Untimely Meditations

CHAPTER 1

Time is money. Money is time.
So, I keep seven o’clock in the
bank and gain interest in the 
hour of God.  I’m saving to buy 
my freedom. God grant me wings.
I’m too fly not to fly. Eye sore
to look at humans without wings.
So, I soar. And find tickle in the 
feather of my wings. Flying
hysterically over land. Numerically,
I am seven mountains higher than
the valley of death, seven dimensions
deeper than dimensions of breath.

CHAPTER 2

The fiery sun of my passions 
evaporates the love lakes of my 
soul, clouds my thoughts and 
rains you into existence. As I take 
flights on bolts of lightening. 
Claiming chaos as my concubine 
and you as my me. I of the storm. 
You of the sea. We of the moon. 
Land of the free. What have I done 
to deserve this? Am I happy?

CHAPTER 3

Happiness is a mediocre standard 
for a middleclass existence. I see 
through smiles and smell truth in 
the distance. Beyond one dimensional 
smiles and laughter lies the hereafter. 
Where tears echo laughter.

You’d have to do math to divide a 
smile by a tear, times fear, equals 
mere truth, that simply dwells in the 
air.  But if that’s the case all I have 
to do is breath and all else will follow.
That’s why drums are hollow.

And I like drums. Drums are good.
But I can’t think straight. I lack the 
attention span to meditate. My attention 
spans galaxies. Here and now are immense.
Seconds are secular. Moments are mine.
Self is illusion. Music’s divine.

CHAPTER 4

Noosed by the strings of Jimi’s guitar, 
I swing, purple-hazed pendulum. Hypnotizing   
the part of eye that never dies. Look into my: 
eyes are the windows of the soul is fried chicken,  
collards, and cornbread is corn meal, sour cream,  
eggs, and oil is the stolen blood of the earth, used 
to make cars run and kill the fish.

Who me? I play scales. The scales of 
dead fish of oil slicked seas. My sister 
blows wind through the hollows of fallen 
trees. And we are the echoes of eternity. 
Maybe you’ve heard of us.

We threw basement parties in pyramids.
I left my tag on the wall. The beats would 
echo off the stone and solidify into the 
form of light bulbs, destined to light up 
the heads of future generations. They 
recently lit up in the form of: BA BOOM
BOOM OM. Maybe you’ve heard of us.

CHAPTER 5

If not then you must be trying to hear us
and in such cases we cannot be heard. We 
remain in the darkness, unseen. In the center 
of unpeeled bananas, we exist. Uncolored by 
perception. Clothed to the naked eye. Five 
senses cannot sense the fact of our existence.
And that’s the only fact. In fact, there are no 
facts.

Fax me a fact and I’ll telegram a hologram
or telephone the son of man and tell him he 
is done. Leave a message on his answering 
machine telling him there are none. God and 
I are one. Times moon. Times star. Times sun. 
The factor is me. You remember me.

CHAPTER 6

I slung amethyst rocks on Saturn blocks
until I got caught up by earthling cops. They 
wanted me for their army or whatever. Picture 
me: I swirl like the wind. Tempting tomorrow 
to be today. Tip toeing the fine line between 
everything and everything else. I am simply 
Saturn swirling sevens through sooth. The sole 
living heir of air. And I (inhale) and (exhale) and 
all else follows. Reverberating the space inside of 
drum hollows. Packaged in bottles and shipped to 
tomorrow, then sold to the highest NGH.

I swing from the tallest tree. Lynched by 
the lowest branches of me. Praying that 
my physical will set me free ‘cause I’m 
afraid that all else is vanity. Mere language 
is profanity. I’d rather hum. Or have my 
soul tattooed to my tongue. And let the 
scriptures be sung in gibberish. ‘Cause 
words be simple fish in my soulquarium. 
And intellect can’t swim.

CHAPTER 7

So, I stopped combing my mind so my 
thoughts could lock. I’m tired of trying 
to understand. Perceptions are mangled, 
matted, and knotted anyway. Life is more 
than what meets the eye and I.

So, elevate eye to the third. But even that 
shit seems absurd when your thoughts 
leave you third eye-solated. No man is an 
island. But I often feel alone. So find peace 
through OM.