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Jul. 17th, 2013

I think I can get this Livejournal into the Top 100. I used to have a lot of fun with this.

Let's do so again.

manifesto 3

a 9-to-5, grind like
folgers or bustelo, from the piso to el cielo,
we build a paradiso.

no sugar or cream, in between the scenes, let it simmer let steam,
let them fiend. that clock is at 6, we on this rap shit.
seat belts, fastened, on these poetic enjambments, we describin
how the cream rises, blossoms off the top, holdin the sky like Atlas',
harder on the drop, randy savages, angrily salvagin, championing the damages
alongside my columbiana mama, addin comma's like damn kid where your grammar is.

hah, ask the M.C. where the hammer is. what kind of message we really send through the cameras,
see what happens is,

after rocketin' out yo scholarship, to doctorate, magne cum laude's, mom's applaudin it from the audience,
diplomas, degrees and tassles, and the hassles with.
how the women, most self-sufficient have the hardest struggles of conditions,
askin answers from the politicians and religions,
now they say at the age of 26, you gotta give up the ambitions
you only are what you've been committed,
but if we split the digits, when popularity was never in the position,
even me at 13, being taught how to script it through the guidance of ms. kimmich,
never imagined, i'd inhibit, a traction on these worn tires from the tokyo driftin,
on negative opinions, believin happiness is a paycheck,
only to realize it's earned through the punches of a great fist, gettin blood on your taped wrists,
go on and face it. you can take 5, or take 6, go on vacation,
party it up like our class valedictorian, james did,
only to realize they never appreciated' the painting, only what it's framed with.
since those days with, i been labeled a plagiarist,
plagued with, all the voices, the straws a camel's back would break with, couldn't catch the breaks on the 7-8's with.

picture a young scatter-brained, who the classmates claimed, "couldn't make that type of writing."
tried to be a hero, only to end up an occupier,
wanted an accomplice, only to get fired from the office,
being on a fine girl's block list, all i could accomplish.

that which didn't define, we left behind, what's there to seek and find?

through the eyes of what you should be,
a child dying to say, "fuck this. i'mma do me."
now we only double-down on the digits.
so give me a minute to kick it, go for broke and fix it,
it's trouble doing this shit, but if you know what i mean,
you would see that those saying 26 is too old an age to pursue your dream,
are those who've given up on doing they thing.

living in the cruelness of they excuses, when you learn to let go, your spirit feels lighter.
so don't let anyone tell you how to rap good, or win at street fighter.
through the pain and pleasure, through every day every endeavor, i do it better
like i can be 18 forever.

even when they second-guessin me, questioning
the confidence in representin me,

it's not about recapturing the past, face the facts,
that the past is nothin but an illusion,
pursuin it is of your own choosin,
its about MOVEMENT: whether jesus or judas, a fake or a purist, indifferent, inspired or curious
but all you have is the now,
you only live in the doing.

cyberpunk

the cyberpunk.

on the tip of this ticklish hipster chick,

twitter inhibitin, re-reddited positionin,

penny-well wishes in plenty of fishes

can't tell if this is,

bitches see the visage

like the punk rockers of the British,

in the spirit of the sit-in's, politicians with conditions

of rejectin the interests,

that close classrooms and pack the prisons

thick shit. TLC on Snick this

is allllll-that...



KIM-DOT-COMMMMMM-swag, megaupload.

mortal kombat uppercut foes,

on toasty flows by the truckload,

runs unopposed,

risen from the corpse pose, astanga sun

swan dive on the toes, mental crecendoes

on one hail mary, straight to the end zone.



and so it begins

becomes and ends

a dream that never fears death.

never fatigued. MVP's never benched.

and so it begins. so it becomes. and so it ends.

a dream that never fears death.

never fatigued. an MVP never benched.



all the guns in the harness, they took all the aim

gave columbus a holiday, after all the rape

all erased, the history books off-the-page.

left in an awkward state, control all the stakes

from the trail of tears to the casinos,

hope for me though, beyond the bingo

no need fo' the keno, run the table not the numbers

on some childish gambino, fuck 'em up with some

vegetarian libido, end of the world,

lupe on some m83 flow. amigo of the people.

for the free souls or what's left of those

all on me the stretch the mold

with the breath control

of bo jackson in tecmo bowl.



methodology of apologies, an underage chick on mollie sprees,

strobe of the rave all shes sees, a 50-somethin madonna askin "can ya cop for me"?

i gotta be the one with a goddess on top of me.

drummings of inner-nothings, mumblings of second comings,

the unbecoming of an abrupt one, in obstruction of the corruption,

that bluffed some, conundrums that we're not the loved ones.

crushed loves, the rhymes on the on pens and pads with atop an anvil of a blacksmith,

on the layover, stay sober, no bakin' soda in what i cook this crack with. add with,

a kind of math ya can't get. and it,

change order, food chain get a makeover, made to order, apex predator-takeover,

with the speeches of the despair of the deepest-reaches of the indonesian rainforests.



and so it begins

becomes and ends

a dream that never fears death.

never fatigued. an MVP never benched.

and so it begins. so it becomes. and so it ends.

you must dream as if you don't fear death.

never fatigued. an MVP never benched.


ceiling fan spins above my head. it's revolution is counter-clockwise.

push it to the limit, typin hundreds a words a minute,
pumpin specifics of intrinsic worth to live with,

"are you kidding me?

keep on keepin on.





cut the mic but keep the speakers on,

they bendin us over to spank us more
filling our mouths with canker sores
and demands for us to thank em more
while they tank ashore, and keep bankin more
that mess of the past tense. scratched up like a cat sense
at how shit happens. i hit up the bitch with the dragon.
tattoo, killa attitude and maybe snap at some tools
aint no tellin what this wrath'll do. shit happens, dude.


i get all stronger,

like daft punk with kanye.

what the top-40 station spins.
where the forsaken-live, play the same shit, boughie ass-shakin' with,
depths that satan live. no playin with songs of salvation
lmfao'in in the face of, nigga who you playin it?

but it made me stronger like daft punk with kanye did



keep on keepin on
until the now, i'm seeing strong

see in the fog.

in appreciation

when the reasoning is wrong.

till fingers in the sky.


this flows just smoke from a dragon's breath
that ain't even met the disaster yet.



a paradise
from parasites

foudnation layed in, with estates in the islands of cayman with a






they bendin us over to spank us more
filling our mouths with canker sores
and demands for us to thank em more
while they tank ashore, and keep bankin more
that mess. past tense. scratched up. cat sense.
at how shit happens.
bitch with the dragon tattoo, killa attitude and maybe snap at some fools
with what this wrath'll do. shit happens, dude.

what the top-40 station spins.
where the forsaken-live, play the same shit, boughie ass-shakin' with,
depths that satan live. no playin with songs of salvation
lmfao'in in the face of, nigga who you playin it?
but it made me stronger like daft punk with kanye did

scarred pride, hard feelings hide
knowing the divine,
through the pointing of fingers in the sky

keep on keepin on
until the now, i'm seeing strong
just beamin in the fog.
in appreciation
even in the wake of when
the reasoning is wrong.
my muse sings the song
beyond boulevards.


in these city halls, lying mirrors on the wall,
nearest crystal ball, with uninspired aspirations
wonder if it's even a gift at all?


they gotta get their hats off.
modern day ad-rock. laptops
anonymous-hacked off, black blocs

viper road cross

sharpened soul that's where the blade be,
but lately, askin what will it take me?
to unleash this sword, release the safety,
father forgive me, i'll never feel these sins erasing
for i know not what i do, i only follow craving
in the fog of where the kush and the haze-be
the nasty to amaze the, with one-mic ably
ultimate fighters, 8-sides of steel couldn't cage me.
how the stars equate thee, star trek can't phase me.

this-raging-bridge-breaking-ridge-racing-ridiculous-indigenous-plaything
this-raging-bridge-breaking-ridge-racing-ridiculous-indigenous-plaything.

lost-the-appreciation,
caught-in-the-dating from parkinson-shaking that put pause on the gaming,
situating with the withdrawals-plaguing,
from the bitches where they aim be, solely flake-me or hate-me,
kept training, in the heart of the jungle where the rage be
so when they see it in these eyes gazing
into the mind and heart of a lion, no time for taming.

DONT CALL IT A COMEBACK
I JUST HAPPENED TO APPEAR.

feeling the pleasures of,
being seven steps ahead of 'ya
possessin the betterness,
blessins wit coca-cola-mexican's
drinkin till the brinkin of redeemin
this believing. bringing to the knees, antitheses
of these species, make moves, no time for meetings
of artificial greetings superficial sweeties,
that gave the paul deensies, type 2 diabetes.
picture pretty missing pieces, but christian seen-the
shattered mirrors between-the
visions of mescaline-filled
medicine-pill, the pen is filled
penicilin, pecilled in
villain, hot seat grillin'
regis philbin en route to my millins.
slumdog, oscar-winnin.

federico fellini, mi dolci vida, veni vedi vici
cena-can't-see-me, trampolining cross the east indies
on the thoughts i be thinking, depth deeper than nietszche,
with one fine mama she-be, tangled up where sheets-be
hopefully we-see, if she got the power to heal me
makin' this snake moan like christina ricci.

jacob's ladder.

is the glory of god's, the story of ours?
from the forest and fog
can we grow and be strong
hear the song from the charm
of the loving star, to say we destined
in our methods to find def'nitions
of perfections, and make the detestin
economic and ethnic cleansin all stop?

i pause. for a moment.
observe only the notions,
giving the livin, program the antitodin'
the most important flowin' against sands of erosion
approach the decomposin
with miracle lyrical revitalizing lotion
dosage so potent, so to thaw out the frozen
gotta kick it in slow motion.
puff, puff pass on the closure,
now i take a toke'in.

battle-scarred for their babylon.
looking down on us as they get their tower-of-babel-on.
sucks when success is all a gamble on
what kind of mood they standin on.
i'm reppin the message but they always get my grammar wrong.

affirmative actions. markin the end of middle passages,
but moving on after the, facts they still laugh at em
cat scratch at 'em, rank em the last of em
assumin they can't read, or see the math in the
hand-crafted fractionals, keep our image closed captioned-in
of the human condition, who you foolin, christian?
with the fox news they listenin, they lose their ambitions in
questionin our trust we elected in, wrestlin our senses with
the bells they whistlin of emptiness,
like that dog, of pavlov's, droolin over the empty dish.

battle-scarred for their babylon.
looking down on us as they get their tower-of-babel-on.
sucks when success is all a gamble on
what kind of mood they standin on.
i'm reppin the message but they always get my grammar wrong.

some only borrow and never own up. rappin that bakin soda
throw the guns and coke up, only pretending to be grown up
sippin venti lattes from a starbucks on the corner
spittin in the rhythm about the bullets that missed him
on his iPhone 4-touch. the screen.
photoshopp in some bitches and blings,
juxtapositioned
with the cliff huxtable livin with
the guilt of it equivalent and ambivalent
appealin to the ignorance of citizens
not sure if the universe is really feelin it
a collage of false images, electronic press-kits and shit
make you no different than what milli vanilli did.

you have never failed me.
disappointed me? yes. too many times to count.
look at the mentalities I have to move you away from.
look at all the time I have to take out of my ambitions. my hope. my love that loves me back. to help you back up and get you moving.



somewhat i'm reminded of why I made myself a personal blog and stuck to it for so long:
a place of my own construction for me to own up and be myself.
a place for my mistakes to plot themselves.
this was the place where i could win by being the loser.
and through here you found out what and who i really am.
someone who always gets the wrong idea. someone who fears predictability.

i kept it real here.
even if what i wrote wasn't.
i took any and all criticisms,
accepted them,
and went about my way.

with the stabbing of a page with my pen as the only thing moving.
like a dude with no dribble. always traveling.
sometimes i literally just do things until i'm yelled at to go away.
it's just who i am. take it from me and the many wrong ideas brewed through my mind through the many moons, my dear.

there will never be an omnipotent understanding of anything for me:

a young and ambitious man watching his shadow silence the beaming and fleeting sunlight of the evening crossing the lake he stands in front of. closing down on the shore and crouching next to a mound of flat-surfaced rocks. one dances down each of his fingers while he compares the surfaces of the rocks and the water.

through the few leagues, he learned to gaze into oceans.
watching each and every wave break toward the slopes of sand on the shore.
through every sediment it could, only to fall and seep below the grounds surface.
i can't think of anything else right now more real and of more sense to me.
into a silence, a silence I need to take in and understand.

it will never come full-circle.
we are human, and all desires for the divine will surely leave us in disappointment.
but no one's life is lived without disappointment.
we still have friends that are good to us, we have people that believe in us. that will follow this story regardless of how many times we promise them there may not be a good ending on the last page.

we can shrug our shoulders with a sigh directed at the ground with no chance of ever reaching the sky.
or we can feel the flat surface of a rock with our thumb and from it find a thought to smile upon.

we can skip that rock, through as many waves as we can, just to see how many jumps it can get. upon throwing, our arms swing sideways to ask if it can go on and surf into eternity?
Cast away. The spinning stone says, "Maybe..."

rock is tough. that's what it believes in. through erosion it unifies grain-by-grain. when we learned about the rock's toughness. humans learned weaponry. It was the friend that stood beside Cain when jealousy of his brother began to brew.

rocks were meant to be thrown but i'm not about watching where the rocks will fall. i meant to throw rocks just to see if they could fly. as a young child i observed that when stone cast sideways, two flat surfaces would collide. the stone and the water grew parallel. the likeness sent the stone for a few more trips. water can solidify at the surface as hard as the rock. though it can possess the softness of a goddess it can still jam the lungs of a human, press down weight, and disintegrate the toughest of any rock grain-by-grain.

then one stone caught my attention. when he observed the heart-shaped stone on his palm, i held what felt like two merged tears. these thumbs and index fingers surveyed the rock, marveling over it's softness and the warmth i felt closing the heart in these two palms. one tight squeeze and it became hot and with a long-arching sidearm throw the rock split straight through the beam of sunlight on the water. It took 3 skips and then sank into the depths.

the love was now leagues away.

thy do we throw our hearts like stones?

absence sets into the soul the moment it hits home.

shoes, shirts, and all clothes in service. i ran into the water. devolving sideways toward a swimming position. it turned darker toward a desire that no amount of hard work can fulfill.

one that can only fulfill itself.

like a diseased man staring at his cure. it had to wait.
and then he began to feel it, those thoughts, poisoning his blood.

a wish to cheat death,
like a glance at the next desk
during a spelling test.
scared to try, opening
a surgically-repaired third eye. i remind:
this heart is human,
so lets do this.
through this,
to see a second sun
a sceptor stood
frozen in the storm:
iced lightning.

the dueling suns wave to me
reflecting from a lake
that had given many lies
but this time, meet me halfway it might
if only i try.

"drink" a command is barked under the breath of the sun
i call the bluff
and greet the dream
with no fakeness
in this oasis
the sage du soleil with
a hand raised
begins to say,
paradise is always promised
involved in all this
if you take it to a higher conscious

not in a car nor in a wallet
above the facade with
through these eyes the sands give rise
a desert that once dried the mind,
has drifted off to the side.
arrive. a new hori-
zon, comprised of
the hot colors of clouds,
to forever climb up.

submerged. as though a sail in a storm. attempts to resist the rip currents only to be found further from the shore, and that's where this personality went without a chance to wave it goodbye.

and it will miss this. perhaps more than i will miss it.

drowned.

then somewhere, a head shooting through a surface. screaming from the burning sensations of the salt in the eyes.

but with the air and a little adaptation and eventually feeling of freedom and enjoyment, every breath of these lungs enlarge. feeling it.

is reincarnation a complete cure or only an antidote amidst a sea of poisons?

what happens if you feel a darkening of your veins?
with poisoned blood pumping pain forcing the lips to say,
"not again..."

i return to shore. standing before it and the silence of the sun.
these knees stab the sands.
i fill my two hands with stones, drawing my fractured-face downward with a heavy breath sinking through the shadows of my palms.

hands grow warm and the rocks begin to shake. eroding grain by grain.
without a smile i blow the fragments of crushed work into the ocean.

they glide into an airborne school and capture the orange essence of the evening while showering toward the water.

when the stone droplets touchdown onto the surface, they fall flat, parallel, and take a few more leaps. Love goes on a little longer.

despite giving a sigh, I see the lesson now.

it's important to be happy. it always is. but sometimes you can't be happy just to save yourself. everyone looks up to someone. and if i can't be happy and look up to myself, then i'll just have to do it to be looked up upon through the eyes of others

i don't know what the world is holding next for me. i don't know who is waiting for me along this shore...

all I can do is watch the rocks glide on the surface with every skip, embracing every single one were given.

every bird that sings with the skies feels pride for those that are First in Flight. divinity in it's everything is found in the extra bounces life gives us.

keep skipping baby.

lust over luck

hot of the press. first edition at the door-step.
a headline addressed to say we blessed.
an experiment a success.
made of the mess gained in essence.
no weight in excess.
immaculate the fashion get call it express.
jeans and jacket expect nothinless,
gained the best, in the face nontheless of every day to test

the fiend that shaked the meth,
with measure of pleasure to express, rain-drenched of a presence, to impress the empress, goddess-dressed with no stains on the chest.
of bitches beyond riches, never a paycheck.
we claim the never-yet. made of what they can't arrest.
an aim to perfect, a claim to obsess,
to shed away the names that obsess
preservation of past a fight for a future, we play to protect.

angel attack movement, an art-alive, yet muse-less
that coming-through-with comeuppance of confusions.
checkin and correctin at every-steppin
flow so foolish, that it became the fluent-s,
choosin's of rudeness over prudence,
under the influence. from the garden it grew with,
the city-speaks, sprouted through the concretes of cruelness
amidst enemy-fightin, an energy crisis and emerging gas-prices,
stay re-fueled with.

an immediate ingredient of an experiment expedient,
lab of eden, project adam, project eva, and the reasons
in the name of civil disobedience before the behemoths wit
the greediness that the industryin' been agreein wit.
cuttin down the trees to get monsanto-patents on the seeds we set.
all cost-effective and carcinogenic, abduction of adolescents.
what they schemin with. new carbon monoxides all-disguised, apartheids that leave us torn apart-by, the bullshit we breathin-with.
this love, we been cheated-with. what's the point of the degree's we get.
or what we seek to fix?

expected to comply-back, with a mind-that failed to ever reach a climax...
so they define that with a nevermind-that.
i'mma take my life back. and live it 10-times that.

thoughts-racing, on the kush-blazing to cope with the days awakenin from
nightmares like wes craven
gave the cyberpunk a cravin, to go out guns-blazing, bloodied scarf in the wind tray-ling, solid snake'ing to save the game, call otacon or mei-ling,

bringing the beauty out of you

It shines through the surface of the lens. It smiles to paint the fullness of fascination in a face. It is a flower in blossom under a vibrant sky. Presented by prismatic pigments stretching toward the infinite expanse of love. It is a story waiting and wanting to be told to and through the eyes. It impresses. It inspires. It amazes and engages the instant upon sight in ways beyond words. Bringing the Beauty Out of You brings the beauty of being to the forefront of being through the natural features of life’s lens of love. Dealing with the most natural-looking of all beauty. The beauty that flirts with the frame. Communicates with the essence within, making the definitive difference between fleeting and forever.

As the timeless classic rock band Jefferson Airplane sang, "You are only pretty as you feel inside." Beauty is the art of championing the inner-brilliance between the blades of grass and the passing winds. through open fields and urban living, true beauty forever shines. Singing the sweetest symphonies of life.

Founded by professional artist and proven cosmetologist Natalia Santiago, Bringing The Beauty Out of You bridges the gaps by bringing the most natural-looking make-up made to capture and enhance the inner glowing within all of us. To each it's own every rose has a thorn. But in that perfect place with the perfect shade--the best in the philosophy of cosmetology and philosophy, that rose’s thorn becomes an edge. The edge that can only be witnessed and felt. All through an Ansel Adams-approach aimed toward transcending times, modes, concepts of the old, new and niche. Providing the priceless and timeless that forever redefines sight to the very eyes.
she could feel it in the rails.


under her wheels singing sweet frictions to the cold steel


as she slid toward the afternoon sun.

restruction (part 1)



What does it take to make a comeback? Where's the magic to it? Where is that kind of inspiration.

Traditionally, inspiration is a spark. Just something that gets someone going. The way I like to think of it: it's like finding something to swing at. Like a fastball over the plate that isn't fast enough or a man disrespecting another man's woman. Whether you're doing it to get what you want or protect what you have it's still the same driving force.

I've been using the words injuries and ambitions. Some can say it's hurt and hunger/thirst. It means the same things. Both can give a boat something to float on. They can take something away from a man, making him miss what is gone. And they can also give a man sight of what he doesn't have, making him hate what he has going in his name. The boat can still sink.

And the boat doesn't have to sink, you can fall over the edge yourself. Too many injuries and too many ambitions makes the mind see the most fucked up complication of all, the real world. And so you look to lighten the load. Inspiration sits at the shore watching you sail to the sunsets without it.

And now the captain stands in the midst of his deck staring upward to the congress of stars. With every dot his eye connects he feels a little more stranded in his thought process. He is so speechless that the crew of the ship doesn't know what to do. In order to have a task to do, the crew-mates await the captain's actions.

They wonder about him. How he's been getting quieter and quieter. Perhaps it's the growing consumption of rumming and drugging that has silenced his throat. Perhaps it's being so long out in the ocean without female involvement- I don't need to say how messed up that is. But some of the crew members with seniority know better. The ones who have crossed the ungenerous seas to the ends of the continents may not entirely know what's wrong but they know what's up.

The captain has not been painting. And he has not been reading. They know he hasn't seen an image in his mind nor had he been filled with any. And there was certainly more than a bible in his quarters. The mind was no longer keeping him busy.

But the captain still had fresh spots and stains of green, brown, red, and blue paint over the faded smirs on his coat. But the crew knew that nothing was being made. The captain crossed his arms behind his back and stood with a little more silence.

It's a tough thing to think about. Making a comeback without going back. Back was a state of being that stood an inch taller. The "Back" referring to a place he physically once stood in the past no longer existed.

How can a home away from home become a home? How do we learn to love again?

How do we bring a fight instead of just looking for one to get into? How can we channel the energy to beat it up as bad as we are beat up?

For the captain, if he had only brought a mirror. Maybe he could have seen it. The answer surely would have reflected back to him. He might have seen something in himself. Something from the past. Maybe he could bring something "back" without being "back".

He plotted points on his map using his geometric and magnetic compasses. With a new course the ship would dock at a nearby nation with a language he could speak. He paid the crew a little extra with direction for them to "wine and dine". It looked like he had bought them a few days with a good nightlife but he was actually buying time for himself.

Is the town the answer?

Maybe we'll see when I feel like continuing this story.

Maybe.