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Check it love jones, this ain't, ya average Brian McKnight,
But I'll show ya a dark knight,make Christian's bail, thoughts prevail,
See evil parallel, carousel,
Next to heaven and hell, my soul ain't for sale, fault the grail,
Twlight gun sight, close ya sunlight, see death excite, float like a kite,
Skin graffiti, every enemy, shoot em down, like Auddie Murhpy,
True animal, Rambo, anything I touch, I destruct, ya ramble,
Gambles, with the ice of paradise, slice, bullets looking like lice,
Crawling, baby darling, suga pie honey bun, stick with puns,
This is for the real sons, born in the slums, of Houston,
Call us the rocket, cuz we stay shooting,haters get the bootin,
Shake all states, ya in good hands, see where my bands land,
I'm the man, I'm the bro, smooth as nitro, quarter mill hydro,
Stash a dough, yo see the spot blow,like sticks of pyro,
Cycle, wannabe mafiasos, we ain't for gangsta ****, profits
Off of paid gangsta hits,I *****, Luciano boss syndicate,
Move like the wind,cardinal direction, rejections,
Raw base connections, selections, picked,off the smiff n Wesson,
Stop guessing, you stressing, ain't messing, with this live ****,
The bigger the bullets, the bigger the splits, brain gymnastics,
Make classics, raps caviar, see ya demos, capped in plastic




Stature golden, with the axe, blue potion, see the ocean floating,
Posing crab snappers, get hit,with the clappers, Avenue dappers,
Showing love, once I bleed the block, ya know, I keep it lock,
Like goldies, Pretty Tony stello, **** the flows, to hoes, shows,
Skills, what's a bison, to a mosquito, sip the Mojito, sick mojo,
Lay it down, for her four point crown, chakra snow, crystal bezel,
Intellect, shining, dumb the blinding, with my cosmic, signing,
Grinding winter nights, bear necessities, feeling gravy,
Once somebodies, match to me, I got the tactics,of a Grizzlie,
Let the shells, blow like Gillespie, or catch, shots like Gretzky,
Nispy, when I hustle, I'm putting 60 pounds, to your muscle,
The stress is real, war ready, slaying amongst, these killer fields,
Can you feel, the thrill, like MJ on Pepsi appeal,pop steel,
It's all so real, til they see, own blood spill, ya know the deal,
Windmills, record deals, buck a squeal, in the high hills,
I meditate, like a great, monks when I pop, open the trunks,
Begins the ultimate funk, GP mothership, embroidery,
Pinned on ya pineal gland, man I hope yall, understand,
Fake fans, try to knock ya plans, shots opening for, ya awakening,
Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com
Musings of a quarantined creative dabbler with creaky knees.
Nak Aug 22
She loves me
Broken manner
Wistful planner
Hoping there's a different outlook for missing dappers
Doubtful touting of lasting effects
Dumb luck
A buff in missing info
With stuff that hit your kin folk
Of course
Many years ago they use to just shoot you
Or really just abuse you
For the sake of making fruitful music
Unabashed muffled trash succotash
Suckin *** or any of thirty Playin ***** got your head hurting
Weak flex to see next In a week you be seein texts
Once again the one guy that can change things hedges his bets
Or rather doesnt take stance
You're better off getting your news from hollywood plants
That's just the way it all goes
Every goon in town is now aimin at your nose
I got one last message to say to all you clowns \
I'll never let a bird get the best of flicking turds
And now we confused by the way it looks
It's rare we find a happy medium and either way we're cooked
The art of crafting hypersonic aircrafts I wrote the book
The first two lines into the preface
You're already hooked

— The End —