And we might just be, the right candidate to clean up the unsightly,
everybody sayin' get a job, me? yeah right G, picture me at the supermarket,
I got a career, let me super spark it, analog when everything going digital,
organic when the world's got sharp corners, whatever I gives coming out of my soul,
I never resist what's at my door, just lettin it live, for the moment.
most prolific slightly gifted perhaps conflicted, just spent and on a budget,
pre-programmed to love this, ya'll ain't on this 2.0, fuck poetry
I said once, but then remembered the poet defines the world, I break bread
with the everyday struggle, I'm into soul shit, reclusive, and I do hibernate,
cuz society is useless.
my mind tripping on possibility, spin the blank canvas of humility,
as if I was the one to choose this, called to purpose by fate and ability,
the popular culture reeks of senility, the dullness pulls at my will to be,
different yet also the same, being conscious is hard work, the industry sucked me in
and I'm lucky to be intact mentally, never gonna get caught in that trap again,
cuz this is what's happening.
-Beach Club-
Sailboats are grown-up children's toys, the myriad of shapes and colors glide haphazardly
across the ocean of privilege and good luck between the New York Times book review, starched white tennis linens, scratchy on perfect white skin, seersucker and topsiders, obscenity and ignorance, beauty and shelter from the storm. Paid to parade a facade of
orchestrated insincerity, what lies beyond the hedge, the teeming, chaotic marvel of the world,
its diversity constantly shape-shifting into new places, tastes, smells, we want this, but do we really?
-Vancouver Blues-
The taste of espresso lingers harsh and acrid on my tongue, neutralized slowly by the chilly rain
, city of somber blue-green sea at odds with the soaring, jagged peaks which rise out of the sharp steel angles of downtown, moss-covered and mysterious in the fading fog, primeval landscape unchanged by the hands of man which somehow have tread lightly on a post-modern, romantically detached skyscape of glass, steel, wood and stone hewn into bold statements of co-existence with the every brooding, boiling grey-green clouds which keep everything so incessantly, rakishly lime-green, budding tendrils of life that creep neath the concrete boilerplates of society, idle battlements of man at ease for a moment, only to be whipped into that perpetual caffeine buzz that infects everything here; a zestful spirit of purpose, don't stand still to long, or moss will grow on you, just like everything else, the umbrella I forgot,
for another morning shower.
-Fortune Faded-
They sit and watch me, always languidly attentive of my every move and folly, perfection they demand of my good geometry and discipline to escape the average. Reciprocation is not allowed. Reciprocation is not allowed. The purpose and figure I carved from long hours of stolen indifference, this doesn't matter to you, I'd call you a flake but that implies,
some possibility or worth you've escaped from, and as I see the light more clearly, I lurk just below the surface of time, mysterious in plain sight, waiting, hoping for your notice, you stand apart from them in your effortless, brilliant smile, but alas not for me, not for anyone really, the bounding dream I had mean nothing, your apathy cripples, it's a vice and an addiction to your shattered purpose, you stole my soul and the ransom I brought, alas, was not enough,
the firm, thoughtful weight of my inward being could not break the stale bonds of conformity you cling to, this awkward insanity a product of my eccentricity, or better, the haze of possibility, for things to happen now and not later, just do it goddammit, life is slipping by,
and all you have to show for it is faded.
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