How My Heart Works

i loved you from the moment I saw you. and was that not a strange moment. fondling you in the sun yet it feeling like some dark hallway. will you remember. will it ever feel the same. strange and secret. I can't study alchemy without you. Now it's time for passports and secrets. You were so private and saw everything. how life is so unfair in it's beauty. I loved you for real in the way strangers love. In the way old writers and anthropologists love. I remember you as a quite genius and carried your artwpork for a life time. Maybe this is a dream. But you changed everthing about my mind. How very much can an angel

touch of your heart.

I never feel like a woman because what is that anyway...

Get this off your chest it says
Maybe it will make sense it says
but what makes sense
my silence and the need to not say anything
my talking too much and saying everything
I am pretty...
I fucking hate being pretty
I hate the word sometimes
gosh you're so pretty
like that is all the world has for me
I know it's not all the world holds for me
there is more and others see it too
I hate staying up all night writing
in honor of the great poets and writers
the ones before me...the one who will see my death
bare witness
I do not believe in anything...which is to say I believe in it all
So many fanatics
I am a fanatic...I am at the mouth of madness
but I used to call it creativity
what is creative about insanity
I am not insane yet I do not feel right
I feel good one moment bad the next
always in the middle and always forgetting to remember
then always remembering to never forget
like a girl on a tightrope but now i am a woman
i do not have to do anything anyone tells me
this is my choice

Random shit my Dad said that still slap today

My Dad on Girls who were not raised by their Father's : "That's why they out there on them poles stripping with all that Aids up off in 'em."

My Dad On 2 Chainz getting robbed: "They done took this Man wallet and both of his chains. big goofy ass nigga."

My Dad on your life: "Sitting up there looking at that Facebook screen with them typewriters on they laps. Dumb motherfuckers think they doing something. Sitting around ain't doing shit."

My Dad on Rick Ross (the rapper): "I can't stand officer Ross or his big ass titties."

My Dad on the state of Hip Hop: "I only listen to 2Pac, Ice Cube, and the Eastsiders. Do you youngsters know about the westcoast?"

My Dad on the resurgence of Nirvana's music: "Dead Dead Dead. They sound dead and they is dead."

My Dad on the new Kanye West album: "You know that nigga hate himself."

My Dad on Father's Day: "It makes me kind of nervous, kind of like Christmas. Let's just watch Frankenstein today."

My dad on current White House Affairs: "Them nigga's ain't never gon't do nothing right. You can forget that."

My Dad on people who talk too much: "Shut the fuck up and step off of this planet."

Nothing Is Still Something

At this point I will not ask for forgiveness, for there is nothing to apologize for. Happy Polly Loggies. I will say I am living life of joy and happiness. The number is the same, the name changes and we wait patiently. And smile because we believe in it all. The rise and fall and ebb and flow makes me think. It's a wonderful world full of pain and glory. In my heart there is a dance of cries and fire. Love and madness. Death and sadness. It will always exsist. And so will this human girl on earth. With her human eyes and heart. With love and love and love. For the flag is black we wave. In the dark we remain shinning the light in silence, to love. When you need a hero, there is always yourself. Josalisa, Live from the island

DSM code F52.7...The Architect.

The Architect was into design. Perfect drawings of perfectly dark places. He showed them to me as a personal review of our madness. This is what happened to the best of my memory.

The Architect. 

Have you ever met a guy so plain and so basic he had to be mad. Like he was stoic, but in his eyes was a dark river. When I met the Architect, lets just call him, M. he seemed uninteresting to me. Yet I can see he was fascinated with me. Here is a bit of background. M. and I worked in the same building. 

Romanticism

Romanticism is too much. Everything reads like a poem. Knowing it is an modernist essay or a great novel. Long forgotten of course, then remembered, of course. Distracted by the understudy (there always is one). The world is a play, yet we are not all typical performers. There are styles and ways. Out of into the new quiet.

No Pryor Signs of Non-conformity

I'm full of self doubt, but it does not matter. I must do this anyway. There is nothing wrong with me and I am for the most part very easy to understand. Possibly too easy to understand. In this lies the complexity that is fakes and interacting with me. I know that now. So in this light, I must carry on. The writing, the art, the performing arts, science. It's all part of my bigger picture. It is what I understand. What I am lucky to underestand. My place of comfort has be typically projected as a place of uncomfort. That is okay. You can't be friends with everyone.

The isolation period is over. The collection must be shown and expressed. For all the love that is holy and absent. I try to talk myself out of things. To see it all from all the sides. Like chess. Yet it can also be any of the many other forms of expression I like. Like modern dance. The results will be the same. The difference is the envirtonment. In worlds that seem uncomfortable or unwelcoming on the service is the safety. The smiler is the beast, the frowned is the smiler.

This is unseen lit, yet I do now understand.