Wednesday 25 November 2009

november ran its colors out on the streets, via trees

november this year she came she went, gotta get her down before shes gone, capture her now in all her beauty, earthy and fall-like sign she flash. shes a queue-T. parlez-vous francaise? miss second to last month of the year. 'mais oui. oui...' She whispered out on autumn coolbreeze, like aircon melting the heat behind the summer kick it in the park kinda dope kinda beat. only find her in the street. that kinda wild. cannot be filed! no finger stops her! shes that wild sorta child. the one prank callin, 2am your number she dialed, october 31st, told ya 'im coming!' hung up before you cursed her, goddess true. whats the matter with her? its YOU you need to look at, U you need to check. so back up a sec and hold second to reflect on the pavement. colored maple leaves such a nice effect. she lets us do the scratchin on this album of hers, our feet pushing leaves across the country at all hours. pushin and shoving shes prepared for the chaos! soft landing in leaves is her special kinda sauce, so subtle you dont know it, if its the garden she grow it. if its the truth she throw it right threw your living room window, keep the skies clear, air cool. all the kids walk back to school. laughing and communion, big deal to miss novemba, that all of us get Union. and pay our dues. united we wont lose. turn the clocks back if you choose, she saves you ample time, dont snooze! take advantage and hit the streets. the clarity b so sweet in november giving thanks. dropping guard and careless ranks. only number is your own, be true to you and find your own tone and style, miss november wait a while! je t'aime, je te desire, in lux of lunar we embrace. any locus any place. your fades are subtle, your tone is soft. your spirit elevates... kick it in the lofts! carry your sound! trunks break up the beat. december loves you so...close to his breast he keeps...the clasp of november rain. gold leaf it makes the chain. october saw your back, and knew in you could trust. the love of life in kind...the love for you from us. run your colors, light your skies. give away your lasting hope to dawn and open eyes.

Friday 13 November 2009

'dont touch that dial!' (says boo)

boo the loser and yet the concoction of adrenaline on a sunny day field of gyrating bods for fun, (weave of which boo was too woven) remained undiluted and 'pure' to its essence its effervescence...whether good or bad unstated (some of the language bore cultural wash that flavored the scene with whisps of bene & mal). kinda untouched by the loss, boo did not change the angle of her head. the curve of her lips did not go convex if they were concave. boos mind itself was unenslaved by even the idea of 'less than' when the whole deal was out and out rich and fulfilling like the puffy cloud balloons in the green tinted sky of sweat and bloodrush.

boo was kinda sorta boo on a wonderful day, and not much more or less where more or less was not called for to cameo. the social aspect of the day was amiable. and boo had rock on friends. not the kind you only connect with on online abstracts of community, not the striands of past relationships that got a grip way back and pulled mind like sirens into past tripping adventures boo sometimes called by 'nowbothering' cause boo was like not imminent upbeam or latent cryscream, no no no, dont you know boo was Isness as bold as iznez can BE, no silkscreen or generic, no consulting of oracle or cleric, she was like what comes to mind now...a fresh lyric.

bene or mal, the filling was full. recycling in motion. single rinse wash ocean. and she laughed and laughed alot and forgot what it was made her laugh. then wrapped her arms round her hips like a shy girl. then said something outrageous real loud. green of sky about her. puff of cloud. sound like a rerun or come back again? no no thats just you. its okay, but not labelled full, empty, or true. all of which are words anyway, like jumproping for its own sake and better with three, messy playa community. her eyes burned the image and made it so. her hair surely grow. this is how life happens, boos eyes wake up from napping. full of color empty of heartache. up her tired bones and to the lake. boo is on the take.

taking clues from her other boos. her guatemalen friends salsa belly moves. curious to soak in new moves. empowered by real-time. flushed by embedded hearts of divine. hearts of sand and lyme. sign of taken back of times. reshuffle of decks and pop of dice from four ring fingers. scent of punk youth lingers. the bars the guitars the tries and tries. bonafide boo kneels to pray for balding postgrunge down the revisit this again pipe size. the prayer allows the movement to move some more. boo gets her boo friends and they all push and push her. the notes turn out to be collapsible. the sound of hollowed out seattle just barely adaptable. they push and lean and laugh and steam, boos mexican guatemalen russian american. boos bumrush the stage and flare up afire, a fierce wind of mother loving bones rises up in holy jean attire, surround sound somewhere in there lost and found.

boos ears trained. boo comes at ya pound for pound. latin love of equatorial breadth, nordic grade of redbird featherweight. dont matter come crooked, dont matter come weight. stop for the sunrise. stop but dont wait. interrupt with speeches and strange shifts of energy. honor it all by giving bloodlet old fashioned style-- yes, leeches. boo dont need to rhyme to have rhythm, got it. boo is purposeful with unknown nextness. lax of politicorrectness. hybrid the word, it dont deserve the space we gave. 'Inflect this!' boo shouts at the poetry slam. she ran into one, not part of plan.

but there in front of her and confront it? yes sir. facts only, no emotion...poetry reads often lose all meaning, drained of devotion. like kneeling to the television every morning to pray. boo found it stale, the trained voices on mic parade. like trying to breakdance on sandpaper. or titrating when you were supposed to taper. boo had her likes and dislikes and moved quickly on to paleteria. no sense hanging on with litterati ennui. gotta have ice cream! do or die! got her guatemalen boo a banana-chocolate popsicle. her czech boo got nondescript ice colored blue. mexican boo, well, horchata had to be the taste. make that two! screamed boo, and brought her confexions back to restore color to her crew. this was the life, the good life, she knew it all the while. despite half the suffering, her stance: 'dont touch the dial!'

Tuesday 3 November 2009

"Weak moves on hot and spicy midnight" was written in June . I did a final edit & posted her below . check it out.

weak moves, on a hot and spicy midnight

i was a death dealer to Noise in my atmosphere. Was midnight. I was runnin hot like mojave. spicy like indian. short fused like Acme animation. The road runner must have passed my way ten times over. i pounced on my phone to prove i could pounce. i had the agility to capture a rock. you know it. I checked out the digits on the digital. nobody i knew, number was local. i answered it. typically your digits gotta be in my cell. but i was trying to catch my shadow i guess, so capturing a random phone call seemed like rehearsal.

there was a perpetrator talkin to me now. some dude within the past 48 hours got the nerve up to call me. he must not have seen the reluctance in giving my digits. i was too focused on avocados and all the variety of apples to think clear. i just did what he asked, then almost changed the 2nd to last digit to something different. a dishonest move i could not make. close! the # was reversible, 9. so to offer up 6 could have excused me from my guilt with a claim of dyslexia. sometimes it happens when i stay in the sun too long. anyway, my integrity paid me back with this awkward moment on my hot and spicy midnight.

I had to recall how we met eyes over the strawberries in the foodmarket spectacular in my neighborhood. you might call it 'juicy' (from his perspective). his wings fluttered and retracted to the eyewatering browns trying to enter my 7th chamber. i blocked him at the aura level. my auranti-virus is tight. immediate split second blocks on (basis of) gut feeling. the feedback on this one was 'perp', across the 4th food group. organic. all of the latest trends represented. flagship quality. the food does not reflect the consumer. i didnt see any organic folks up in here. some were raw. some were processed, some homogenized. but no flash pasteurized peoples. everyone around me seemed conservative & preservative. reserved. almost impossible to interact with in a healthy kinda way. holding back all sincerity 20+ hours of the day. i marked them. they were the ones looked at you like you B just gettininmyway!

I was wild caught alaskan and a fish out of water sometimes. such was life in the food spectacular. give me my chicken caesar pizza and im ok. get me out of here, synergy snatched up for all i could hold. to rejuventate from the toxicity that passed through my aura like spyware.

The memory i clearly cherished. i had it in the temporary trashfiles of my cluttered multitasked out mental, ready for abort(ion). this call i haphazardly chanced, well, my word for it would be more like 'convenient' or 'tragic'. convenient would better describe the seven eleven. tragic works. like putting on all your makeup and doing your nails and everything, and slipping into your sweet dress...and the occasion never manifests. broken down car...agitated child...sudden uncontrollable fits of sleep (your date told you with all apologies burning down mascara forest). the same kind of reasons you once pulled on someone else, probabl. tragic like karma come back. why tragic? im sure youre on the edge of your seat, waiting for the magic. i can get us out of this! i promise! (once i locate an analgesic).

anyway, the point almost escaped me then (like it escapes you now). in the sedated hour past midnight when atoms dont hug so tight, electrons turn positive, i mean optimistic, and spirits mess with those who do not believe in spirits. easy to derail in this kind of tension free atmosphere. well, this young man boldly called at the terrible hour to call, and proceeded to try and talk me into meeting him this very night. very bold, very ignorant. say it again -- TRAGIC. because i was one nerve from unnerved, before he called. my entire latest system was heavily firewalled. i was twice removed from my own truth. i had burned through my midnight snack: baby ruth. i was pickled and jarred, talking to me must have been so hard.

i was emotional mind, anger defined, so so so veryfar from kind. this guy would be sorry he crossed the line. he would be incinerated by my firewalls transitioned to fireballs. coming out my eyes into the wireless wires. barreling into him like recklessness on tires. fuck you! i gotta go to work in less than a half dozen hours. i dont know you! and i can see you are drunk! you daft punk. i will now bring upon you the sensation of --SUNK. your battleship is about to get mothballed. ill think of you out there building rust up. you so fucked up! calling me intoxicated, telling me how you are located close, you made it! i should come meet you! you are sweet on me, drop some heavy breathing as my short fuse ignites. youre not a genuine article, you lost all rights. lose my digits, generic! asking me for a lick? you dog! sick! let me google my next to piss on someone over cellular? your conversation back around again, circular.

so i was heated. felt kinda cathartic. the chill i conveyed, well, very antarctic. he got froze. he was at some gas station fighting a machine for a candy bar. i was a fuming cigar. a screaming guitar. burnt food char. ready for war. but instead i just froze him, no room in the freezer. its all taken up by my pizza, chix caesar. i could no longer regard him, had to discard this. full up with vinegar and piss. snapping rubber bands on my wrist so just to bite my tongue. i could blow up on him like when i was young. but instead i iced this situation. then cubed it. dropped it in my ginger ale. felt like chased tail, right out of town. i had to find my way back home. back to SOURCE. get found. cooled off and ready to digest. drop some classic uncut over my airwaves. one way or another back to the source. i located the one with whom i could best relate. Russian stock composer. personality told: 'fragile and nervously agile'.

i lay back into deep meditation. auraviral system disarmed. firewalls fallen. whole again. empathic waves of Dmitri Shostakovich. all my fire? well, i sold it. sorry aint no magic. laundry? fold it. just fire and ice in store. side of whiterice. a bed for to rest the real...the core.