It's Summertime

Once I could touch the sun. I could hug their fiery photosphere. Wash them with starlight, before sending them off to school.

After the divorce came the Fall. I could still see them, but the distance - things just got a little cooler. Moods changed, from bright green to more sober colors. Sometimes I'd feel like I was just floating, drifting on some uncaring wind.

On Thanksgiving day 2010, I was told they were moving to Florida, the farthest point from the sun. Icicles were on my face by the afternoon. I could see my breath, words like "You'll get them this summer. They won't forget you. Use Skype for video calls." More cicles, crying like a bitch. Angry, confused, frustrated, but still willful. I would see them soon.

One thing I've learn about my orbit is that it never stops. I set small fires at the cave's mouth. Stored fruits and vegetables. Sent presents from the amazon. Always prayed to the stars, always knew my season would come.

Now, I can see green beneath my toes. The earth doesn't resist me as she once did. Hope, laughter, more dirty dishes are coming into view. It's summertime...

Photo: Lamp light through glass cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Boardwalk

Peeling. Time is eroding your sexy. At some point in this spiral, some fluid point over my shoulder you were YOU. Mad fans, lots of accolades, a kind of fame was bestowed. Somewhere back over a forgotten horizon, you stood hips and shoulders above contemporaries. Now though, in this present foam, these waves, these throngs of people don't put face to music. No recognition, just polite smiles as they keep moving toward work or play.

Cycles, we'll see your kind again. Just a different face, different lyrics, but the same song. You carried swishes to the beach like the other currents before you and were appreciated at the time. But time is a lazy foam, bubbles popping on shore, soon forgotten. Splashes are different, but I'll never forget that sound.

Photo: Corner of old building on 7th & L Sts NW, DC (Now painted over) with remains of a Tracy Chapman poster on wall taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Buchhorst H1, Big Up)

Ancient Future

There it is, my passage out! A thin door amongst pages of a book. She told me I wrote scripture, my poetry had god-sense. I scribble only what I have seen.

My religion is liberty. A realization that your original mind is all you need to be free. The mind of a child, ignorance of fear. This world is a dream, so live in a dream-state as often as you can.

A scribe with many books in his satchel. Each one written with his feet. Experiences he prints in blood and dirt, dries into scars on the pages. The future reads and changes course. Only then can it really be called the future.

Photo: A journal I bought from Borders Books taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Cano Cafenol)

Ashram

It might as well be a temple. As many times as I've retreated to its open solitude. The spirits, the elves, the open doors I've seen in its low cut grasses. It might as well...

A girl showed me how to find four-leaf clovers. Old gods kiss my face when I was anxious about the divorce. I bartered with a priestess for the cookie. I've seen myself walking barefoot through the grass. Once there were creatures gathered in the far corner looking up. I looked up too. We were all blessed.

I am the shadow in this place. The observation of myself is true religion and my path to enlightened.

Photo: Mom's backyard, one of the most holiest places on Earth taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)

These United States...

Myself and my fellow Americans complain too much. Liberals complain because Obama acts like a compassionate conservative. GOP complains because he is Black. Democrats complain because Obama continues W Bush's wars. Tea party complains because he's Black.

I work the weekends and.. wait, I'm employed?! Yes, I'm employed and have been all my adult life. I have loved ones not so lucky. I say luck, not because I didn't educate myself, acquired new skills, learn how to get along with people, because I did. I say luck because I'm sure other folks have and they are still jobless.

I am fat (as of this writing) not because of thyroid problems, but because I eat too damn much. There are people who don't have the same access to foods that I do and they are in the same zip code. Lucky, blessed, take your pick.

My beloved anonymous brother and sister, please take this time to celebrate the fortunes you do have. Like this internet enabled device your reading this self righteous blog post on. The Gods, Fates, Probability has been good to us. That picture is of a sandwich I bought from Starbucks. Taste good, but makes you write blog posts like this, so be careful.

Photo: Sausage, egg & cheese from Starbucks taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Alfred Infrared)

the Evangelist

I heard this fire, these finger tips walking across coals. A sacred dance in Sin City. My reptilian brain was disquieted, he didn't know what to make of this language; the pain and insight of the Blues, delicious chaos of a Hendrix run. How can you put words on invisible tongues.

In 1972 the universe was created. Gods and goddesses were worshipped because they made it rain and the children grew up with a strong sense of cultural pride. In 1972, wars were fought and ended, long hair had politics woven into it. God was Black, Brown and Yellow.

On this sacred corner, wrinkled hands still remembered how to pray to ancient gods. The strings theorized people would pay to hear the gospel during their lunch hour. They was right. I saw all classes bow and toss IOUs at the prophet's feet. Their ears burned, they caught that feeling, then moved on. Prayer changes things.

Photo: Guitarist at 7th & F Sts, Wash DC taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Lucifer VI, Blanko Noir)

Taste

She didn't call. I saw a light refracting in a glass half full. I could distract myself with disappointment or burn this alcohol in a lamp and write.

My ink spilled a bit, dripping off the table, directing me to look elsewhere for inspiration. At two o'clock, a Cinderella relinquishes hard labour for a short time. Perhaps to meet a writer in his solitude.

I've seen a stone faced barista soften with easy, patient chatter. "Why do you care about my final exams." She says, espresso shots fall. I let the query linger, form its own conclusions, let the seed of curiosity grow.

Let it steam, questions without answers foam in the mind about this caring, well dress regular. Stir in a little politics and some compliments on simple braids and curls.

Can't grow attached to any potential cup of latte. The constant waiting in line or unrequited advances, enamors you to the process. To sip is not as important as that act of treasuring the taste.

Photo: To go cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Pistil, Cherry Shine)

One Bad Apple

Where has the love gone? Alot of ya'll are new to the game, I know about that Mac SE in college back in '87, I rocked the Centris in '93 and feed my family with the graphics work. It was beautiful.

Here in 2011 I find that Apple is tracking me. Where is the love? Since at least iOS4, Steve has been collecting latitude and longitude data on every iPhone and iPad user. Data that can be accessed by anyone who can access your mobile or computer.

When I read this on Twitter and then Gizmodo, that Apple 1984 commercial came to mind. You 'member - the bleached out white dudes marching toward that huge screen with Big Brother shouting on it.

Then the riot police chase this woman with a John Henry hammer into the hall where these drones are seated. She hurls the hammer at the screen destroying it, freeing the minds of the masses. Inspiring, but that was 1984.

Here in the twenty first century the interpretation is clear. The mindless drones are the Apple faithful (me once). The riot police is Apple, Inc. and the woman with the hammer are the jail breakers. Today Apple is the State! All power to the ppl!

Photo: MacBook Pro on glass table with photos beneath taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Cano Cafenol)

Seasons

God is round and everything created inherits that propensity. Even conflict is cyclical, gravity pulls, planets resist, the motions are orbits. Seasons are created, life and expectations of things that have come before.

My seasons resolve around my passions. The closer I get to my fiery core, the brighter my sky, greener my grass the fuller my bounty. Wildlife flourishes, I have plans for Friday night, etc. Then the season of forgetfulness comes upon me.

I start to drift further from Sol. Days grow shorter, nights colder, too cold to speak. Constellations like Aphrodite drift by without so much as a whisper from me.

But, stars do change and I remind myself of the god I once was. A beauty lost until I find it again in myself. Memory brings the sun round. Closer, I align myself with truths I produce like blossoms. Like attracts and beauty is compounded. I remember that work toward my star is near zero effort and I feel warm.

My own personal gravity serves me well.

Photo: Juggler in Wash DC in front of Gallery Place Chinatown Metro station taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Blanko Noir)

Red Riding Hood

There was a dark wood I was trapped in awhile back. The light was blocked by people who didn't believe in ambition. They were crabs who climbed trees just to keep another crab from moving higher. They blocked out the sun, but they also formed a canopy for ambitious creatures like myself.

I met a fellow traveler from that wood the other day. She was clothed in cocoa leaves and smelled like fear. We broke bread in a place without trees and spoke of higher powers, miracles and such.

When I led her back to the road, she did not give me her eyes. Later, she stated her courage was fluttering, as if I carried a strong wind. I know it was just the city, but allowed her to draw conclusions. It was as if the spirits were telling me to remove the woods in my soul.
Photo: Crossing an intersection at twilight taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Ina's 1935)