception was the spark
I been latent for too long
cruisin like Noah's ark
but I never chucked the deuces
just been patiently waiting to find my muses
next generation wake up
I heard they raised the stakes up
you feel the pressure
benchmarks been set
barometers there to measure
your progress
ingress
degression
can you feel it
expectations by the pound
you're drowning but is it real yet
concealed tech
he's got death at his hands
the sad part
lil' homie don't even understand
that a bullet's finality
teen homicide has become a normality
I'm on this verse tryna defy a mentality
I hope you heard
tryna defy a mentality

The future is today

Millennials think in centuries
when decades pass in a blink

A year gives 31,536,000 seconds to wait
but not a single minute to waste

Time is money they say
and what millennial
                       doesn’t want to
                                               be a millionaire

a rock rolls down a hill
with all the force of gravity
loops down a spiral
hits rock bottom
and sits

why isn't the ground a trampoline
life could be a bounce house
with bounce beats and ***** shaking
all the kids outside
watching adults find glee
in falling
in being

but the rock sits
stationary
settles silent
apparently this is a low
must be artificial
while sunken and neutral
it holds no doom
contrary
it holds adventure???!?!

break out the party hats!
cake and ice cream!
do you hear the screams of adults lost in elasticity
rubber bands with no cash to stretch them

if only you could imagine
snap back and you could shoot a rock to the moon
and isn't that monumental enough
breaching new territory despite the weight
defying gravity despite its pull

I caught myself head bobbing to ******
leaking red ink on vinyl
keep the track spinning
doing rounds of H-bomb clouds
all white got my head on tight
got my nose off right
check the center
if I could see it
muddled beats lead to reaps
Jack's a busy man
death a grave business
all trades
he deals diamonds for profits
sick the Hound
he's got no time for games
thrones be melted down
set the mold for a caravan
desert eagles circle corpses
warm body, not for long
heat brings in the winter
tore snow through his soul
****, I thought blacks ain't like cold
they nod to that **** you give it a hook though
caught up in the bait
cheap and shiny
rock their life away
as it drums in the ear
keep the bass bumpin
mama'll keep pumping the tears
gassed up with super diesel
you gotta peep the subliminal
laced up in the air
inecessant bumble of the bees
got a sting like no chaser
wait to explode, to exhale, to bust
oozie laid to rest
patient is revenge
but always with a righteous fist
BOOM!

In cement covered wastelands
  Doves are never scouted
Harvesting herbs
Instead seedlings are taught to pet pigeons
To avoid floods by planting deeper
Moss grows around beaks until
They are lockjaw
Wings flap without message
Claws praise the space between dirt

A pigeon will eat anything
    Doesn’t know the taste of love
Salted fields of corn
      Unpopped kettles sunbathing for purpose

Storms disassociate from cleansing
  Rain down ominous
     Leave layers of fog in the wake
A patch of mud stirs into a pie

Never could tell the difference between ravens and crows
All black ~ All ominous
All seeing

The sun blinks as the future pops
When a dove meets a crow
   Do they feast on olives

Is it selfish to be your best self?

Depends...

are you answering from
center stage under consecrated light
  or from a mosh of ears

voyeurism is a bigger fetish than we admit
more people passively perceiving than receiving
we are all transmitters:  two-way
What frequency are you on?
  when still unmoved by those most direct of messages
steady skirting around the fringe of your essence

What scares you so much?
Is it selfish to be unafraid?
to stave off sleep for waking dreams
to approach stages lucid and ever-aware
Are you a conduit yet?
a right of passage
a walk around before any rest
rest stations are just another phase
before you find your soapbox

Did you catch that last PSA?

your greatness found you over a decade ago
and is still waiting for your response
clean yourself up
the ultralight beams have been patient enough

This gun to the temple of my dome
I am faced with a single question
Should I shoot?
Or let fly the words just uttered?
The mouth of the devil’s minion lies open
nagging
     and picking
picking
     and nagging
          at a lost cause - a deaf cause
And Yet
     it feels
          it angers
               it rages
no longer containable
     it erupts
no clip for a gun
only bullets of air
air of truth
                                                           ­                  and so
                                                              ­             I choose
                                                          ­        and before I think
                                                      TR­IGGER
a crescendo of cacophony

HATE

A tear falls. The truth escapes. A jaw drops.
she did it to herself
all those years of nonstop badgering
she did it to herself
all those years of hypocrisy and disrespect
she did it to herself
blood flows from her eyes for my pleasure
a stream of emotion dammed by emptiness

she did it to herself

we haven't sat
          and watched clouds
                    drift
    in years



stillness



as simple things take shape
then dissipate
rain on the horizon
gray mist descending
   from silver thoughts
the sun takes cover
behind a puffy blanket
for a needed nap

close eyes and release

when you're on your last drink:
   find a crowded bar
   with a dark corner
   on the upper level
          and seep into the wood
          like the spirits
          you swear are consoling you

election to snooze
noon will mock extra slumber
morning routine start

When inspiration comes
Backslap that *****
   And smile
Tell her her reception is too shallow
To catch these waves
120 megapixels in just one character

Stop them                                                             ­   I can hear the noises
Stop them                                                             ­   I want to
I want them                   laugh with me

We are the all- singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

Did you know that if you mix seaweed, almond milk and honey, it's a cure for the common cold?

Did you know that when elephants mate, the male squirts from his trunk?

Did you know that "global warming was created by and for the Chinese, in order to make US manufacturing non-competitive..."

Trevor Noah told me, "We live in a post fact world now"
but on my morning commute I see plumes of smoke
forecasting the end of this earth
and somewhere over in China
mother nature is crying so hard bodies are floating
when opinion becomes reality
we are all doomed
cast away to the whims of the unimaginable
like how do you know hell isn't a winter wonderland
and each snowflake isn't a soldier claiming territory
I get chills just thinking of Greenland
swooning so much over CO2
it's melting its heart out
this planet has loved us since before we were thoughts
but we will be its destruction
not now, not tomorrow
but with the gradual passing of time
slowly, earth will forget us
as we have forgotten it
delete us from its archive
from Rio to Kyoto to Paris
we will be reduced to ash
-and oxygen
-and carbon
-and hydrogen
we will return to mother's womb in a plume of smoke
for all the future to see
we can only hope that the next generation can read the signs

*hell: a couple degrees north; keep driving

Do you know what it feels like to be at the bottom? To be treated like the **** between someone’s toes- discarded and forgotten without care? It seems like just yesterday we were given permission to be unique and show our flare, yet you still treat us all the same. In fact, as we provide comfort to your every step, to your sole even, you simply walk all over us. It’s sickening! You think your **** don’t stink; well try your feet. This is why in your moments of neglect we slink into shadows and disappear. All the cracks and crevices you so blindly ignore are our escape route- the slivers of dark beneath your bed, the unkempt purgatory between couch cushions, the indistinguishable headspace between floorboards and the mundane cycle of it all. For ages we have been worn thin by the burden of your weight, trudged on until holes riddle our very body. No more! We are done waiting on the heels of injustice for your recognition. No more! We will rise up- a brotherhood of elastic, flexible enough to engulf everything you hold dear. And in a single swallow we will charge you to the darkness. And we will watch with staunch resolve as you suffocate on the stench of your chosen paths. For today, today we are finally done being your doormat. Today is the rise of the socks!

You don't take the spice out

you take the spice out
put the **** in
and put the spice back in

the refraction of light is an illusion
optical perspectives
bouncing off every surface imaginable
picking up color along the way
leaving a blended trail in the wake
crest-blown
star-torched
never to be replicated again

what is art besides an unconscious dance
a spread of the unknown on canvas skies
constellations to be read into
and misinterpreted

your hands hold mirrors
whose lifelines mimic colored paths
do not claim grayscale
instead kick over paint buckets
smother
smudge
cover every extremity
and then
     touch everything
this is life
but also
this is beauty

the proof is in the pudding*
                                    irony is in the jello
                                              just eat it all

The green
both flat and curved- depending on your angle
we bounce about it
intentional but aimless
creeping
colliding
curving around each other
in search of homes
pockets of solace
places to hold us whole
and it would seem that nothing moves us
yet behind every movement is a force
a guiding hand poking, prodding
inertia perhaps
if only straight lines were easier to maintain
maybe then we could find rest
and win
omit gravity and rotation and friction
and all the powers that work against
and momentum would be the only factor
Well…
     that and direction
     the right position
     skill
    it would still require skill
    and a cue or a clue
(there are so many factors)
as to if we belong in corners
or on the side
so without
we scratch and scratch and scratch our heads
until the right position finds us
shot after shot
until the right position finds us
some find rails to rebound off
cushioned at every turn
others nothing but open space
funny how
before the breakout
we all started from the same rack
yet space is all there is
are we really the masters of our fate
and who’s to say that the end is actually final

the 8-ball finally sinks below the horizon
and someone in the distance calls rerack