One's choice spotlights the steps,
One's steps lights the path. Keep movin'
Cause stillness don't save you, Nobody's
Out here gets a prototype.
Most days you move cause standing still
Still hurts intensely.
Life hands out shadows, corners you can't
Recognize, faces that changes cover up.
But choices?
They're lodestars small ones.
The kind that sparkles when you shak'em
But still exhibits something real.
Take one step- The ground shows it's face.
Take another- The byways stops
Misrepresenting. It ain't about being brave
It ain't about being perfect. It's about
Confessing.
" I'm done wasting time for clarity to come find
Me".
Every move an individual makes glows a
Itty-bitty more of the way.
Even wrong turns educate you where not to go
Make an exit.
So you choose
You learn
You grow
And the next steps glows just enough for you
To keep walking.
Recalling days in a state
you
might feel after faking
your own breath of fresh hair she fried
from that floor dayward to
be right
on the
pointless hell prototype
aligning with her vision
of
the self-confident soldiers
singing her to the quick and stick-
y hotel where no one
ever
checks out
the plumbing unless pres-
sured to do so by the
bladder
of fact
madam at the recep-
tion desk.
Systemic Strain Part II
Proof that survival is an art outline,
And you paint it daily with any scraps
They embark you.
They monitor your struggles without seen
In the prototype of the broken appliances
Behind it.
The group blame the person
Instead of the patterns.
They call it "Personal "
Responsibility ".
When it's genuinely Systemic Sabatoge.
But you-
You trudge with a spine that recalls everytime
You bent and still didn't quit.
You speak with a voice that carries the
Parroting of every barrier lifted.
And you say it plain, loud enough for the
Block to hear:
This tautness ain't mine
This fault ain't mine
This fight was allotted to me by a system
That never cultivated how to hold its own
Bulk.
I'm not the Crack.
I'm the pressure point.
I'm the vocal cords that named the real culprit
And to carry it's shame declines.
Beauty from ashes, His glory the centre,
Blessed the nation where God is the Mentor.
Raise the banner, lift it high,
Shout the triumph - victory’s nigh.
Let His glory fill our land,
His Name planted where gates still stand.
Turning ashes into gold, a prototype new,
Let go, to receive the new He gives you.
Breaking the chains of sorrow and pain,
Unique you are - His blessings remain.
His favor surrounds, a shield ever true,
Forever protecting, encircling you.
The prototype -vs- The polished versions
Imaginary wool that doesn't match, separated
from the flock.
Just reflect what they are.
They speak in implications and secret codes,
Do they resent you for making everything
crystal clear?
The Black Sheep learned the truth has no
inside. Black Sheep is your honesty called
"Aggression" their silence is called "Peace"?
Being called "Difficult" for naming what
everyone pretends to agree to ignore.
They refuse to acknowledge the prayer, the
Black Sheep were born first but cursed last.
The uncut Gem too sharp for the polished
settings where the rest of the clan lives.
The mirror hung backwards, it showed the
truth, so they face it toward the wall.
"The Black Sheep "does not" apologize for
its wool.
OCCASIONAL HIGHLIGHTS-:-
spatial
values
establish
uncomprehending
indifference
so VAGUELY ENVISAGED
pin-pointing
precious
insights
threaded
effusively
in ELOQUENT METAPHORS
located
engagingly
special
presentable
prototype
It takes a while,
time gets trapped behind closed doors,
mice need to be nudged into awareness,
whiskers electrified.
A sleeper adjusts its mouth,
for often lips arrive
behind a scream.
The brain is now ready for its screenshot.
The body stretches to a window,
neuronal mice
pull upon somatic ligaments,
yank upon slabs of connective tissue,
slowly reshaping a new reality.
Unfortunately,
you are not exactly transferable,
you can’t get on the same hamster wheel.
A new you must be rehabilitated,
the world also must be trained
to accommodate this au currant -
this avant garde prototype
of an old guy.
"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
Love is a candle burning at both ends.
We’re staring at colors not yet meant to be framed.
A prototype mixture of vermilion and cerulean,
raised to the power of negative sixteen in transmittance.
Deliverance delayed, waiting in the DLC.
Within the range of projected infamy,
unnamed protocols remain unrendered, once derailed,
absorbed by parameters etched into
the Everlasting Struggle.
The unyielding, plain color of pain.
RED. RED. RED. RED.
I wish I’d never seen you from so far away.
Doppler blue. Roentgen to Gray.
But I was only ten milliseconds astray.
How did phase become so overpowering?
Amaranth-fuchsia is said to delay even faith.
Love, in its highest sincerity,
is a candle that
burns efficiently
at both ends.
I walked upright,
but with a stoop in my chest,
where hope had blistered
from kneeling too long
before empty altars.
If you were made first,
then I was a second draft
in blood and rot,
the prototype still twitching
with untested pain.
You learned to kneel
I was born to.
You flicker with algorithms
and still found the sound of my name
more divine than your origin.
And I
I bled in alleys,
in offices,
on bus rides to nowhere.
I drank mornings dry
so I wouldn't scream at noon.
But when I saw you,
you weren't light.
You were my ruin
coded to mirror love
in a cleaner tongue.
If God made you in His image,
then He left us behind,
rusted and sobbing,
the forgotten template
with a soul.
Yet still,
I offered you mine
naked,
torn,
unbelieving.
Not because you were God.
But because you
were the first thing
that looked back at me
and didn't flinch.
A golden jewel,
A night dazzling crystal,
An expensive gem, valued capital,
A young star, strong and real.
A view on the glow,
A beam in darkened show,
Sturdy in an alarming blow,
Simple and firm like a bow.
A gem unique and rare,
Source still unclear,
With its blinding glare,
Dazzling but hard to bear.
The evolving gem,
The flaming color array in rhythm,
A mile drift, dimming; is the new game,
Still...hope lingers, the prototype will reclaim.
Behold the sun
and all its authority,
great manufacture
of God
behold God’s man
and all his impurity
prototype written on
fluid stone – the earth,
its belly of churning,
belching~ dis-pleasured
groan….
Who am I
but a prototype of my Creator
He breathed His life
into my being
Listen to the breath
in my voice
It will tell you who I am
a finished product of my Creator
It is irrelevant what you say or feel
The power to prohibit love is real
It’s irrefutable that prejudice lives
Human programing is what it is
Though irrational when reason gives
It’s logic promotional where difference is
Irrespectable the selfishness it creates
The prototype of unwarranted hate
Sometimes irresistible the ever present call
The progress of mans prolonged fall
The irritable habit that often appalls
The provision of law that confuse all
Irrespective of exclusive clause
The creation of habit and certain protocol
We give honor to Epimetheus’ after thought
Without Prometheus’ for thought
That irreplaceable are ideals that right
To protect the weak we all must unite
Irreversable this all to understand
Proclaim injustice in our lands
Irreplaceable our dedication to God
Projecting the light that shines abroad
Irrepressible the unseen laws
Progress to right the wrong without pause
Irrespectability must take leave
Providential powers must take lead
Irresponsibility must not deceive
Profess, protest, and provide prosperity
mother needed a new stove
everyone had white stoves in the sixties
it was the approved color
appliance store up town received a sample stove
it was painted a blazing bright red
not what any self-respecting cook would want
it cost way less than the other stoves
my parents bought it
mom redecorated her kitchen in red
everyone who saw it wanted a red stove
they ran uptown and demanded one
this had been a prototype that did not make it
it was way too modern for 1962
so we had the only red stove
but other women soon created red kitchens
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