The rent is due

The rent is due and I don't have it again
something in my childhood said a man should provide
he should take care of his family
yet so many of us don't, we struggle so much with it
Women it seems do very much better than us
rent is this big black vulture
a blot on the sky
a cloud of ink running, pouring smudging itself across the entire page of the sky
and the writing curses it's fate
swears again and again that it will stop
memories of oblivion
we have only been here a short time anyways
since you threaten to destory us lets leave and let the world be silent
what is the point then of words, the sonds we leave behind us like tracks of sweet across the wild blue forever
the daylight we create, our child the sun, what is the purpose if the dumb grey, fat useless bohemoth, the devil
just holds us in his sway
and you all love him
and he comes to collect
a bit of our soul every month
and we can't afford it
becuase we aren't rich in currency but in colors
maybe we should leave
and they shout as they are swallowed up damn y...
eventually it's paid and the next month speeds towards today
we are slaves here
souls not enslaved by humanity, or the human condition,
but by evil
whose left handed middle finger is rent

June 13, 11

In the struggle of people on this planet we find our history
in the dirt and death, dust long ago settled and no longer whispering, hollering moaning
we find stories
In living the color and the food, the tastes yelling and brilliant, juicy and wet and sweet
they pour through our senses like miniature streams across the earth living only as long as the downpour which they belong to
bright morning sun, king of the sky, Nigerian food, Doro wat and late nights with too many friends
life washes over us a quick witted flirting cool breeze kissing cheeks and dancing on
and her story is found in her mother the earth
Earth, she is older than life
Goddess, underworld, under the world where all the bright beings rest and rise again to rise again
in our fights and cries, in our back breaking work
we wear her
her stories ever so quite
her wealth lost upon us
we wear her and cry in and of our poverty our poor spirit
and when we die we fall upon her
and melt
into her eternity
sinking to her fiery core of pure passion
the star she holds on top of her is but a shadow of the brilliance of her inside
and in her belly we are reformed men, reformed souls
and upon her skin we are human history
deep, but not quite so much as we have thought.