there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia

Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

Random Sampling

Coughing up a lung,
sticking out my tongue.
Looking up her skirt,
dropped my pencil in the dirt.
Watching movies just for fun,
I will never own a gun.
Cat **** on the floor,
kicked it out the door.
Jake The Snake and The Macho Man,
will forever be a wresting fan.
Heavy metal and hard rock,
Skid Row's singer was Sebastian Bach.
New Jersey's pizza is the best,
it would beat New York's in any taste test.
Slept with girls, I didn't like,
soon after, I made them take a hike.
Never slept with a man,
if the money was right, I guess I can.
Love all my family and friends,
mess with them and I will defends.
Done some killer drugs,
stuck screwdrivers in some plugs.
I love paper, I love pen,
I'm more smart than the Three Wise Men.
Pina Colada's in Margaitaville,
then I take the bitter pill.
I still love eighties music,
it's relaxing and therapeutic.
Baseball is my favorite sport,
the Phillies, I will always support.
The next Super Bowl will be held in San Quentin,
***** girls take it on the chin.
I had a few nervous breakdowns,
I've put on a few to many pounds.
Allen does what Allen wants,
how's that for my final response.

March 3, 2004**

It was a cool night. We sat bundled up sweat pants and hoodies. She lived in a trailer (a mobile home for those who dislike such terminology) on the outskirts of town, on a farm to market road that many blunts had been smoked on. One of our favorite activities was piling into my four door compact car and rolling up delicious strawberry Phillies or Swishers filled with half brown, half green **** of the earth bud. But that’s a different story…
Her parents and sisters were gone for the evening. The porch swing was situated in the backyard just outside the sliding door, beside the riding lawn mower, ratty trampoline which had been bounced on one million and one times (she even broke her tailbone on that stupid recreation device), and the newly constructed chicken coop. The swing creaked every time we swung, but we didn’t mind. I’m sure a small spritz of WD-40 would have cleared it right up but our teenage minds were incapable of such logical decision making.
It was not the first time we had partaken in such events and it certainly would not be the last. The canister was plastic, red, and a familiar sight for most. Anyone who uses a combustible engine fueled by such a horrific liquid knows what I speak of. However, when you’re sixteen and too broke to buy *** and too young to purchase alcohol and cigarettes, sometimes your options are limited. But we must have a vice. It’s a requirement for all humans, regardless of what some might say. Being the reckless young woman I was at the time, I had many of them, and honestly, I still do today. On this particular evening, the heavenly aroma of gasoline was both our friend and our savior. We would inhale and then pass the canister to one another, over and over again. Between the intense sessions of déjà vu and cat naps, our night was a blur. Incessant giggling and talks of silly adolescent affairs was all that occurred. The feeling of being somewhere you’ve been before a thousand times in a row is overwhelming and really makes one question the concept of time and experience. How can I be somewhere now and have been in the exact same position before? How can I experience something that has potentially never occurred because of the inhalation of a substance? It is quite boggling really. After exploring the realm of drugs extensively, it is quite odd to look back at a night in question like this and wonder how a substance can do what it did.
My best friend and I sat there for hours on end, inhaling and chatting. We would occasionally salvage a blunt roach to smoke on or steal a cigarette from her older sister or father. They were never my choice in brands but it’s difficult to be picky when you’re a thief. Up until this point in time, I had always enjoyed the aroma emitted from gasoline. However, this night would mark a change in perception.
The majority of what occurred is not only uninteresting but extremely hard to remember. Gasoline has a way of doing that… expelling memories from your brain in a whirlwind of déjà vu and uncontrollable nap taking. But, at some point in time we decided to take our little private party inside; perhaps because of the weather but more likely because of a lack of clear reasoning.
All I can vividly remember is that we both woke up to her father beating on the window of her bedroom to let him inside the house. We were both so startled by this event occurring that she knocked over the canister filled with the petroleum based product. Quickly scrambling to resolve the issue, we hid the gas can in her closet. We then looked at each other in pure disbelief over the situation. Not only was it scary but it was also quite amusing. The situations we would put ourselves in were always quite delightful, even when they were horrific beyond belief. We tried to muster up a plan of action but it was no use.
She then ran to unlock the door to let her dad in. The first thing he asked upon entrance into the house was, “Why does it smell like gasoline in here?” Obviously we did not have an adequate answer for him other than, “We don’t know, we were wondering the same thing,” The best part is that he never even questioned us. Why would he? We were just sweet teenage girls with smiles plastered across our faces because we had been huffing gasoline all ******* night.
On a night not too far in the future, we would partake in the same type of inhalation but because there was not a canister at my house, we would huff it straight from my grandma’s van. Our neighbor saw us doing it and called the police. For the rest of my grandmother’s life (six short months) she passionately believed that people in our neighborhood were trying to siphon gas from her Chevy Astro. She made me go to an auto parts store to purchase a gas tank lock to deter such activities. That marked the end of our gas huffing days.

For my Pop Pop
I want to see you.
Even in your frailty
As your bones shake in the gentle wind like chimes
I want to be close to you.
Your flesh is nearly transparent
The veins in your face and the thinning of your silver hair
Make you look much older than the 71 years
That have left rings on your skin.
Some say you were a poor father
And an even poorer husband.
You never got along with my aunt
Your daughter
Your beam of light shining through the sidewalk cracks
And she began to shine for other people
But her brightness reflected off of ice
And I know her coldness is not merely human nature.
Pop Pop, why were you always so kind
To my sister and me?
It's like we thawed your hardened spirit
So we could see the softness lying underneath.
Funny how it's just natural
For a three year-old and a newborn to make a grown man crumble.
I don't want to think about the fact that you may never walk again
Because your disease can never steal where we've been
Although, perhaps mundane
Steak-and-Shake, our rented condo,
And plenty of barbecue spare rib joints later
All meant the world to me.
I wish I could say something other than
The last time I saw you was on my sixteenth birthday.
It's been over a year since you stayed in the Sunshine State
And I traveled home to my garden
Pop Pop, it was hard as the years went by
The only way we got to know you was through $20 gift certificates
And the static on the other end of the telephone
On birthdays and holidays.
I wish I had called you more
Because now it's hard for you to speak.
Daddy said you had a shotgun subtlety when you spoke
"How bout them Phillies?"
"Oh....the cancer spread."
"Have you been to a game in a while?"
Pop pop, now I'm the one who's shotgun subtle
"How's the hospital food?"
I'm scared I won't get to see you
"How are you feeling?"
I'm scared you won't get better
I love you, Pop.
*I'm scared.

yea big yosef
expose government expos
that's all I know
so **** the cash flow
but I make cash flow like creflo
never chased a dolla
yo it makes me wanna holla
not talking Marvin Gaye
um tAlking bout the words I lay spray
techs but prefer aks miss ya next birthday
make ya best ya worse day
never thirsty
stay quenching like Gatorade
make serenades
in the street
ask big leech
we after the money and the power
leaving scars on ya face
eradicate the weak out the race
I set the pace beat the case
cuz they know they place
uh we mob like Italians Mafioso's
put holes in ones
like gulf course
with ya open torso so
ya know
the game is to be sold not told
and since I'm standing large
you know we don't fold holdem
like texas pushing lexuses beamers caddys to
Bentley coupes
quick to shoot through my 30 odd six poppin licks like kilos bricks
in the hood it's understood
that when we play the game
we go for flames
but miss the burn though
we go ever where riots show quick blows
make for blood out ya nose
fluid leakin mind sinking
I mo assist than pastors to deacons
**** Spanish broads
from Columbian to Puerto Rican
I'm seekin
out the best from east north south and the west I guess
I'm tying to take down the commission
no General admjssion just listen
closely to the sounds of shots glocks pops it don't stop
til the elite off the top


uh who ya know do it better
pack a berretta
still.rock Cosby Coogi Sweaters
get hos ***** wetter ***** slayer mack mayor
say ya rhymes with me
the best on the master of the ceremonies
like ghost P come close to thee
watch my gun burn thee
like sun burn ****** neva get a turn
after i touch the mic
i melt **** hotter than lava get
out of a volcano
kick rhymes since i was embryo
make ****** sing soprano
if they try to my money though
we flips keys then take trips to Belize
sneeze
on the track bless me says me
my pedigree is nasty as nas back in 93
ya see naw cuz i braille spotlight
n the limelight come in yo dreams at night
freddie cougar with tha 9 double m luger
make bodies flex like lex lugar
i drive a jaguar 20 inch rims across the bar ghetto superstar
n think before ya speak
think before ya blink?
my rhymes be confusin' as a riddle from the Sphinx
they can jinx
me all they want but all they get is a gun taunt amerikkaz most wanted
pop steels only if ya want it
representin' like ****** in the pen holdin' down on lock
i **** a glock for every year
that ya aint on the block
one luv to my army none can harm
if i got nations forming
every brother gotta ski mask
quick to blast from the past to present
never get tense or hesitant
we drop ******* puff on phillies
knock fools out til they look ****** n silly
i can go on & on til tha break of dawn
rappers get no delight when i grab the mic its like friday night lights
uh one punch one round
n you can tell i won before it begun
by listening to the crowds sound uh

Yankees, Reds and Red Sox
Royals, Rockies, Braves
Mariners and White Sox
Cardinals, Blue Jays
Angels, Orioles, Diamondbacks
Nationals and Twins
Tigers, Brewers, Pirates
Astros, Indians
Dodgers, Rangers, Mets and Cubs
Phillies and Padres
Giants, Marlins and the A's
Let's not forget those Devil Rays

Mustangs , best beasts on hooves
Fly all day without wings
Tough as a Rocky Mountain blizzard
Unforgiving as any rings on reins
Tough as any ******* rider

I tame my phillies like Mustangs
With gentle persuasion
And kisses of sugar
Hugs aplenty
Make them my best friend

I whisper softly , come here philly dear
Let me whisper in your ear
I am cruel , hard , it appears
Soft unto your soul
Make me your fool

With whip and rope I pace you
Around until I mount you
Taking you by your mane
I will make you
Make your mind , mine

My you strut your stance
You do dance untill
I take you by force
And of course
Make you whinny

prepare for the hittin
once the beat punch in
ya know im deadening
rude awakening
wake n bake never split the cake
50 50 down the middle
i want it all cant fall
if im the tallest never the smallest
regardless if fools hate this
ill just take this rhyme
and rip you up
like a machete
chop ya body up
then grind it like spaghetti
smoke phillies
ya know the dealie
got girlies sloppin the *****
til they silly
mortal like combat ya die quick
trying tie with
the wickedest
emcees im sick of this
everybody sounds the same
once i ignite the flame
burn all of those
til a salt grain
endure in pain
like hells household strong hold
on the game ill never let go
******* hoes
Been down from the jump though  
fools that hate get kidnapped
and drags puff buddha bags
afro with a red bandana flag
**** the source and the other mags
despise ****
i could trade in my rhymes
and itll amount to price
of fo jags...

I Hate/I Love

I hate people that are wrong,
I hate people that don't belong,
I hate smoking from a ****.
I love women that are black,
I love women that are white,
I love women that are tight.
I hate gossip, I hate drama,
I hate using an inverted comma,
I hate Presidents,
that look like a black llama.
I love a cheap *****,
I love how they wear that special stamp,
I also love lamp.
I hate American Idol,
I hate Glee,
I hate a lot, don't you agree.
I love money,
I love fame,
I love my picture, in a golden frame.
I hate things that are weak,
I hate people that are too nice,
I hate saying the same thing twice,
I hate saying the same thing twice.
I love wrestling, even though it's fake,
I love the Phillies, if you wanna talk baseball,
I love that with me, you're all in awe.
I hate begging,
I hate asking,
I hate my car, when I'm crashing.
I love family,
I love friends,
I love the way this poem ends.

Mentally I am at Phillies with my final
coffee of the evening, milk
frothed to perfection, a woman
in a cerise blouse who greets
my eyes with a noiseless hello

but this is not 1942, no
salt shakers and once-
bitten sandwiches.
There's a child in a red puffer
who waddles absentmindedly,

the spittle of his bearded father
I can almost feel fleck
my cheek. His tired cherry-lipped mother
pointing a finger, then
another, mouths opening

as if operated
by an unseen string and strangers
who scoff at the hawks in the room,
both jolted by each other's next barb,
with a toddler oblivious to art, to

shades, to the thorns his loved
ones drape across their throats,
this spat like a blot on the canvas
of my afternoon reverie
where I need a stronger tipple

and to make it home before the rain.

There's Billy Short, a promising pitcher in the Yankee chain back in the mid to late fifties, I believe, that had a brief stay with the parent team.

There's Chris Short, a successful pitcher with the Philadelphia Phillies back in the mid to late sixties, if I remember correctly.

There is short as in Tim, who I remember as "some character" a year behind me in high school who was in a couple of "cool" cliques, something which I wasn't cut out for.

There's short as in shorttimers, which was slang for an enlisted man in the army during Vietnam who, partially because he was a draftee or for other reasons wanted out of the army bad for obvious reasons, who was no lifer sergeant who'd get a charge out of sending guys over to 'Nam while he ate "delicious" army cook-made apple pie sent down to the orderly room specifically in case by the cook in the mess hall kitchen just for such sergeants.

There's Luke Short, the all-American cowboy as in ****** paperback Western books.

There's short as in people who might prefer being called "less tall".

There's short as in a cute little compact car; I believe that's Afro-American slang.

There's a short as in blown electrical fuse.

There's shortness as in missing something in a dining hall, for example.

There's getting short as in one working their way out of a basically unpleasant institution.

I'm sure there are those of you who know all about shortness.

Pardon me for being trite or somethin'.

Impressions of Philadelphia: May 20-8, 2023

A masked saint dressed in dollar bills. Stuffed rice *****.  Cannolli. Italian street  festival

Bentley and Porsche. Bright sequins everywhere. Side-slit, backless, plunging. Metal detectors. Prom night downtown.

On the median, a barber and a man. Haircuts for the homeless.

Black tattoos, ankle to cheek. Dark lips. Green and blonde hair.  Who needs a bra? City girl, Philly girl.

Bike paths everywhere downtown. Few bikes but lots of scooters.  Lancaster county too.

Belly button here, belly button there, here a navel, there a navel, everywhere navel-navels. Philadelphia Innies ‘n outies.

Bright colors, weathered colors. Loving, nurturing, and plain strange.  Gayborhood murals.

1st post master, mapped the gulf stream, lightening catcher, 9 Atlantic crossings. “I never discovered anything, I just made it useful”. Ben Franklin.

Overnight parking $300. At the Delaware, across from Camden.

The Rocky statue outside the art museum, golden Diana within.

Statues hanging from every other building. Avenue of the Arts.

Drexel, Temple, U-Penn. Unsolved murders. The campuses.

ATV rodeo every night. Rrrumm, rummm!  Broad Street after 6.

Phillies 12 - Cubs 3. $8 hotdogs. Citizens Bank Field.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. W.C. Fields

i have abandoned the joys of music, truly:
disgusted by it;
only in the late 19th century
Nietzsche would have surmounted to posit
an argument along the line(s) of:
without music, life would be unbearable

or...

music makes life bearable...

how tedious now, music,
how obliterating the senses -
without eyes yet still talk of sight
without ears yet still talk of hearing
perhaps even with eyes
those two vital organs
like kidneys
how strange that they are so exposed
and so important
yet so exposed
unlike kidneys hidden in body
these protruding vital organs
since eyes are organs
equipped to deal this parody
not of bone covered by flesh and sinew
and muscle and fat
but these two flimsy pieces of skin
that light can penetrate
and give a man who toiled through night
and tried to find solace in
sleep come day
an insomnia that would require more
than eyelids with the added pressure
from a folded arm like a blindfold...

music has, become, unbearable,
a tedium for the senses
a shortening of some sort: a variation of otherwise
perfectly adjusted adjectives
to call a mountain big
a sea grand
and an insect philosophical: Solomon's ant...

music is no music with visual aids
unlike...
unlike: i spent this morning eating breakfast
of: never mind...
watching Schindler's List
in that moment when the Krakow ghetto
was being emptied
and that SS man was caught off guard
from all the chaos happening
and he tried to remedy the pre-horrors
of the finalized plans
frenzied at the piano
while two other SS men inquired
as to what (he) was playing...

Bach? no no... Mozart...

“was ist das, ist das Bach?”
“nein, das ist Mozart.”

English Suite No. 2 in A minor, BWV 807: III

yes, the latter... obviously...
the genesis of polyphony,
the signature is all there, intact with Bach
unlike anything Mozart could
have conjured...
in that if there is talk of "genius"
then there is also talk of methodology
a blindness of exacting
a profoundness of unhearing
and then not hearing
while at the same time being to play: a hearing
of the music...

i try to think that writing this would
be eased by listening to some music
but then with whiskey my mind unwinds
and three days have passed since
i slouched in my bed

today i realized the fundamental cruelty of
pleasures
or rather: the joy of reading
(fiction) unlike some philosophical demand
of reading then application
because i can't think of how reading
philosophy makes you apply it
like reading a manual with all the schematics
of say: putting up a DIY object
bought from the Swedes
packaged in cardboard
because by then you're no less LEGO
and Danish
and no carpenter in sight...

old Libra: write less than you read or just
about...
after all it feels less like smiling when one
is frowning
but more so when one is squirming
(but not ******* on a lemon)
       or some general distaste for humanity
whereby i'm just as much part of it
as much as a distance from it
a step behind or perhaps more a step aside...

so much of philosophy concerns itself
with: what is... philosophy...
in terms of a genre, a literary genre...

which brings me toward what emerged from
a pleasure of reading:
antithesis of music is equivalent to
the comfort of listening to a cat sleeping,
snoring...
or listening to a woman during *******
i don't think i can compensate that
with music...
i can: compensate music with music...
but i can't compensate the sound
of the elements: wind, earth, water with music...
music doesn't compensate the natural
order of things
and i can verily, now, understand:
the Taliban aversion to music...
before even the beauty of music can come
there is already an aversion to it
and just, justly so...

  music has becomes less elevating and more
grounding like a doubling on realism
that breeds contempt for transcendental
escapism of merely human talk...
i've had a roller coaster of the past two
days and i can attest
that a transcendental escapism based
upon merely human interaction of talk
exists...

on Saturday i changed shifts...
unable to do a Wembley shift (as a ******
supervisor, static,
with a cordon of stewards and security
officers
ensuring that no bags bigger than A4
reached the premises of the stadium
just tickled at the footprint of
the outer perimeter)...
instead was "demoted" to an security
officer role at the London Stadium for the MLB
event (Phillies vs. the Mets...
is that the equivalent of the Championship
vs the Premier League
given that the Yankees are a tier above
the Mets? anyways)

i had so much fun, pleasure, joy, life
being part of the team... searching bags
giving all the right lip service
and smiles and all the humanly adequate
body language of people feeling threatened
by any persuasion of authority:
to ensure their safety blah blah...
but it wasn't that...

on our break...
there were 4 of us...
basically me, Nur (Nur),
Richard, ..., ...,
it was me and 4 blacks guys
and however you want to disguise
or not the descriptive posits
of how each one of us looked...
no... i will not be a writer:
impatient man
this whiskey isn't helping
i can't write something transcendenal
although it was
i've already started unwinding with
the whiskey

the next day a spectacle of an argument
a waste of me writing this...
there should be restrictions on what
you can write...

no science fiction writer could have
predicted the smartphone...
outer-reaches of technological potentiality...
best keep Erasmus of Rotterdam
and Philip K. ****
and Stephen King and Alexander Dumas
out of it...
writing this will only give a % traction
of my availability to the letters
and there will still be the juggernaut of
ØX         ØX   XØ
         XØ      ØX ØX
ØX           XØ           ØX

****** keyboard... misjudged placing...
but summer is here
and my silent disco shift at Portsmouth
has been cancelled so
i don't have to worry about
getting enough sleep...

misguided though...
giving Paul Arteides all but one title...
Mehdi,
Kwisatz Haderach,
Muad'Dib... yes, yes... yes...

but not... Lisan al-Gaib...
that title should have been reserved for
his unborn sister!
the "outer world" is not the world of
Caladan "vs" Arrakis...
the "outer world" of: yet to be born...
or: unborn... regardless...

emotions created from insufferable
confrontation
with a Swiss entrepreneur...
allocating argument:
but we're going to the moon...
i say:
but you already scanned your ticket...
there's no reentry...
think about you buying a ticket
for a train at 12:10...
you think you can use the same
ticket for a 13:10 train
even though you stepped on the 12:10
train then decided to hop off
but the moon was boiling in
his mind
his logic his self-entitlement
of paying £200 for a ticket
gave him the authority to
call ask who i was...
who i was...
so much for what money doesn't
buy: integrity and character...
and integrity of character...

     bounced about the word
LOSER
when i finally replied to his: who are you?
POET...
oh... so that's a LOSER then...
well...
i should have played a joke on him
like:

Odysseus tells Polyphemus
that his name is Οὖτις:
    no one...

but how can i see this Americanized
version of life as
winning and losing
in life as transient when
he clearly only sees riding high
without seeing riding low
and in the end
the inevitable loss for everyone
via death and i'm sure
the minute he dies
memory of him will die too...

which brings me onto a new fascination
with... what became of

KUL TIGIN
then later the Runes
(i am so suspicious of the Gothic script
though... really ******* shady)

𒅗
'tooth' [zu], 'mouth'
[ka] and 'voice' [gu]

ズカグ          (respectively) = not mouth

but Kao (

顔                                            )

but you can see the complications
"transliterated" from
Assyrian Cuneiform to Chinese
and then somehow simplified
and untangled into Katakana...

ideograms are shortenings of
what Europeans could call
colors: in traffic code...
green is for go
amber is shortened to take caution
for getting ready or slowing down
while red is stop
because emoticons are not:
the same equivalence to the automatic
recognizable info
universal but more idiosyncratic
covert messaging...

        ******* Swiss *****...
well LOSER didn't really affect me
because i was just about to say...
so... you spent £200 to watch a game of baseball...
**** me...
it now just dawned on me...
but... i used to spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
regardless of whether i ******* or not...
last time i remember i spent that same
amount of money on an inexperienced
20 year old who didn't know that
an uncircumcised **** needed temporary
peeling
to expose the hammer-head
and in the end she massaged me
a little then i massaged her entire
body
finding out she starred in some shady
**** flick in some dungeon
given that when i massaged her
*** and back of the legs
they were bruised from all the extra
***** and no ***** of ****...

so... this argument of the moon
and being "successful" just because
spending £200 on a baseball match...
******, please... i spend £130 on an hour
with a *******...
at least you're getting your money's worth...
yesterday i started my shift at 6am
finished at 6pm...
the game started at... **** know's
3pm? lasted for about 4 hours...
in that time i became a fan of cricket
and ushered in the sentiment of:
well: if anything...
Americans really know ******* of watching
sport...
in a fluid fashion...
from minute 0 to minute 90
with interludes for over-refereeing
with too much technology use...
it's still not going to beat a tennis match
with two players and a football team
of referees + the ball boys etc