The Essence

Reminiscin' on life as a youngin...
Spending time visualizing my poetic idols-
reciting street rhymes designed for a mind like mine.
Committing crimes of intelligence
Stealing knowledge from the lyricists
Head noddin' to that boom-bap...
Ears throbbin' from those Low End Theories
Fearing only the MC's I was robbin'
Keepin' true to the essence
The only way we get it back

New Ideas

Erratic moods dictate which one to choose

opinion motivates the mind

not yours but of the voices that i call mine

this stillness…these pens…blank pages drawn 

awakening the complex lexicon

a chaotic procession written one at a time


A promising symphony

whirling verbs now driving the rhythm

blended words the fabric of this composition

detained lyrics elated to be free

all this before I even brewed my tea…


I’ll start with the spark, and see where this goes

a subtle twist to this process…’cause my prose doesn’t flow

changed the meter and now the feel doesn’t either

needs better clever-metaphors and more dispersed verses…

framing the classic melody…a synergetic chantey


How Many Coins?


How many coins...

To join this man and really listen to his whisper?

Just a quarter for two coffees,

a few dimes for his time

To hear what it really means to be free

From heedless looks by the grimy

Grievous hooks from the spineless

Some pennies to rustle the memory

two sincere ears to regain some dignity 

A dollar or three

and the lesson is complete

Not for him, but you 

and me…


Everybody has a story

but we all don’t survive the fall


The price paid by the ignorant,

not one of us could afford it


It’s simply grace - 

an invaluable gift of the soul

A River's Regret

To own the raging river’s bravado…

An exemplary reflection of this complication

She deserved more fervor than I could ever give her

a potent confession from the quintessential paramour

Obsessed with her banter…a hollow drifter with no motto


It’s volatile path bends and falls

slave to calamitous rains and blind hope’s wrath

closing the distance between the sympathetic lake

and the ferocious ocean that knows no depth


Humbled by the impatience of juvenescence

burdened by tales of questioned decisions made

each season bring winds of turbulence

Foolish hearts embrace the battle…

a real soldier would have stayed


These still waters of dry season…

vacant showers hide the optic precipitation

counting hours until I see her again

With only ten fingers…this stream will surely linger 


Is this love??



Of course we had time…

to dream of intended lives spoken in rhyme

pondering nonsensical theories 

where we were superstars…sincerely


When each sunrise met our open eyes

the day’s vision consistently prodigious…no compromise

magisterial our stride…fictitiously contumacious the guise

consistent euphoria our tenet…forever side-by-side


We had our moments and junctures

untold stories impervious to structure 

countless minutes and occasions 

life-defining days unfaded for the duration


Had the world and everything in it

or so we thought…

each passing hour seemed so infinite

unfinished plans our biggest crime

I think about that way more often than not


just wish we had done it all

while we still had…


--- Dedicated to Sean. Always my little man...

My Soul

It walks

through tiresome trials and sudden euphoria

provoked by the deceit of fate

surviving off the crumbs of compassion 

tapping the inner warrior

searching for its mate


It talks

to the wind and stars

on questions of life and purpose

of promises made to the subconscious

about the quandaries of time and healing scars


It grooves

to the rhythms of benevolence 

vibrating existentially

under each moon

choosing stanzas for emphasis

between witty melodies of living simply


It’s moved

by desolate instrumentals,

to ease the plight of miserable individuals,

forcefully and distinctly bruised,

in urgent concert with the accused. 


It yearns

for the mellifluous sounds of emergence

toward similar luminescent entities like no other.

to listen in on impartial decisions,

for equal sin when judgement begins


It learns

from the naiveté of children,

true jubilation and genuine concern.

contentment with achievement

of wisdom from the seasons.


It lives

for love

because there’s no greater treasure.  

to comprehend “forever”

with measures that can never be severed


It gives

unconditional light,

a reminiscent refrain…

without expectation

equal parts of the whole


this is

my soul…


Patiently waiting…

Sipping. Debating.

Searching for the perfect line.

Confidence revealed in discreet stares,

expecting the consenting sign.

Her profile intrinsically hypnotic,

this silent exchange becoming melodic.

Subtle focus on the iris,

the dimples manifest.

Our intentions resolute,

hidden thoughts in lyrical caress.

Reverie in my chalice,

we toast the inevitable.

The bitter cleansing of the palate,

as our partners return to the table...


Intelligent. elegant. Alluring. boasting. Oppressed. suppressed. Scarred. misunderstood. Complicated. misrepresented. Beaten. mistreated. Strong. determined. Clever. gifted. Loud. silent. Fanatical. sensational. Spiritual. hopeful. Supportive. pensive. Majestic. cerebral. Flawed. accepting. Nurturing. bleeding. Artists. writers. Thinkers. fighters. Poets. singers. Healers. preachers. Teachers. students. Kings. Queens. Blessed. WORD.


Clinically it’s a condition,

realistically it’s a prison.

If’n when I will mention apologetically,

literally my verses are spoken devoid of cushion.

Pushin’ blindly to the edges of morality,

actually your sunrise is not my conviction.

Fractions of understanding vanish rather quickly,

as normalcy makes for inaccessible fiction.

Wishing for the gumption to alter this cerebral function,

I retreat with agitated caution, your logic is truly awesome.

Autumn brings change, but true solace comes from apathy.

Sympathy is too costly, often intimidating the victim.

Kingdoms are for the blessed, I’m standing at the boundary,

now it must be, I confess – so I’m granted my freedom.

Graffiti Train

Hopeless days start like a broken phrase,

trudging the same maze – limited are my days.

Stubborn lint in my pocket,

I’m grateful for my sanity.

Shattered mirrors at my feet,

mad symbols of disoriented vanity.

Bent spoons contort the vision,

another moon means I’m still missing.

Pain is relative – but so are my relatives.

Faceless ghosts haunt my psyche,

only the divine can forgive.

A constant mémoire as l bicker with the winter,

indignant stares find their mark – silent questions have their answer.

Serenity in living invisible,

closed hands while I pray.

I’ll ride this graffiti train until I find my way.

– I wrote this after a random discussion with a homeless man on the subway. I will never forget that day because it made me realize that everybody has a story no matter how invisible they appear to society. –

The Race

The dilapidated Dream created blurry ambition,

losing focus on the trophy from this stagnant position.

Waxen idols coveted bravely by the fickle,

provoke sable knights forever riding for the civil.

Abstinent intelligence guides the visionless procession,

powerless pawns in the battle for artificial compensation.

The discrete academic trains daily for the rivalry,

baring arms of rationality aimed intently at stupidity.

But for him there is no competition,

for unity has to be the vision – even if it reads like senseless fiction.

To finish is to comprehend incomparable diversity,

recognition of humanity will be your legacy – the supreme priceless bounty.

The Music

I wrote this when I was broke,

but money was never my objective.

My soul is lacking inspiration,

and in dire need of perspective.

The blinking cursor seems so unapologetic,

waiting for instruction from this futile mind.

Dancing in rhythm with the click-clack,

this absence of substance feels so sadistic.

Motivation arrives in waves of euphoria,

and dies in floods of insensitive karma.

The overcritical audience has me open,

fearing submissions that haven’t even been written.

This stagnant position has me broken,

pity and self-loathing is not an option.

Moments of epiphany are the essence of this notion,

the rhythmic clock of my subconscious will ensure its completion.

The groove knows no time or space,

a condition without warning or preface.

Like music in the distance,

getting lost in reminiscence...

Just Live

Conceit marks the path of the wicked – forever’s a long time to be caught up in it.
Illuminated conspiracy theories making me weary..
Still dreaming for amnesia,
another dawn and my eyes are still bleary.
Extreme mental strain,
but the cap is still fitted.
Everyday struggle is just part of the grind…
Visualizing the sun rising gives me intense peace of mind.
Annoyingly insistent on following the path of the scripted…
The beat you can’t hear gives me peace like a ballad;
the rhythm to dance and forgive…
Courage speeds the tempo,
this song was never written.
But neither was yours…just live.


I implore the siren’s song

professing to have listened before

Long disabused from the officious

an efficient malingerer

seeker of subliminal sentience

To create the idyllic pastiche

elemental virtu is what I beseech

From the magisterial virtuoso

or the trenchant pariah

It really doesn’t matter…

I should have listened also

When accosting the sinister inclination

almost forgot to arrogate

the umbra of this composition…

Grateful for heeding the exceptional,

light perpetual refusing to stagnate

this pen…this mind

tangled intricate verses

passion and vexation intertwined

An Ode to Sydney

Your light arrived on a stanza

of the most beautiful ballad

An early prelude

of graceful majesty   

The sweetest melody

pacing angelic verses

Purity of heart

inspiring the chorus

A most powerful solo

of love and adoration

For all things and all people

your shining spirit has no equal

Awesome compassion and strong devotion         

surpassing any levels that I ever had

Such a tender soul…

I’m forever proud to be your Dad



static electricity

always ready in spite of me

this master plan

that I write differently

isolated contact

a biologic symphony

the crimson torrents pulse

with rhythmic efficiency

charged positively

focus where it should be

open minds defeat stupidity

sage advice from the mastery

Slow Burn

Magnetic phrases

takin’ me through the paces

No defense for this leonine eminence

keen to the senses

Imperceptible to metaphysical faces

I often wander to hypothetical places

Gotta repossess the axis

A working cure for the fractious

tranquil vexation…I acquiesce

Incensed at the notion

witty vitriol put me in motion

self parody from the inner spoken

delinquent laughter my new emotion

as I stare out at the ocean

The Leitmotif

These cerebral tempests…
scary fantasies of my bizarre reality
The dissonant taste of this air I breathe…
Peripheral visions of the ethereal tormenting me

Sleep stokes the flames of this affliction
A profusion of divine confusion
Copious trepidation…
to drift beyond this space I exist in
This guise you see with those eyes…
Would never survive once revived

Just leave me be
Confined inside this leitmotif
I’m King of this actuality
ruler of all I manifest
Real-life is what I honestly detest
Only love can salvage this mess…


Maybe suave was more apropos

urbane vocab steady on delivery

But she’s kryptonite

Immune to the braggadocio

resistant to my thievery

That aesthetic contour…our fervent rapport

Her feline disposition keeps me from sleeping

Eyes wide open means I’m still dreaming

Musing on this concinnous libretto

but she’s kryptonite

impervious to this restless tempo

Incomparable fidelity her only decree…

…unbridled passion and everything in between

Breathless my reply,

our moment steeped in deep affection

Waiting for reality –    

“You’re my kryptonite”, is what she told me

The Poet

After it’s written I begin to forget when –

being awakened by the montage

running through my brain and – 

rejecting vestigial images of the mundane

became simple tradition for this ink pen

No repertoire to speak of

A mendicant thespian

practicing celestial invocation – 

when missing pages lead to silent rages

the fundamental lesson

absolute zero kelvin

Then the muse awakens

always on time – imperiously enthused 

divine inspiration more than I can take in.

Incessantly thankful for this sidereal affliction

any chance at gaining sanity – I fervently refuse