Skip to main content

New Beginnings

Here's to new beginnings/
Through the crimson/
Haze that soothed the trimmings/
Of a smoother living/
I'm moving swiftly/
Who could hit me/
Delusion grips these/
Stupid miscreants/
That choose to piss me/
Off with clueless slipping/
I won't lose my winnings/
No longer running in place/
Instead I hustle with grace/
Even if I stumble in faith/
For much of the day/
Nothing is safe when/
Trouble is sacred/
Punching the face is/
A loving display of/
Crumbling hatred/
My club is The Haven/
But I'm brushing the pavement/
With my love for the language/
That saved me from anguish/
Years ago when I sputtered and fainted/
When life punctured my safety/
Done with the aimless/
Nights in barstools/
Like the thought you/
Tried to harbor/
When time forgot you/
Your strife was all true/
But light dissolves fools/
That might alarm cruel/
Fate to spite a parched view/
I write to conquer/
My mic will arm you/
Try to start new/
And climb the scarred tomb/
Of your inner sanctum/
A sinner makes the/
Prison thank him/
For living anxious/
Simply gracious/
And dripping pain in/
The form of sweat/
Born in debt/
Existing thankless/
For tilling paydirt/
Just for change and/
I'm slipping payment/
Into the distant cradle/
You built to raise a/
Chilling fable/
Amidst simmering latent/
Filler slated/
To pierce a basement/
Hid in plain midst/
These insane mists/
Are warping minds/
Distorting lives/
And swarming my/
Cordial cries/
To hopeless lines/
Of shortened dire/
Souls that delight/
In forming sides/
I'm torn in size/
Splintered in half/
Picture a slap/
On the blistering back/
Of a rigorous wack/
Job hat doesn't dither in crap/
But lives for this knack/
God's given him that/
Leaves him itching to scrap/
Cause his lyrics/
Are pistols/
That leave him gifted and strapped/
Existing to rap/
Privy to lash/
Out with vengeance/
Slap a record/
On and stand with devilish/
Bastards repping/
A standard treachery/
Ask for reckless/
And bask in destined/
Clashes severing/
A nasty essence/
From the Master's bedroom/
Your dead soon/
And I meant to/
Respect you/
But the sense you/
Lack in measure/
Has left two/
Holes in that back of your head loose/
They beg to/
Not be passed, neglected/
But this bad impression/
Has infected/
My romantic senses/
So, clad and dressed in/
Black and pressing/
You, I laugh at your trembling/
Raise my hands and clench them/
My uncanny weapons/
Take drastic measures/
That have become natural methods/
Reach out on edges/
And grab my penance/

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

4 Reasons Why I'll Be A Vagabond In 2 Years

As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…

The Desert

The Desert



Dry air in a normally humid climate is not conducive to a strong immune system. The shock is sudden and violent on an unseen level, I'm sure.

I never thought I'd suffer from stifling congestion and repetitious fits of coughing while stationed in Hawaii, but I was proven wrong recently.

As I pen this, my throat, though healed and no longer reacting in an incendiary manner when forced to swallow, is as arid and barren as the Mojave.

My chest is harboring a veritable barricade of mucus, and each pill I pop, in hues of rose red, ocean blue and grass green, chip away at bricks of the stubborn, phlegmatic stowaways.

My nose is on the brink of suicide, and breathing in coats each gust of air with a Welcome Aboard package of sandpaper and gravel.

In short, I'm fucked.

Yesterday I spent half the evening limping around wincing, my side cramped by an invisible knife, present and piercing, jostling with each aching step.

Save for a few meandering sets and reps performed to…

Nights At The Apollo

Nights At The Apollo




"Sit down, my boy.", he'd say relaxed, contentment and happiness spilling over in his tone like rain from a windowsill.

I'd settle in to a leather chair and watch as the sun disappeared behind a lavender horizon, winking at me brightly in various lively hues before absconding for the evening.

I'd observe him like a student before his master as he'd carefully select a CD from his well worn plastic attache case. It was a veritable armory of ageless music; Swing, Blues, both American Southern and Chicano, Jazz and Big Band.

My Grandfather played rhythm guitar in a band during his youth, wielding a Gibson ES335, its body ponderous and cherry red as a pin-up girl's lipstick.

He'd perform deftly, his fingers moving with the smooth choreography of a true professional. Eventually, the twin realities of career necessity and a burgeoning family brought an end to his strutting onstage, but he never relinquished his musicality.

That night, n…