I am a hopeful enthusiast by nature and a Messologist on paper.
I lose my mind a lot... Like twenty-four words before this dot.
Motivated by everything moving. Soon as the sun drops I raccoon and go thief in the night with no plausible purpose. I go scheming side by fright, ignoring the plight-fear fawned fervent. See my memory sucks. Not good head. I'm a mess. Yes. So my bad memory sucking turns to good head, like my English. Let me explain you. If I foster a fear or few they flail freely as fast as I can flash my lashes. 'Cause I forget they're there. Unaware I fly back in flames, speak in public, bite spiders back and my heart flutters and sputters and I'm wild with wonder, like huh? "Oh, forgot that's what I was scared of." I'm a mess.
I'm a mess. Got more goals than Judas and Brutus got foes. My dreams screen in threes like Kringle's Ho's. Gotta keep both of those close.... The steps I chose or path, rather, lather my swagger. Soaped up on hopes like dope, coked up and full of enthusiasm. Hope-spazzing outbreaks like rashes break out in spots. Scratching the surface and multiplying nervous like surging Gremlins drenched in water. When I feel this real, this tone becomes thrill and no benadryl can seal the will. Walking around spot, spot, spotted up. Flow rich with ease now like bot bot bottoms up. So now there's me: the hopeful enthusiast, with a ration of rashes and my hands transform to cymbals, I'm clapping and clashing. Applauding the cause all before I take one step forward. My futures fuming or is it steam?. Breathe. In. Second hand smoke ills and contact drills. High and coughing, hungry and choking. Stuck in a rash, in a flash I got here, stuck. Feet set. Way more steps then rights and lefts. I'm a mess.
I'm a mess. I confess, its less Fresh than jest. Me at my best is less rested than suggested. Moving three ways at once...triple-headed monster. Miles and miles on Tonka. Everything improper but I love it. Feel my best and most productive. Head spinning like dradles, rock and rolling like cradles and bagels. From dusk to dawn...spawn creativity, feverishly. Dawn to dusk, do what I must between the cubes and on the cusp of upper management. The head that leads after dawn is the "what I must." And he needs 3 alarms and Good Morning America, and 10 minutes before late as God knows what before he's up and rushed. The head that leads at Dusk is the "what I want.". This channel prescribed by viral opportunism. I think I cans turn to dos. Hobbies leave behind Hansel and Gretel type clues and I pick up the pieces like Hustleman on the gazoo.
Third head minds me past dusk and through. This head's up to its neck with desire. Through the wire we conspire how to feed this earnest flame. Play mind games with visions like Rock, Paper, Scissors. Scissors: cut it down and remove the excess. Rock: building, constructing tunics of strength. Paper: reap and collect after the steps are addressed. All three heads bob and weave but this the one that I root for indeed. Be just my rabbit's foot if thee were the one? approached by the Big Headed Queen in Alice in Wonderland, dealt with decapitation and forcing desires resignation. While less would be the sum, yet and still two heads are better than one. I'm a mess.
I'm a mess. Yes, and I am quite certain. A professional. It's credible that this method won't lead to sensible ends. But losing my mind got me this far and I contend with the best of men.
Hopeful enthusiast, Messologist till the end.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Two-Thirds
C.J. is.... The balance of my aspirations. On your mark, get set, go for my motivation. Lead eagle that sets the standard, as the rest fly by, Coupe de Ville or CTS- Jay places the bets and all ages follow close. Those who suppose his dose is purely verbose shall feel the Wrath of Khan... Subtle charm, wit equipped, the 2 starter and new found "Watcher". The balance of my aspirations. No closer blood. No bond the same and the stars bear thy aim. C.J. is eternally at my side.... Brother of mine.
Rhakeem is... My template for passion, pigskin passing, pencil-prowess, bird showers, graffiti sketching, Ralph Laurenning, lady charming, garment donning, punch throwing, Bible toting, Hip Hop connoisseuring, Thundercats and Transformering, baby raising, BX behaving and then.... He is the perfect compliment to my father.... Pop gave me the birds and the bees... sigh, Rhakeem gave me the hawks and dragonflies. He is a 2-liter Pepsi cola drinking, KFC bucket of fried chicken eating, worse smelling farts in history, ever, leaving. More so than me, the human reason why I'll be who I'll be. Love you to death. Love you through death. See you when I see you.
Peter Rhakeem Warren, Big BROTHER twice, Father and Son thrice, big brother a million times.
Sunrise: March 23, 1975 - Sunset: December 18, 2008
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Inspector Gadget
Not really fighting crime or saving lives, just sharing time and parts of mine.
I met her through a friend so there is that added level of respect. I try and keep the convo filth-free and that made her comfortable with me. She's quiet but not the sneaky kind...borderline shy. Never asks to go out, partially due to the shy I thought at first. Working on her master's and slaving at work for the master gets the worse of her. So instead of a movie or night cap she just wants a nap. That's nothing but cooo to me cause I'm just cooo breezing, coasting on peace. But I am a guy and she's a girl at times and when she requests me its company for the night. She comes in pajamas, full set with a lock and key and all she asks of me is arms for the night. So I get her text around nine and gauge the activities from then to pillow time. I accept. Next text, "I'm here" and for dear, its go-go Gadget arms and she's knocked out before the lights are out. Clear!
Next subject was object of my affection for 13 months or so. She and I weren't supposed to get close but sips turned to gulps and eventual overdose. She had nothing but dark in her past and anticipated nothing but the worse from my grasp. So when I made a mistake it was magnified eleventeen times. She said she painted me too perfect and had me on a pedestal so when I stepped on her toe I might as well have amputated her soul. So I spent as much time as we were good apologizing to get myself back in good. But it never happened. We were opposites. My memory for bad never lasted but hers stayed fresh, close and she blasted it every time she wanted to love me back. Fast forward from our past. We speak and can be human at times and I've grown to be her confidant. Says I know her the best and accept her faults, so when she does wrong and is dying of remorse she calls me, repeatedly. Only for me to remind her that she is more sweet than sour. Happened the third time this Spring and she came back to life. So I get her call with an "I love you Reggie", few tears and apologies, the story, the regret, we turn mountains to boulders and its go-go Gadget Shoulders, reflect her beauty, shine and shimmer, go-go Gadget Mirror.
I met her through a friend so there is that added level of respect. I try and keep the convo filth-free and that made her comfortable with me. She's quiet but not the sneaky kind...borderline shy. Never asks to go out, partially due to the shy I thought at first. Working on her master's and slaving at work for the master gets the worse of her. So instead of a movie or night cap she just wants a nap. That's nothing but cooo to me cause I'm just cooo breezing, coasting on peace. But I am a guy and she's a girl at times and when she requests me its company for the night. She comes in pajamas, full set with a lock and key and all she asks of me is arms for the night. So I get her text around nine and gauge the activities from then to pillow time. I accept. Next text, "I'm here" and for dear, its go-go Gadget arms and she's knocked out before the lights are out. Clear!
Next subject was object of my affection for 13 months or so. She and I weren't supposed to get close but sips turned to gulps and eventual overdose. She had nothing but dark in her past and anticipated nothing but the worse from my grasp. So when I made a mistake it was magnified eleventeen times. She said she painted me too perfect and had me on a pedestal so when I stepped on her toe I might as well have amputated her soul. So I spent as much time as we were good apologizing to get myself back in good. But it never happened. We were opposites. My memory for bad never lasted but hers stayed fresh, close and she blasted it every time she wanted to love me back. Fast forward from our past. We speak and can be human at times and I've grown to be her confidant. Says I know her the best and accept her faults, so when she does wrong and is dying of remorse she calls me, repeatedly. Only for me to remind her that she is more sweet than sour. Happened the third time this Spring and she came back to life. So I get her call with an "I love you Reggie", few tears and apologies, the story, the regret, we turn mountains to boulders and its go-go Gadget Shoulders, reflect her beauty, shine and shimmer, go-go Gadget Mirror.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Cereal Killer
The corruption of my life's circumstances causes my conscience to hold me under arrest. I read my rights, denied the 5th now I must get something off of my chest. I am a Cereal Killer... in jest.
I've put to rest numerous victims. Each time I beat the system. Never a drop of evidence. Eyewitnesses never willing to exhale what their eyes witnessed. So many times I lost count. Never hesitated to go through though, never a doubt. I am perhaps the most magnificent mass-murderer of all time... or the worst. I guess it depends on your eye. Not one survivor, ever. Never left not even a piece of one. Nothing left to identify the slaughtered, not one single crumb. I do not feel bad that I took away so many lives but remorseful that every mouthful just makes me hungrier each time. For each life that I victimize I want seconds. Even when I have no weapons my bear hands prove deadly.
I started at a short age. I think I have my parents to blame. They supplied me the catch of the day until I was wise enough to catch my own prey. I remember my first... Mom sat me down at the table and put me on. She said she was waiting for this day since I was born. Told me that when she was a Young One she'd slaughter for fun, but no longer had the desire to chase. So she sent me out in the wild in her place. I wasn't even two blocks from home when I spotted my target. I was in the zone. Took my prize from two old Spanish men. I almost devoured right there in the open but I took it home. Needed to show Mama my little token. I squeezed and then pulled it by the head out of the bag... dropped it right there on the kitchen table and Mom leaned over and asked If I could share my first with her. So I prepared her place mat. My first weapon of choice? Sterling-silver teaspoon. July 12th, 1988, about a quarter past noon. Twenty-five ounces stood right there in front of my face and if I'm lying I'm flying... I killed every last one of those Frosted Flakes.
From that moment on, my life was never the same: breakfast, lunch or dinner, those golden Frosted Flakes of Corn were the dish I called my main. Everybody that knows me knows not to become between me and Tony Tone. I will fight you, I might bite you. Just stand aside and pass me a bowl. Because.. this man is a Cereal Killer, a thrill seeker, milk drinker. I am a bag tearing, flake eating, spoon toting, vitamin-d needing. Give a loud crunching, lip smacking, milk slurping, tongue lashing, until the bowl is at its end, caught the last crumb, sipped the last drop and played with the toy that comes.
These savory, sugar-sweet, honey-golden, fresh Frosted Flakes, crunchy corn-kissed by Caribbean sugar cane, give great jubilation when I crave them. And can't have? I grow so angry and so mad. It's bad for you to see me like this...Oh but then I find three dollars and seventy-five cents. Shop Rite? You DAMN right! Aisle seven has grown to become my heaven. I grab the golden flakes, walk across the floor that's golden paved, out the pearly gates to my sanctuary of dining satisfaction. Oh, the milk sees the bowl in attraction. The spoon as if magnetized swoops down to the bowl without asking. Then "choo-choo" the locomotive enters the tunnel, log into the computer. How I chew ya, Hallelujah!
As long as the earth spins on a tilt, as long as my bowl's filled. So long as I have at least one cup of whole milk... I will destroy these Frosties. I love them so much I, I can't explain. It's not a crime. They're so good. As a matter of fact... they're grrrrrreat.
I've put to rest numerous victims. Each time I beat the system. Never a drop of evidence. Eyewitnesses never willing to exhale what their eyes witnessed. So many times I lost count. Never hesitated to go through though, never a doubt. I am perhaps the most magnificent mass-murderer of all time... or the worst. I guess it depends on your eye. Not one survivor, ever. Never left not even a piece of one. Nothing left to identify the slaughtered, not one single crumb. I do not feel bad that I took away so many lives but remorseful that every mouthful just makes me hungrier each time. For each life that I victimize I want seconds. Even when I have no weapons my bear hands prove deadly.
I started at a short age. I think I have my parents to blame. They supplied me the catch of the day until I was wise enough to catch my own prey. I remember my first... Mom sat me down at the table and put me on. She said she was waiting for this day since I was born. Told me that when she was a Young One she'd slaughter for fun, but no longer had the desire to chase. So she sent me out in the wild in her place. I wasn't even two blocks from home when I spotted my target. I was in the zone. Took my prize from two old Spanish men. I almost devoured right there in the open but I took it home. Needed to show Mama my little token. I squeezed and then pulled it by the head out of the bag... dropped it right there on the kitchen table and Mom leaned over and asked If I could share my first with her. So I prepared her place mat. My first weapon of choice? Sterling-silver teaspoon. July 12th, 1988, about a quarter past noon. Twenty-five ounces stood right there in front of my face and if I'm lying I'm flying... I killed every last one of those Frosted Flakes.
From that moment on, my life was never the same: breakfast, lunch or dinner, those golden Frosted Flakes of Corn were the dish I called my main. Everybody that knows me knows not to become between me and Tony Tone. I will fight you, I might bite you. Just stand aside and pass me a bowl. Because.. this man is a Cereal Killer, a thrill seeker, milk drinker. I am a bag tearing, flake eating, spoon toting, vitamin-d needing. Give a loud crunching, lip smacking, milk slurping, tongue lashing, until the bowl is at its end, caught the last crumb, sipped the last drop and played with the toy that comes.
These savory, sugar-sweet, honey-golden, fresh Frosted Flakes, crunchy corn-kissed by Caribbean sugar cane, give great jubilation when I crave them. And can't have? I grow so angry and so mad. It's bad for you to see me like this...Oh but then I find three dollars and seventy-five cents. Shop Rite? You DAMN right! Aisle seven has grown to become my heaven. I grab the golden flakes, walk across the floor that's golden paved, out the pearly gates to my sanctuary of dining satisfaction. Oh, the milk sees the bowl in attraction. The spoon as if magnetized swoops down to the bowl without asking. Then "choo-choo" the locomotive enters the tunnel, log into the computer. How I chew ya, Hallelujah!
As long as the earth spins on a tilt, as long as my bowl's filled. So long as I have at least one cup of whole milk... I will destroy these Frosties. I love them so much I, I can't explain. It's not a crime. They're so good. As a matter of fact... they're grrrrrreat.
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