they the prophets write
words chilling to think all through
numb symbols of prole
could it be they be
saviours with synthetic inks
prayers that result
tragedy smiling
far out into the clouds go
fumes of redemption
season of promise
idols showing their true forms
flowers in the eyes
mother of pearl moon
tonight the uncertainty
oozes out surely
alone
world at his fingertips
one
the wires carry all
crossing
the borders of time
boundaries
broken at hyper speed
to
win a race with out tracks
heal
his eye artificially at a glance
the
megabytes of dying ghosts
need
of any host the mark
of
godly hands to drill us in
the
when all is lightning sting
human
dust nothing to breathe but
spirit
i once found him looking into my eyes holding my hands
he moved me to live to love to laugh
while the endless hoping
that my days will die fast
fuel the tomorrows that cast me into a grinding trap
i really wish i wouldn’t have to leave and pace back and forth between cold frontiers looking into darkness
the void is left
as limbo and i walk hand in hand exhausted
hail to R Banks for conceptualizing and making this offering and picture possible love you so much
raggaeton and Coronavirus-19 blues
seriously woke adverts from podcast sleuths
the AG and the Russia hoax
MSNBC squealin’
through the crumbling ozone
exclusive: thee gospel truth
time doesn’t really matter?
eight hundred and seventy-six days gulped Manafort
Prius glide bike lanes wide
out-brake light-mine i’m from LA
bus lights
frozen on Mulholland Drive
Ferrari high beams with movie directors’ wives
Tupac karaoking in the car
dope beats Dre interjectin’ more more more
memories of seven fo
and the deep state goody two shoes ruse begins
110 N 110 South 360 degrees
the president in forced space
behind JFK’s refurbished desk
listening to no one but Fox and Friends
vice president boxing the Fauci and Birx bunch
“Let us love as Jesus has {LOVED?}us.”
the archbishop says
yo yo yo!?! does that mean we’re all dead…
gentrification gentrification
where’s that old voucher to my section-8
extension the PJ’s are not communes like Marx’s mandate
meth toad croaks in the trailer park door instead
sweaty poisons seeping into
the young collective American soul
finest tit slash bleach job i ever did see
skyscraper floor path paved with our correctly approved recepticled trash
while our slogan puffed chests
at the pride we have at the graves we have filled
behind dumpsters of the riche through their guerilla
drills
as we parade around the good done deeds
the mayor walks those very grounds were 30 years ago
the epidemic shunned back then
but walked for now
took most of my loves forever due to their failure to conform
now today in my home town America-LA country broken down to her
DNA
yes Cabal we are openly and freely international with an
admiration for cowboys rudeboys and all the girls in the
world
coexisting vegan meat eater howlers in the night
blues and reds never got us right
media giants you’re wrong as fuck about us
we the people of the Westside coast
Chuck wearers Mariachi trumpets duo with Miles
kung fu swinging farmers markets our neighborhoods by far were never anything ‘Little’
Hogs ride wild all the Angels of this Nation
want to say:
America have a very happy birthday
to the sweatshop workers who get paid a dime
and to the Chili Peppers the music makers of this bad ass LA house
let us not forget the discarded freedom fighters who stand in the soup lines
all the kids made from God’s rainbow flag of color
and the school babies hanging out at Food 4 Less selling candy bars for a dollar
to Kim Soo at my favorite barbecue
and of course Hadib where i used to buy my tokes
and Dona Adelita at the corner with her folks
LaTifah and Darryl who teach me about the Sheppard JC
AJ from the Lakota Nation a Captain America
comic book fiend
and all of my liberal left hook right wing swing coffee house
junkies
let the lights tonight be strong and free
reflecting from Dodger stadium to the ferociously tame
surface of the Silver lake man made designer reservoir
following the gray marbled filigree of last month’s mud on sidewalk downtown farmers market hot with California Covid sun
the cherries look tempting but the purple Peruvian potatoes go great with olive oil pink salt and cumin my face tightly masked chewing the fat with the book vendors afoot offering their home address for their monthly ‘hope we get laid’ poetry reading salon
then the urban crows catch my eyes they with E A Poe smiles rainbow oil slick feathers shine under that California Covid sun
Dr. TL tongue tab flash back dream hits me like a polar breeze suddenly there is baby Grady golden brown moppy hair blue Keds size three and an uncle with soldier rough hands smiling at me
no sooner than a tear peeks into my water line a sonic whistle from Spring Street punctures my loser mind Lola Ramirez on the weekends and Manny Sandoval during the MF 9 to 5 she a purple paisley mu mu gold earrings and Michael Kors sack me black t shirt with the face of Siouxsie Sioux paper Trader Joe’s bag both aging X’ers under that California Covid sun
Lola and i float to the flower stand and her throat crooned in a Yucatanian Spanish slang enchanting and schmoozing the vendors so i get to pay ten bucks for a 50 dollar assorted calla lily bunch
the 4 am 3 cup Turkish coffee buzz wore off and dull knife pain from old injuries descend upon my left arm so i shared a dream that a cool boy once had while Lolita and me sipped iced black pressed molassesed coffee under that California Covid sun
nobody i know
lives daintily anymore
life ever changing
ya ever listen to sister Tharpe wailing on her guitar while spiking up your mohawk
strumming and tugging at my strands as her sweet sultry honey melts into my ear veins
getting ready for TSOL to play on the Sunst Strip in LA balls to the wall sexy hell
underage but i don’t care the way i’ve been living i’m going no where
life was too lively growing up at home so i ran from the folks
and broke all the rules danced on the shore at 7 past noon
big black ugly boots Cinderella slippers were for fools
stick my tongue out at the sky fill my nose up with white lies
scratches cuts bruises and tears bloody trousers fists in the air
scent of cars black smoke and politicos resign my gender go underworld
Christ Savior i see the Son can You explain why i felt at 3 like 21
riding on the bus with the ladies of the night shift who went to clean the houses of the rich
indignation in their smile as bright brown eyes fell on my style
echoing in the length of the trains how can this child spit on the American dream
missing the point in what i conveyed symptom of the American nightmare lost on the way
sculpture outside of Indian Alley art gallery and yoga studio
