When you see so much injustice going against you.
Just fight on.
Strive to be the best within your own heart.
Just fight on.
God see all injustice that's wrong.

No one upon this earth can say they righteous.
Even when we mixed within them in a crowd.
So fight on-for the less fortunate
Yes, fight on-like Mayfield's keep on pushing song.

You might get tired.
But advocated do.
You might face threats from all sides coming after you.
Just remember to fight on.

Curtis Mayfield, would say, fight on.

It was a heap of plaid,
Orange and vinaigrette
It dully blended the white washed denim
The sod contrasted around his knees
Pete Abrams Jonesy was a discovery on his own.

The glow of the night sky released
The party goers and the venomous tendrils
That loomed beyond the tree hats and
The milky grey drift of dust that
Skated around Jonesy’s fingers as he dug
Scattering the Earth,
Searching and searching for the creepy crawlies
Between the plates of dirt,
the patches he’s scabbed away before;
His mother,
Hard at work building a nation in the kitchen
And Johnny filling his swine
Slipping between the cushions of the sofa.
It was that very night
Tucked away under the fresh linen and the feeling of
His mother’s lips pressed against his forehead
Warming his entire body –
That he realized his kneading desire to take his journey farther
To take it to school.
That day on the playground,
His hands knuckle deep in the land’s treasure
Creating pressure beneath the stubs of his fingernails,
Did he meet her
He met Charlotte Anne Avery.
Her ladybug blouse was loosely cast away from her shoulders
And he felt the urge to push her into the sand
But he couldn’t.
Charlotte Anne stood with her
Pine cone hair mushed on either side of her face;
The chocolate spit smeared on her cheek
Was enough to lure the mosquitoes all around
And he wanted to be her friend;

She’s always seen him around
Though; never before had he been keen on
Gazing back at the eyes of curiosity
Or rather her brown ones,
The plain and wide innocence –
It loomed over her face as she knelt
Bent beside him and dug a hole into the cream sand
With her elbow, gently brushing the circumference of
The minuscule hole she created.
Her glitter pink glasses were
Riding down the bank of her nose,
With her bottom cushioned in the crevice of sand
And Pete Abrams Jonesy’s sandy-fingers
Shoving her glasses back up
To rest beneath the kind eyes
That laid on him.

The end of germs and suspenders came fast,
Summer sped around the corner
While Pete Abrams Jonesy and Charlotte Anne Avery
Flew through the highlights
And the untouched parts of the forest –
Gallivanting beyond the age of the bell toll of adolescence,
Did they lie beneath the Sugar Maple Tree.
The promises they made of an un-relinquishing friendship
Grew beyond compare
And ever so did a union of love between him and her;
Every day was a hot hurricane of journeys spent
Devouring the wilderness together
Until the occurring reign of school
Sprung up again.

A new appreciation for the human body
Was as much as Pete Abrams Jonesy
Had accumulated for the first semester
Attending Mayfield Middle –
His life was horribly array without the presence
Of Charlotte Anne Avery.
His new herd of acquaintances
Brought about a new kind of education,
One that was foreign to the halls of Mayfield
And while his afternoon lunches
Sparked a flame in his soul
He became well oriented with the hypnotizing effects
Of Rummy and Black Jack 21,
His mind still sauntered to the round table
In the bull’s-eye of the café
Where a cloud of pink headbands and perfume
Captured the interest of his Charlotte Anne Avery.

She couldn’t believe the variety of books and music
That were made to live in this world
Sharing the same space as her –
It was enthralling, thrilling, and slightly frightening
The tales and the morals were anything but limited
Was it possible to live a well versed life having heard them all?
Would the chance ever be presented?
Her friends were of everything that was made to be
From sports to gymnastics to video-games to art;
It had all been opened to her in a flurry of welcoming gestures
From the minute she sat down at this particular table.
Even as her best friend now swung in the birches
As his friends, the panthers, ran low
She’d always be welcome on his other side;
Though, surprisingly, she was comfortable in this
Shade of manila spotlight.

A second semester, of many years,
Was a gift in its own
A surprise gesture wrapped up in a bow
Of questions, tutors, late night studying
It all amounted in a pile of stress –
A mound of snow
Of tests and quizzes and failed homework grades;
Pete Abrams Jonesy wasn’t alone in his mind
There in the far corner of sawdust
And memories of the plethora of parties he attended
Did lay his old friend from miles ago;
Charlotte Anne Avery had moved away across the lake
On the tips of his fingers so far away
For whatever reason she had moved away
It was amongst him unknown.
“Should I feel an ounce of sorrow, of grievance
For this new found distance between us?
I suppose not; we have new friends now
A new family
I haven’t known her in a while.”

Solemn years passed.
Days of solitude and confinement,
Days of pondering and guilt – heartache
Mr. Avery had passed away
Lost to his kin
His pristine precious child
Charlotte Anne Avery.
The wake had been nothing more
Than shades of black and blue and grey
Uncomfortable heels and rough tissues
That rubbed her eyes and nose
As raw as the pain she felt for the absence
Of her father
Her mother’s happiness and
Pete Abrams Jonesy.
It’d been years since she’d uttered a word to him
Years since they’d even been in the same room for long,
Though her hands still cowered
When she shoved the letter in the mail
Serving him the news of what transpired –
He made no appearance
Her expectations should have dwindled over time
But they remained the same
As strong as ever,
Slightly calloused with time
Until there was nothing left but a sore spot
Of where he should’ve been.

The rumors still rang clear as she began to heal
She fell in love with Marcus Stalling
The final year of puerile days
Now left to rot in the past;
Graduation was held at noon,
Her cap was arced on her head
Perfectly set in place
The rumors still rang true.
Pete Abrams Jonesy was the
Shadow of a boy she once knew when she was
Figuring things out
He didn’t even make it to this day.
The rumors of the hit and run, the drunk driver
It spread around the halls like wildfire
She had been ashamed to have once claimed him
In any form of the word –
She missed him still.
What would his life become?
“No one will visit him. What will become
Of the adventurous and jovial mind
I used to spend time with?”
When she heard the news on the local station
She’d lost her father all over again
And still no one had the answers
To any of her questions.

College and Marcus
The grand scheme of life begun with those two
Wisdom came with age
Anger subsided
And joy was restored –
The life she once dreamt of having
Still rendered mist to her eyes
So many individuals were supposed to be
Toe to toe;
Charlotte Anne Stalling the center of it all
Yet she felt the same orbital satisfaction
Yielding around her with only those two elements.
All mornings were the same
Her sanity strove from cycling about
In comfortable routines and an endless screenplay –
A memory of a future once shielded her sight,
The warm bodies were anything but familiar now.

The winter would always be cold
Rushing the blood to the tip of her nose
But spring came about
In a parade of confetti and open arms
The coffee shop on the girth of the boardwalk
Met her every day during the breakfast of the sun
And the coffee kept her warm.
It was a morning where the tide was crashing down roughly
The sun fried her skin,
She was glowing
Her attention was snatched away from the scenic grounds
Stolen away by the scream and shouts that traveled
From the end of the boardwalk,
There stood Pete Abrams Jonesy
Clutching his arm while peering at the welt
Given to him by a Sugar Maple Boer.

i'm a poet, i don't see language in linear fashion as a plumber or an electrician might, or as circular as a lawyer spinning lies might... for poets language is multidimensional... and, counter-intuitively... disposable.*

in the language of phenomenology
the kantian concept of the noumenon
is just translated:
an exception -
and there is not article attributes
to suggest whether the stressor
can qualify as definite or indefinite,
since the quantification value is 1,
while the qualification value is 0,
meaning that the phenomenon of, say,
a heart attack, with the phenomenon
allowing 3 years more to live,
while the noumenon allowing ~8 - ~18
years to live is un-quantifiable,
since it's an exception,
and can only be un-qualifiable
to stress its parameters if it's left
un-inspected by the noumenon-itself.
i can't stress it simpler, nor can you;
as with regards to to the commonplace
problem of existential identification
with concepts such as god, john smith
b. 1974 living on mayfield st. for the past
twenty years, married with 2 children...
using such edenic nakedness as are the pronouns,
then returning from this realm of nakedness
into attire of concepts in cognitive signifiers
used elsewhere for prayer and divination,
what are you so naked among the cardinals' clothing?
a wriggly worm, if anything?
we have inherited a nakedness with the nakedness
of pronoun usage to avoid theological association
specifically, to remain human,
to remain as john smith etc., and not thirst
for such entities beyond the invisible realm
of sub-atomic particularisation - refreshed
by the fact the we can ***** the einstein bubble
where time and space huddle hug and play the harp
in a parallelism of the dipped-in...
we can suddenly hear newtonian causality
of the atom bomb... of the internal combustion engine
and the "sparing" use of fossil skeletons
derived from hawaiian postcards and pavlov of the eyes
that ingest jealousy to salivated rather than hunger...
we can see newtonian physics provide us
cause & effect... but in the einstein muddle
we go on... living our perpetually-seeming lives
to the extent of a debt unpaid...
seeing is believing the old maxims shushes
when others are muttered in retreat
from the arena of rhetoric where the greatest actors
engage a sizeable inversion of parameters
in terms of mechanics and activity...
oh there... there they have it...
the western hinterlands who took pride
in teaching children of the greatness of nations
being built upon the remnants of butchering
social / civil engagements... and having no
other foreign power engage with their
disorientation... now... the great nations... now...
suddenly... trying to invoke a foreign civil code
into a nation that lost its civil practices?
will an english butcher say to a syrian baker
that the syrian tailor is prizing his body for bounty?
no, because an english politician will do that for him,
the english butcher will be a pop-art colour splash
against the pavement...
civil society of syria is not dependent on
english civility... and no english politician
can provide the syrians their former civility
between trades to make society coherent again...
only the syrian neighbour with a syrian neighbour can...
no politician knocked on my door in my life...
i don't even know what a politician looks like
or sounds like...
a civil war can only be solved by civil means...
not by foreign intervention...
it is about civilians becoming civil once more...
foreign investors will never crack the stalin code
available to the civilians, there, waiting...
to re-engage with society once more...
with civilising with providing art...
we don't need bombs and foreign soldiers in syria...
we need art... seeing how all the foreign neglige additions
of the final solutions in terms of postponed paranoia /
para-phobia / the spider just transversed the ceiling
doing a moonwalk - care for old ruinous buildings
that define the meaning of museum.
if i'm being honest... i rather see the worst... than fear the worst.

I flagged down the first taxi
I got in and told him where
I told him "take me home "
"I'll let you know when we are there"
He asked me which direction
I said for him to head out west
Then I asked him for a favour
I pulled a cd from my vest
I said "can you please play this"
"I'll give directions on the way"
"If you do, I'll pay you double"
There was nothing he could say
He slipped the disc in, headed out
In the direction I had said
Then I listened to the music
And let it filter through my head
Elton John, broke through the silence
singing "Take Me to The Pilot"
Two verses in, I said "turn left"
He made the turn, but remained silent
Another verse, another turn
I was sitting back, just waiting
Then he asked "Where we going, sir"
I said "home", although, 'till then I'd been debating"
Curtis Mayfield filled the background
Three verses in, we made a turn
I sat there, heading homeward
Exactly where, was no concern
We turned twice more, continued straight
Dr. John sang Iko Iko
The driver followed my commands
Turns out, his name was Nico
the songs came on, played out and he
Drove exactly where I said
You see, I've been this route before
I know the music in my head
A different disc, with different songs
Would get me home as well
The streets we chose to drive on
Well, I simply cannot tell
My route is formed through music
It fills me up and leads the way
To exactly where I need to be
Like home, the place today
The Four Seasons sang of "What A Night"
Back in nineteen sixty three
I told the driver "take a right"
It's the third place that you see
He asked if I was certain
It was just an empty lot
There was nothing there too special
I said "yeah, this here's the spot"
I paid him and I left his cab
I said "I may just see you soon"
He gave me my cd back then
He must have thought I was a loon
I sat down in the empty lot
I grew up here as a lad
My Mum and Pa, my brother too
Best times I ever had
The house came down 10 years ago
Nothing bad, just aged and rot
I still paid the city taxes
You see, I own the lot
I visit here each summer
Grab a cab and play the tunes
they take me home inside my mind
As I go visit the ruins
My Mum and Dad are gone now
Moved to Arizona three years back
My brother, in the Army
Last I heard, he's in Iraq
I sat here for an hour
Then I walked on down the block
Listening to my minds eye music
Walking slow and kicking rocks
I got down to the corner
I got in and told him where
I told him "take me home "
"I'll let you know when we are there"
He asked me which direction
I said for him to head out west
Then I asked him for a favour
I pulled a cd from my vest
I said "can you please play this"
"I'll give directions on the way"
"If you do, I'll pay you double"
There was nothing he could say...

Bryant, Williams, Ruffin, Kendricks, Mcgilberry, Davis and Harris.
All are apart of the legacy of Temptation's forever.
And now they are rockin' in heaven.

One with a spin.
One with a grin.
One with a smile surrounded by a heavenly choir.

The sun got brighter.
As the cloudy day faded away.
With the Saints of the Sanctuary marching to the gates.

One with spec.
One  with a double breasted suit to the microphone.
With the choir of harmonizers singing along.

And they get inducted into the halls of Rock and Roll heaven.

The audience is supplied with starts.
We see Curtis Mayfield's will his guitar.
And Elvis ready to join in.

In Rock and Roll heaven, they all are musical friends.

Even Johnny Taylor and Sam Cooke and Otis Redding is ready to sing.

And Bobby Hatfield's ready to go upon a solo.

Oh, they must be rockin' behind close doors.
Ready to greet a Staple's singer through the holy doors.

God welcome only a select few.
While we upon earth debate about who?
In truth, only He knows, who He will bring?

And they all don't have to see.

If you've been touched by a song they sung.
Then you're aware of the bells that's been rung.
God, has placed his heart upon everyone.
Especially, his selected choir.

If my protest falls on deaf ears.
I know somewhere?
Someone hears me.
Feels me.

If I have to march on for justice.
Then I (March on)
If I must struggle to win the fight.
Then I (March on)

For no wrongs deserve to be treated like right.
Cause in my eyes and mind that's not right.

If I have to pay the price.
Then I (March on)
If I have to expose the truth.
Then I (March on)

For in the end, I believe I win.

Tell me, what style of a song you would love to hear?
And I splendidly sing it sweetly to you.
Just look you in the eyes.
And hold your hand gentlely.
Soon, you would think I was Smokey.
Even maybe Al Green.

The mood will be candid.
Just the way I've planned it.
And soon you would think I'm Rod Stewart.
Or maybe even Sam Cooke singing Sentimental Reasons.
So, can I sing you a love song?

With the mood of Teddy Pendergrass.
Or like Ron Banks , of the Dramatics with his sweet voice.
If push comes to shove.
I go the way of Dean Martin, if it keeps me in your arms.
So, can I sing to you a love song?

I could be William Hart.
I could be Eddie Levert.
I could be James Taylor.
I could be Curtis Mayfield.
And all you got to do, is close your eyes and imagine.
Then, I might do John Lennon, as a Beatle.

Pristine, sixteen and kean as the wind
She was twinned with a storm
The day she was born
And since I met her
Forty odd years have passed
Mostly for better, never for worse
Some things are built to last
And even after all the years
I can still hear her footsteps
Coming up those concrete stairs.
If I close my eyes, it’s like yesterday
Delivering the milk in the student block
Clink clanking away
I could set my clock.
She was from Camp Road on the Mayfield estate
Her dad’s yellow Datsun
Driving through the Abbey’s gate
To pick her up and take her home
“When do we meet him?”
She said he’d moan
“Like a rabbit in the headlight”
She said he said
As I shuffled away and headed for bed
Pernod and black on my wardrobe shelf
You’d let yourself in and help yourself
So self assured for one so young
I can still taste that Pernod on your tongue.
We just knew that we liked each other
Something inside told us that
From sweet innocence to a natural born mother
And you always looked good in a hat
Do you remember that first day
You came into my room?
It was the end of term
And you were the new broom!
How many times
Did you clean my window that day?
And we talked and we laughed
As we thought of things to say.
I couldn’t wait till September ended
And the college reopened
And our separation was suspended
Then I had to ask Beatie where you were
I still feel that little chill of despair
“She’s away tae Spain son”
“She’ll no be back till next week”
Oh how I breathed that sigh of relief
And counted the days till then
When I’d see you smiling again
And when you arrived, you wore the crown
Sparking eyes, electric skin
Golden brown, oh, where to begin?
I could only dream
Of wedding bells and perfume smells
Like the cat who got the cream.

Time and a word, that was right for me
Yes the moment that we knew
That what would be would always be.

Forty odd years, where did it go?
Imagine if we’d never met?
In a world I wouldn’t want to know
Heaven forbid.
But thank the fates that we did.
People and places all those old faces
Remember Rab and Ray, back in the day
Gorgeous guys, fun and wise
And Elaine and Jack, they had your back
Gorgeous gals, the best of pals
Then there was The Sun Inn
And The Bottom Shop
And the Justinlees
Where we drank a drop
- and shot the breeze.
Those were the days in so many ways
A world away
But doesn’t it seem just like yesterday?


The Cast:

Mr Reid, Gudreon and Anna
Mr Mitchel, Mr Mair
Mrs Hyde, Mrs Rowbottom
Ian MacDougal, Brian Baxter
Ron and Carol Iphofen
Dr Mary Ross, her mum and her dog
Paul Cockcroft and Dave Turner RIP
Alan Ducklin
Big John The Gardener, Both Dereks
Jimmy and Anne Deans
Lilies, Annie Gilmour, Shiela Stuart
Betty, Irene, Cathy and Dawn
Nessie, Agnes, Beaty,
Peggy, May and Lynne
And all my fellow students, where would I begin?

Eugene Reynold, wrote about love.
Curtis Mayfield, about social issues.
And Smokey Robinson addressed romance.

The best of the best knows how to reflect their truest feelings.

Dionne Warwick, sung about life.
Diane Ross, sung about that certain someone with the Supremes.
And Dust Springfield, level feelings on various themes.

When in love?
Sing it.
When protest's needed?
Go for it.

Life holds nothing more than being lived.
For joy exist within all of us.

Tribute to Curtis Mayfield and Johnny Pate

When the power that is?
Just don't understand.
Just realize the final decision in the lord hands.

We, in this struggle, to love one another.
But for some reason there always an obstacle before us.

When the poor must go through so much red tape?
Just to get food to place upon the table.
Only when it hit the news does anyone seems to care.

Like, we not in this struggle to love one another.

If love was never(never created)?
We would find a way to look out for each other.

Yes, we in this struggle to seek peace.
Even if our leaders seem to love war.

When it get to the point?
Where those in charge won't listen to us?
You must vote them out of office.

Cause the power of the hand is like the strength of a pen.
You create more problems for those not helping us.

how to whistle while washing ***** dishes
The island of we, the sumerians

sixty times the four fingers,
three count point
knuckle one,
knuckle two,
knuckle three, see it counting
to ten in base sixty

humm a little whatifery whistle,
what if, we need more
imaginary units to finish the proof, thus
we instructed
were
we not? Prove all things are not your
imagination,
we are in agreeing mind state, joined
at the bottom most
maximus grave ityness, the force
we must suppose
flipped us off as not a chance,

let it be. Me, my mind, I find, rests
in peace.
with no anger remaining prime motive,
get even,
get back, grow up, settle down, learn
the secret said to be revealed

as reversed veiling, un veil, one of seven,
as the dances were advertised,
hawkers, spy the curious child,
wink, a thought, think kid

seven veils and tied to a cross, with no
malice of fore thought,
this was here, in that hat, I thought was mine,
a mind field, experience, not

commonly taken from the sheet let down,
from the heavens
to the roof of the Khai Vinh fishnet factory
verified center
- glimpse
curious tracker on a water buffalo,
those look like oxen, may-i- those are the sign
sought,
like year of all the oxen out and free,
ball as bulls
give it a twist
imagine
castrata tata tooeee
the pace of evolution without the power
pens I use in my war with power
edgers, bubble
slicers, other wiser geysers, orange
is oranger than any carrot, if you knew orange,
as William and Mary institutes the truth color,
the other people's orangest of naranca
edge lit
ledgends told to begin sending the dancing
muses, as the sun is singing oranging
arranging
so much
so little, this touch, too light, to feel, fffixes the glow

green florescencing bit, you think it down
to scales,
we see. We now beings seeing and sensing below
the frequent measure mental device
we may imagine imaging in our shared timespace
- glaring screen
projected, light, and shadow, sent.
Sentiment, seeing Mayfield, Kentucky, and
knowing
that place was like, like
yes, the ideal Mayberry, USA, as depicted
in the youthful vigor of old Henry Ford, and
the dime guy, what'sisname, famous rich
dime giver, we all marched in his memory,
in the year of our Ford, Rockefeller, right
1954, oh, the allegiance, total troth, all
under god, and the trusts on the money
at the top of the eye,
watching featherweight angel judger try
-yy'alto lift ration, al flow
expo
exponential compounded interesting times,
by golly, it could be organzied
to see, perfectly strange,
as you
b n  -i-    odd number, at the end, I bet.
stand and ask what line is this?
--------------

Some, somewhere, a point, at least
per haps may be made
plain as through nothing,