2012 is a Joke

Emergency! Market forces extracted wealth from the working classes then dropped it on a bad spin at the roulette wheel. Now they want Geico to recover their losses. The Tea Party (serfs that protect wealth of landlords) toast the idea.

The Democrats realize their President is a better conservative than the Blue Dogs ever were. I'm not making this up. Obama was vetted, like all candidates, on his willingness to protect status quo. He knew he could deliver the Dems, the Blacks and the Liberals to Wall Street in a nice neat package.

The Corporate powers do their part by painting the rational republicans, disgruntled democrats into a corner with tea party red; figuring they can keep serving poison economic policies as long as Obama is at the counter.

That stratagem will get most of us in 2012. But there's a few hardcore thinkers that will continue to bitch and blog and explore third party candidates. Who knows, since we were able to get a Black president in 2008, maybe we can get a Green one in 2012.

Photo: Walter Reed ambulance taken w/iPhone 3Gs and Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Ina's 1935).

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Grind.

Laughing about landscaping, courtyards, included utilities. Girlfriends wanting to be neighbors. Taking about abuse on Oprah, not seeing the showbiz, but the therapy. Business causal. Face brightened when I returned from vacation. This string of consciousness doesn't lead any where.

I deserve more than I am willing to give. Standing in the rain unneccarrarily doesn't proof I'm waterproof. Worn out shoes, but fingernails have no soil beneath and all money is dirty. No more time to dream. Time to work.

Photo: Shades taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (John S, DreamCanvas)

August

It's setting now, the sun is leaving me. Such a short time ago I retrieved this fire.

Hoisted on my back, we caught up on gestures and tones AT&T can't reproduce. I had my family for the summer.

Baked. So close to the sun, my skin blackens and I didn't recognize myself. All the music, arguing, laughter, crying and cooking; my solitary self recedes to let the family man through. A Black man with his suns and daughters, getting blacker in their light.

Breeze. Whispers from the pages of a calendar about the first day of school and accrued vacation. So much undone, so much accomplished, a lot of hugs. Honesty blushes for solitude. The duality doesn't subtract from my love, but only years have taught me that.

The sun is heading for the chariot, packing for the trip across the sky. The shadows grow long, touch my face, dry my tears.

Photo: drinking glass near desk lamp taken w/iPhone 3Gs and Lo-Mob app.

Sunrise

"That's not how we do things now." The future imposing it's will on me. "You are god. Repetition is the only inspiration that will lead to success. Trail and error is scripture, don't pray, do."

My notions of success are wrapped in ignorance. I build paper houses because I love the architecture. Would like to build them for a living. I also build paper airplanes that can fly in your ears, planting ideas. Again, not a professional pilot.

So this young wise man says I'm doing it all wrong, because I'm not doing consistently, just talking about it. He says the sun is setting and he won't be making up for my mistakes. He has work of his own. The only premembrance that he offers is to fail at it until I succeed. Such a hard lesson, when we live in a present full of instant everything. Nothing of signifigance, but even small instant gratification is a powerful drug.

So here I kneel, anointing my hands with the dirt of trail and error. I havent the faintest idea of what I'm doing, but doing and learning is all I have to pour into this soil.

Photo: A young writer, businessman, martial artist, world traveller taken with iPhone3GS, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, AO B&W)

Father's Day

In haste, I catch another angel, put out another fire, try to perfect a deity with my clay hands. Fatherhood is fashioning the future with the past as your only reference. You tend to fill in gaps of memory with imagination. Father is a mystic that changes diapers one minute and changes minds the next, still get some shit on your hands either case but, that's what daddies do.

The less ego, the more you have to give "I want you to be better than me". Couldn't have said that a 17 or 22, but at 32 or 40, of course. I see my own limitations and push my offspring past them. I surgically remove those handicaps with spankings, lectures and exposure to parts of the world I didn't know at that age. I stand on myself and left you up over my head.

"What do you see?"
"Ok, I don't understand, but go for it. Just remember what I taught you."

They come back with little treasures from atlantis, college and friendships with age-old enemies. Strange writings on stones that can be read by younger eyes. I trust the currency I provided will spend in the future. It came from my flesh, pounds of it.

"Daddy, we don't do things like that anymore."

Like VHS tapes, some of my knowledge becomes obsolete and I fight with myself to accept it. My shrunken ego wallows in the past and brushes off the Now as an illusion. My higher self rocks back and forth and listens.

"So, how do things work now?"

Now, I'm the old man being taught by the future. Ego goes to the grave long before me, but I don't miss him. Less tension now. Things are as they are, no interpretation needed. I just am. My children just are. There is enlightenment in just accepting what you experience as it is. Just rocking back and forth. Just listening, just being available when needed. Just fading into memory, becoming a ghost like my mothers and fathers before me.

Photo: Firetruck speeding passed me taken w/iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Big Up)

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)


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Tea

She whispered in my ear, silence. A textured, colorful fatigue of sound that felt medicinal. Words from my ears, trickled down, into my hand. My palm was read. Said I'd achieve things just beyond my reach. Said I was talented, had a voice for the masses.

Tears. Tears that puddled in my hand formed a mirror. I see the me that she saw. Eyes look hopeful, smile is slow and confidence. No wrinkles. Lost a little weight. Looked at my hands, callousness on my fingertips. They are beautiful.

Photo: Favorite mug and new journal I bought taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Buchhorst H1, Big Up)