Boldly step into the day
Live each moment at home on the bay
Moments and minutes and seconds to play
Talk by doing without any pay
Eat, drink and be merry
That’s all they will say
Boldly by memory
Step into the

Inside Looking

Inside Looking

Eyes closed, order looking at twilight sleeping
Shapes and colors kaleidoscopic in the dark, sparkling triangles
Dancing through the night.

When equally in white and black
Grey answers back
Comes the Sun

I see the fact
The truth untold
Getting old

Let us look
And then be free
You are

There is no division in

Only that will set you

Only in truth

Sleep Happily

Raise a flag to a the beginning
Humanity Winning





New politiks
Screw politiks
True politiks
Blew politiks

Foo politiks
Politiks greeter
People feeder
So i needer

Crap and snap
No new dump
Constipated clump
Political whack
Crackle, sick pop and slap
Nothing new here
I need air
Foo-flew beyond all repair

Out of the Kitchen

Out of the Kitchen …

I sat down to eat the breakfast I’d prepared this morning. Reflecting, mindfully, on how at 70 + years of age I’ve arrived at the chair at the kitchen island, I ate. I’d cooked a nourishing breakfast of two eggs scrambled over finely chopped kale, thinly sliced shitake mushrooms and assorted spices, bacon and 10 grain toast. I’d always enjoyed cooking, although in most of my life cooking was something I avoided. I usually stay away from the kitchen.

I learned, long ago, to eat as quickly as possible.  As far as I’m concerned, eating is simply stopping at a filling station to get gas, check the oil and get back on the road of life. My body is simply a vehicle used to get somewhere and do something.  That, in my mind, is what living is about — getting to a destination and accomplishing something.

As I sat at the island, savoring the freshly pressed cup of French pressed coffee, I thought of that time when I was about 4 years old or so, in the kitchen with my mother, miscellaneous “aunts” and neighbor church ladies.  A Sunday or some holiday (could have been the Forth of July) brunch was being prepared.  I think it was one of those social events, celebrating something or nothing, where the African-american folk get together to loudly eat, sing, argue, talk and dance.

The men were in the living room and I was in the kitchen, as a 4 year old child, with my mother.  I liked making pancakes, cracking eggs and the warm smell of the place, and the excited chatter.  I really enjoyed being told to hold something, how to stir the pot, learning how to cook corn bread, to crack the eggs, and stuff like that associated with preparing a meal.

As I was enjoying being in the warm kitchen and the chatter, I was told I needed to leave the kitchen. Then, one of my mother’s friends said, “Now, you git on outta here.”

I was reluctant to leave and didn’t.   “Why?”, asked licking a spoon.

“Charlie, Jr., you git on outta here!”one of the ladies said again, “so we can talk.”

“Go on in there with the men and other children is,” another woman said.  “Women cook in the kitchen.” she said smiling. “Now, go on … you git.” Insistently, I was dismissed by the ladies and left.

I never really got back into the kitchen until my wife was ill and I had to run the house.  When that occurred, I became the House Bitch.  But, that’s another story.  My daughter, enculturated into Feminism by social environment, was not up to assuming the role of house cook — rarely if every.  Her best friend, living with us at the time, was anorexic and bulimic. My wife was debilitated by a neuro-muscular   disease that left her unable to to life or hold a spoon. I cooked.  There was not one female in the house who could or would cook, except me.  And, of course, I was not female.  That’s why I am the House Bitch!

Notwithstanding my status of Bitch about 20+ years ago (and that was only temporary as long as my wife was alive) food remained and remains simply fuel to me.  To this day it’s only when I get faint that I recognize the tank is empty and I’m running on fumes.  That is, unless I’m under the influence of cannabis.  So, cannabis is a good thing for me, just as anti-depressants are good for the chronically depressed.

The source, however, of my dysfunction is the dysfunctional society that innovated racism through slavery and tribalism-sexism.

Flash back:  The kitchen and the women who dismissed me to the world of men, so they could vent, and talk freely about the oppression, “cheating” and stuff a boy of four should NOT witness and hear.  Of course, I did not perceive or understand their agenda is getting me out of the kitchen until but a few years ago.  Now, somewhat removed from the state of poverty and starvation as I am, I “get it.” I was kicked out of the kitchen, into the house of illusions called life. The ladies, of course, had to have their support group, one way or the other.



Tuesday’s Time

Tuesday’s Time

Life is fine,
Tuesday’s time
Love to find
Time to bind

What is there to see
Where is there to be
When is there to flee
Checking the Africanized be

Why am i looking at me
Try to jump and be free
Rhyme of the trite to flee
Sitting in the back of a tree

A new day
Nothing else to say
Call it

Disposable Man

The Disposable Man

Locked inside, there is nothing out.
No one to talk to. No one to understand.
Disposable man

What was life’s span?
Nothing, too grand.
No place to plan
No time to love
No heaven above
Locked inside
No love to hide
No right or wrong
No taking sides
Just watch the slide
Disposable man

Inside there’s love
Inside hope
Inside dreams in a
World on sand
I am the disposable man

Divine plan

The Link Blues

Kilu I think of you
And all that we could do
But all the things you say and do
Are all inside of you.

Kilu ka think
I lose and blink
And sink inside of

Kiluk ka-link
And think and that is s all that I can I do.