Silence
Now you may not see the use in this - being just for being.
There is a certain truth in this.

I solemnly swear on my mom
my song will, nay
my psalm will pray
my palms will stay pressed on
kneel straight to the hills and caves of the gods,
their grace in my arms.
To the poet to the speaker
through the form and the metre
through the speakers through the woofers and tweeters.
The turntable might wobble or teeter
it won’t falter.
Remain still – guarded by the ether.
As the prophets have taught us,
not the apostles you thought of like Mathew, John, Paul or Peter
from who we heard, we won’t find peace on earth
at least ‘til the lama lie down with the cheetah
as they want us to believe it (they need us to)
indeed to keep a destiny, we don’t author,
but honest. I think I can. I think like Thomas the train
I stay on it. The little legend that could
with an engine like a 757 jet-setting like I should
to all continents.
Seek the shaman and the priestess
the Brahman and the preacher
the scholar and the teacher
for the drama and the theatre,
built a stage, of same bark that birthed Adonis.
Stepped on it and saw my self. On the path that would pain me the most ‘til I fade to a ghost – acknowledged, I walk in silence.



The angel flying by your awkward pause
is the artful dodger with an honest cause
leave the scene of the crime, screaming fuck Johnny Law.
Forward to the left like the knight upon the chess board.
The art of war is a part of rob.
I paint a picture out of words, I can hardly draw.
If I ever had writers block, I carved a statue of it.
It’s my vision so you have to love it.
Now you can hear my kingdom coming like the drumming of the timpani
Where they blasting trumpets, for the king in me,
that they would ask I plummet, it sickens me
to the back of my stomach, right where the liquor be.
Inspired ‘til I expire, where I reside at,
I’m in the time in between 2 high hats.
In that silence, I dwell in it. I’ll die in it.
Rebel in it, revolt in it and ride for it.
Its ever so essential, a symbol
between two cymbals. Them-two. I
tremble in limbo, dependant on the tempo,
living in the liminal realm, held in an interlude
moving at the helm.

Beyond the few stories that we retell,
in a land of glory and retail,
there lies a silence, where I rebel,
it’s the only thing not for sale.

In silence, I rebel
for its all that’s left that’s not for sale.
In that silence, I rebel
its all that’s left that’s not for sale.

Beyond the few stories that we retell,
in a land of glory and retail,
there lies a silence, where I rebel,
it’s the only thing not for sale.

In silence, I rebel
for its all that’s left that’s not for sale.
In that silence, I rebel
its all that’s left that’s not for sale.

Somewhere between,
above and below the sounds of the city.