Spliff # 4,120

Running down the street dodging rain drops
Splashing on the beats like weeds on rocks
Stepping on the leaves. My words were wet
Like my shoes and socks, but that’s what I get.
Walking with the sheeples like a marshmallow in the sky
Doing the strawberry slide, on the Alewife side
I get back to the beaches, by reaching to a friend
He lit up a spliff, Northern Lights and Bali Shag blend.

Scraps

I am what I am

And I do what I can

But that doesn’t mean

I can poetry slam

Like a ghost on the scene

Or a con on the lamb

I’m a stanza fiend

Without a plan.

I hold every hit and make them last

Like every hit from all the joints of my past

I used the last of my kif from my grinder

And my little blue bowl is cashed

And I don't mind a bit because its

Rolled up Dutch in a spliff like hash.

Spliff #3,523

Abstraction, when it’s subtlety is a fraction
Of its puddles of action
Can steal you back from Babylon
And your handle on conventional wisdom.
The city is a womb from which I come
Cumming wildly passionately, too many cellos for some
With a beat like the seat cushion, and the Subway hum
The passengers are duplexes and condominiums of
Yuppies, puppies, muppets and all the sheeples I love
Each one a finger traveling in purgatory’s glove
Sit melting in wax, their faces hovering on the traincar’s floor.
(I juest received a fax, each page was a boor.)
My fingerprints are captions, the keys are the doors
[For the need of the herd to ship the weed and the herbs
I’m breeding Dutch helicopters. From seeds into birds.]
Like the creed of the Brujo is a journey through shrooms
Ganja is a dojo where a flower named Jah(bless) blooms.

Urban Rainfall

Hollywood Wax Potatoes

The quickness of the landscape like a rolling set
Was blooming like a flower in a déjà vu cup
In the holder of a cruiser with the sirens blaring
The autumn rolled back though the wheels were stuck.
He tried to stare in the eyes of the judges of the halls
Fastening his visage those tears were swallowed
By pressing his sadness into small glass beads
That jingled an "om" in his skull so hollow.
The moon was fate, but coincidence eclipsed
And the walls of concrete were shivering shins.
He was a goose bump stepping softly among their craters
Then into the fresh repeating canvas his thought receded again
The autumn forgot him when his jeans wept
With the smell of freshly cut grass
And the physicists jealously looked through a lens
At a rolling landscape of laser printed canvas.

The Boggart

Crumbling like leaves in gutters my shrinking stomach grumbles
Mumbling while I putter, from the bed, to floor, darkness stumbles
My thoughts are grape jelly congealing to rubbery elasticity
I light my ear like a candle and sail through the opacity
The walking night, right next to me, hiding behind my head
Lurking around every corner and snoozing under the bed.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” The boggart moaned in an oily scolding tone
The air was moist like moldy bread, and out of shadows like a phone
He spilt like ink into a glass, into a world that wouldn’t last
Every moment more purple, a visible gas, his presence reeked like ass.
“Why so malicious? Your stench is vicious and sharp like broken dishes.”
“I am what I am, I am by no means a man. Do you mean to be so pernicious?”
“I tend to be rude when lying to night is what I’ve been accused.”

Acting offended in a move so swift and splendid he told me I had to choose
“This world has nothing in it like what I hold in my right hand
Pick it up and grip it tight and it will crumble into sand.
The other thing can’t be smelled or touched, held or seen at all
It mostly functions like a crutch, but can’t even catch you when you fall.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” To the boggart I yelled. “I am under my own spell
Keep your treasure in your hand and mind, because I know your tricks too well.
Hold it tight and pass it off as pain or pleasure, constant toil or eternal leisure
As small as sand or as large as oceans, I am no slave to your ignorant notions:
That night is dark therefore not like a feather, or rain is wet so tis unpleasant weather.
I see right through your rues like glass, because what I see is not of the future or past.”

Scraps

Towering letterblock buildings were breathing adrenaline shocks
Bubbles of bacterium drip snot where if whitefish knocks
The huddlebird sings a broken tune of igloos without atomic clocks
And the b52 blizzard is as white and thick as double layered socks

My eyes were refracting and so fast acting
The world was flashing and I was detracting.
My head has got wizards with a pair of scissors,
Firing words from his wand like fiery missiles
If my life were a novel the pages would appear
Like letters in the boggle box, the suggestions are clear

Mutters from bats in caverns are velvety caps in taverns
Worn like it’s the latest fashion. Having too many shots of absinthe
Their tongues are dead and words are in language heaven
Sentences are rivers of mystical medecines,
Sanguine floods on glaciers of shivering penguins
Are hemhoragging brains of redefined hedonism.


WOw, I haven't updated in a long time. I've been in search of inspirado, but she is illusive. My adventures have taken me to state forests and cities and I just got back from Brooklyn for Labor Day and Jouvert. I will be updating again soon.