a Shadowman

There was movement in the corner of my perception, a flicker in the corner of my eye, the shadows in the hallway stirred like coffee in a black cup.  Something blacker than the unlit corridor.  A silhouette in the umbra.  A shadow within the shadows, formless and lithe and moving on its own power.  I moved, I followed it down the walkway and up the stairs.  There, at the end of the hall, the shadow man faced me.

I turned on the balls of my feet, and expertly it matched my movement.  I stalked in, fear pushing me forward in the desperate animal need to destroy all that I don’t understand.  Because I fear what I don’t understand.  And I don’t understand shadow folk tiptoeing around in my house.  I don’t understand why they’re here and fear their dark and willful intentions.  I step in and try to weigh my foe, I try to gauge his fight potential with a skillful glance.  His shoulders are as wide as mine, his legs and arms easily as stout.  So he spends time in the gym trying to make himself strong.  Trying to make himself ready for a moment like this one.  For trouble like me. 

His training won’t be enough. 

I slide in and he matches my speed, a skillful mimic, but he can’t match my unpredictability –can’t copy the fluidity of madness which I have mastered to bring chaos into the fray as an ally when I need it throw a left roundhouse punch and he matches my speed trying to block it.  While he’s preoccupied with that my right hand snakes forward in a lethal straight punch that crumbles his face with a loud crunch.

The lights come up, an explosion of frequency cacophonous to the eyes and mind.  It paralyzes me for an instant, half a moment, but I turn around trying to pinion the source of the violent “click” that preceded the artificial sunrise.  There, at the other end of the hallway was my mother in her comfy microfiber imitation velvet blue robe, her wavy hair stifled beneath a nylon cap so tight that I could see her thoughts through it.

“Boy”, she sang the words; sarcasm and disgust intermingle like fresh irritation from each syllable.  “What have you done to my mirror”?!

I turn back to the shadow man.  And all I see where he had stood was a gaping maw in the sheetrock and splinters of silver coated glass smeared with blood, my blood, where the fancy hall mirror had been.  Damn.  There goes next week’s check.

Rage Against The Shadow Of A Goddamned Doubt

The false gods are fallen, broke down, bawlin’
Too late to keep the faith when heaven is callin
No trumpet sounds to downtown; the dark water soiled it
like acid rain swirling drains, but looka’, fast forward
to Oshun drowned beneath waves of garbage
to a brotha' named J-sun who walked on water
or Fort Knox, the golden boy you caught with your daughter
and fashion plate A-shone, the pilot through rubble
2el Farrar's cinematic hip-hop furrows
The soulful ballad sounds from Poetic Justice
to Slayer-man, gun in hand to protect little lambs
and Santa Klaus’s ill shadow on a rant again 
My faith in God so strong, made me wonder, Lawd
what about the son of thunder
and the words whispered wickedly behind enemy lines
we took the weapons from them Shadow Dudes and blew they minds
gripped doubts tight as big booty on Fridays night
in the Valley of Dry Bonez, stood tall and spit wize
the strangest of words and I made sure they heard
 I doubt
     I doubt I’ll fail again
I doubt I’ll know a fight I won’t win
I doubt I’ll spend three more months in corporate chains
Or the world will go a year not knowin' my name
I doubt I’ll go on six months before I meet that hon
Smiling face angelic, blessed by the sun
doubt my pen won’t change the world
doubt not the Sun, spite of what you heard 
Embrace the moon, as a son of the knight
They say, "Step out of the boat, Bro', Run to that life"
But I await the Good Lord to bid me come
So if I don’t tread rough shod on ocean blue
I’m playin’ blackjack with hurricanes till six past June
Didn’t I wonder why I been feelin' so dozed under 
I just wondered when the Sun would Say
 
"Now is the come up"

1 May 2006

excerpt from: Seeing Eden

     They sent me back to work.  They sent me back to the gray box of shame and degradation, then re-connected me to a machine.  I sat in a meeting with my brother, James, who worked in another department across the hall.  We met with my boss, who had been his boss until he moved his way up the ant pile.   

     I sat in her office, stared into a space

between her and me and pretended to listen to whatever they were babbling on about.  It sounded like the adult characters in a Charlie Brown cartoon.  Indistinct words belched out into the already verbally polluted atmosphere -blahblahblahblah- and it meant something to them, but it was utter nonsense to me.  I just sat there pretending I was a normal person -pretending- like I had learned to do decades ago when I realized that I didn’t fit in.  I pretended.  The big stupid smile lit my dark circular face like a star atop a hideous black Christmas tree.  I wore my glasses as part of my disguise.  Like a coffee colored Kal El pretending to be Superman, pretending to be Clark Kent.  I pretended that I wanted to be back at the place that terrified me, the place that had stressed me out and tried to kill me.  I thought, when it found out that I had survived the unimaginable murder attempt, that I somehow trudged onward after the death of my art and my dreams, it would try to kill me again.  Instead, it welcomed me back with opened arms, embraced me at the door and smiled whispering to me “Welcome Back, zombie”.  I tripped grinning and foolish back into its trap.  I knew it would take a second shot at the dreamer.  It sent its invisible assassins -mediocrity and necessity- back to their posts upon the high towers, commanded them to get the metaphasic cannons loaded and cocked for another shot. 

Imaginarium; the twelve strand rebellion

    

   I imagine myself on a rock; a fragment of the Earth -Gibraltar, firm and sure- that had survived the final onslaught.  I imagine my castle, my beautiful dark fortress, a thing of my own design; a stunning improbability teetering at the center of this black granite continent, hovering magnificence through the decimated remains of our Earth.  I sit on the rooftop, basking in the light of the red-orange sun.  I imagine myself growing stronger in the sweet radiance, my body changing in its infinite wake, heat and fury showering me in a tangerine dream.  Every cell of my once inept body is now swollen with true power, with the ancient energy of the tellurians of the first Earth.  I see the secrets of the universe as they dance in holy unison before me.  A comic book hero, not shackled by someone else’s definition of duty and responsibility -not driven by the impossible missions assigned by the self important and thoughtless so-called-leaders of the world.  Not a super human slave that bends to the whims of the masses.  Then, I think about God. 

     I think that God must be laughing from Her throne above the catastrophe we made; laughing at the small minds of these so called kings and queens of the world as they plot in their vanity, plan in their deceit, and hope in their insufficiency.  She laughs, because they think they’re in control.  They think they are, but they’re not.  They’re not in control of anything.  She laughs as their plans fall apart, one move plotted against the vast mind of random chance -chance, who plays for bewilderment and discombobulation, while the wagers of war fight to win; to win territory: to win the imagined rights to something or someone: to win an idea, even when the world knows nothing of how to bring an idea to fruition, how to make it a viable and useful and living thing.  How to create.  They fight to win, when there is no victory, not in the grave where they are going.  They can’t see the truth.  They miss the truth, even though the truth is obvious enough for a six year old child to see. 

     The truth; the world has grown fetid on corruption and misery and it needs to end.  If it doesn’t, the Earth won’t survive.  The truth; that the world had begun and ended at many times and we are the last attempt -the recent incarnation.  That’s why the Book of Genesis, chapter one verse twenty eight reads “be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the Earth”.  Replenish the Earth.  Replenish.

     The survivors of the deconstructed world still mutter in their sorrow, languish in some long dead agony that is still real and fresh and stinging to them.  They don’t find comfort in the new.  Their souls are distressed.  Their spirits are at bay with ghosts of their own creation, because the world has taught them how to hold on to their negativity and let is fester and become rank and rancid within them, then eat them alive.  But God spared me.  God spared me by shutting down certain critical aspects of my biological machine to set me free of myself.  And while those around me, those who thought they knew me better than any other, looked upon me as some low and down trodden thing; I arise.   
     I ascend, and I take them into good times with me.  Prosperity rains down on me like a thousand storms; good fortune like legions of hurricanes -a maelstrom of blessings tempestuous and free.  I could not escape them if I wanted to. 

Excerpt from God Armor

The Metroplex of Pumapunku, Tiahuanaco, the ziggurats of South and Central America, the tower of Babel, the Great Pyramids in Africa were built by changing the frequency of monolithic stones to temporarily alter their physical compression.  To change their inherent magnetism.  The frequency of gigantic stones was changed with sound mathematics -octave impetus.  Once this paradigm is understood, you could easily create a new world.

Sound mathematics.

The meter and a half of burnt orange cocobolo felt like iron in my hands; living iron, ready to do some hard and ugly work.  I move.  I felt the killing action start with my feet, let the movement flow through me like a gigantic spring; my knees, my hips, my shoulders all moved in perfect order, swinging the two inch thick acetylated wood like a hexagon shaped baseball bat.  The impact was staggering, a loud wet crack.  I hit it again, and again.  I was surprised at the sudden gummy red pulp filling the air to my left.  Red pulp, raining sideways across my media room and spraying the egg crate foam covered wall.  Red pulp, that just a second ago had been the Frankenstein monster’s huge fearsome head.  I watched the man -the thing- stumble back.  His impossible body still tried to fight me without a head.  Without a Godd@mned head, and this freak of nature and reason was still trying to kill me.

I heard the inner wall slam down.  The six inch thick metal plates crash into place as the dense outer wall fell away under the power of the transhuman soldiers.  Monsters of modern necessity created from the Neanderthal DNA still lurking in the dark recesses of modernity.  Monster men who felt no pain and could see in the dark.  Werewolf, zombie, and vampire merged into one hideous monster, the wild savage barely controlled by the button on some strategist’s desktop.  Imagine that.  We believe that we are the pinnacle of human development, but we aren’t even half way there.   We’re not Atlantis below the Mediterranean; we’re not Eden in the Sahara.  We’re war mongers who hate ourselves and we’re killing each other with planned holocausts and genetic mutation.  Humanity was more a long time ago, a long, long Godd@mned time ago when the Mothers mastered the transmutation until the nuclear fall.  Until the fallout caused the fall of the race of Man.  Made of them degenerate and barren monsters who turned the world of order and impossible beauty on its ear.  Monsters.  Transhuman societies fighting invisible foes to survive, fighting to make someone rich and powerful while the rest of us fall into the utter confusion that remained.  Darwinian Theory does not explain us.  Darwinian Theory, flawed as humanity itself, gives only make believe answers.  Cataclysmic geology, earth crust displacement and genetic homeostasis explains more but is shunned, cast aside.  But that’s what we are.  We take ideas that merit thought and trade them in for the least common denominator, the pretty garbage wrapped in a plastic box and sold to us as the truth.  But the truth is hidden from the common man, until now.

The truth; modernity is a joke.

I built my house like one of the Xi of the Amexum, a pharaoh of Kemet.  I built it to last.  But these monsters who serve the corporation, they’re off duty.  They are not shackled from the common man by their electronic collars so they roam the streets looking for prey.  Looking for food.  Looking for some peace loving family with no fire power or a safe room to keep them alive until revelry is over and the dogs are put back on their chains.  They’re looking to sink their teeth into human meat, after they have raped and beaten it blood red and tender.  Stone walls and electrified bars will not stop them tonight.  No.  Not this time.  Today they are tearing my monument to great ancient architecture down to get at my Doxie and me.  They’re just a moment away from a great supper.  Today this sick and unnatural world is winning.

Unnatural world.  If that ain't the understatement of the year.  The world we live in is a polar bear under the acacia tree.  The world we live in is a wild horse in the Mojave.  Man embracing his inner animal, then adding other animal DNA into the stew pot for good measure.  He wants to make himself better.  He wants to make himself better than God made him. 
Fool.

An excerpt from Jeremiah Stone

The smell of this monster is killing me.  It’s rank; even above the decay of the Cataclysm, it’s like nothing my terrorized olfactory senses have ever encountered.  Like an animal’s cage at the Audubon zoo, a searing mountain of feces littered with the bones and blood and bile of the missing zookeepers; shit piled three feet off the floor, and urine that had fermented into glowing green ammonia.  The air around it an appalling black halo of flesh eating misery that annihilated lesser life forms.  A veritable well of sorrows like a stinking invisible force field radiated out from its pores, a personal plague.  And now he was here, in my face, breath like a wild acid wind from damnation and shadows burning my resolve to ash.  Grinning, chuckling.  Why?  Because he had never felt the pain of a broken bone before a simple over medicated man had broken it for him?  Or maybe, because he liked the pain?  He giggled like a little school boy, stared down at me with contempt in his superior serpentine eyes, and I realized what he was.  He was… he was... a distraction...

An Excerpt From: FINDING EDEN

I want to stop feeling like I’m supposed to be special.  I want to let go of the notion that I’m born to be some kind of a hero, or some kind of saint.  I ain't Superman.  I must think that I am, but I’m not, and the proof came flying at me like magic knives floating on a dark breeze.  I dreamed that my sister was in danger.  
     I dreamed that she was in trouble and -somehow- only I could help her.  She sat with me, asleep in the uncomfortable chair at the foot of the bed, huddled beneath a ragged blanket in that dark and dismal little antiseptic smelling room.  
     I sat up in my bed, pulled the countless fluid giving -life giving- needles out of my veins and moved to the end of the bed.  I didn't hear the alarms going off.  I ignored the garish red and orange lights flickering like a bonfire behind me.  I had to save my sister.  I am the only one who can rescue her from the imaginary danger of my weird and tormented dream.  When I awakened I was falling off of the bed, threatening to leap into some nonexistent fray to sacrifice myself for my baby sister, my baby sister who caught me –who rescued me from falling onto my face.  
     She’s the hero.  She’s the rescuer.  
     The nurses rushed in, eased my body back into the lumpen sterilized disaster of a bed.  They looked at me, studied me carefully –studied my right hand, and were amazed that I had removed the countless needles without causing further injury to myself.  Then, unable to find the veins after fifteen minutes of exploratory piquerism by the expertly trained vampires, they decided that the veins on my left hand were suitable enough, and stabbed me back to sleep.  
     The look of concern on Simone’s face is bothering me more than the new pain in my hands.  How did this happen to me.  
     How the hell did I let this happen to me?  

the World Ash

strength slid like sand through iron fingers
hope eroded like, copper gone rusty on a third floor pipe
vision blurry, eyes drown in rivers of tears
where's my fury
slow down brothers. why y'all in such a hurry
at the end of the day

all i got to show for sacrifice is losing my place
and at the end of the road all i got to show for patience
is this blade of grass
i thought would break through the ground as a world ash

curse the passing of time
thoughts lost in graviton fluctuations, unholy manipulations,
in hard situations, yet midnight shines
and moon reflects the light of sun divine
the holy mirror.  pray to Jah louder and maybe then He'll hear you
fate is bullshit, and faith and reason make you feel better 
...but don't change the seasons
Carpe Diem
take the fruits from the tree of life and squeeze them
suck the juice 'til you no longer need it

at the end of the day
all i got to show for sacrifice
is losing my place
all i got to show for patience
is this blade of grass
i thought would touch the sky
like a world ash
thought i no longer see the light in dreams
God still lookin' down on me
...smiling


8/11/2006 12:45 PM CDT

Fcuk___Gravity!

I'm at this place again where there’s nowhere left to climb
At the height of the ladder with no mountain top in sight
Shoulders weak from the strain, carrying the weight
Of the hopes that I brought
to this impossible place
The weight of younger years, considered a golden child
Who always heard “you must do…”
yet was never showed how

Lord forgive my blindness, I lost my way
Not seeing the path laid or walking rightly
For not knowing the right way, lost in the haze
Of the smoldering remains of what I'm s'possed to be
This life in dark territory blew me away
The anger, the sorrow; the weapons of shame
In spite the rage hear the hopeful song
Singing sweet melodies about your
Promise to make me like Joseph was
Slave becomes Prince where the desert wind blows
One talent you gave me; imagination
Invested into seven gifts, let me name some
the draw, the write, the song, the play
the fight like Bruce lee when Chuck came his way
see spirits in the shadows, insanity
plus
patience is a gift, though worn and thin,
been waiting on a breakthrough since half past ten
thirty damned years to let the sun shine in
and a river of bloody tears on dark brown skin
a bitter black cherry soul, soaked in gin
Soft light in my eyes, 'spite the Strychnine grin.

I'm at this place again where there’s nowhere left to climb
I’m at the top of the ladder with no mountain top in sight
Iron fingers crush granite though weak from the strain
Of carrying the work at this impossible pace
This work, work hard -worked perpetually
Obsolete machine, rust colored and gray
The weight of younger years when considered the golden child
Still somewhat golden, but tarnished now
Can't reflect the sun when I'm all dulled down
Who always heard “...be great!"
I'm finding out how!
To achieve what I need,
To draw and sing
To exceed
The bonds that imprison me are harsh in deed
And Hope, she abandoned me
She never went away
Well, she did
She's into better things...

so...
I'm wide awake now, but too tired to...
  

5/26/2006 @ 12:34 PM