England

London knows its history and laughs about it.

It is a serious matter. 

Londoners are myriads of pale and dark tears. 

A Russian downs a Vodka at 11 A.M on the bus. 

The Filipino barista serves up a skinny latte and wraps her 

mind around her new accent. 

Everyone watches everyone. No body looks at you. 

CCTV watches and looks at everything

on the bus, the station, the stall, the stairway, 

the workplace, the dorms, your room, 

your patterns. wherever you go, they follow. 

Scotland Yard's finest do fear with no gun but 

a dark baton encapsulating all hope of swelling. 

It rains, horizontally the way i saw it. 

It is cold, and i'm Canadian. 

Its not the weather i'm talking about. 

But the intimacy, a type of mercy deficiency. 

A lack of outward compassion. 

I have faith it is there, hidden around sarcastic frigid remarks. 

Or maybe they are used to it, 

watching others struggle while you laugh at the irony of a colony. 

They say when all hope is gone and faith is exhausted 

the oppressed embrace their oppressor 

like the merciful embrace their mothers. 

The Blood & Gold in El Dorado, El Salvador.

The Classic Friendship.

If you can't make fun of each other then what else do you got

The Boundless Love

That is to say, there is a love that exists
Which is unlike anything to be made by words.
A love to free, it does not remember the first time it wept.
Weeping is for the FREE.
How can it stray when it never had a home
How can it stay if it is always leaving. Not Fleeting,
just moving, always going somewhere.
Never returning for it never left.
A love so wild it cannot remember its own name
simply joyous in its skin
never greedy
only grateful to be able to become.
never forgotten. always exemplary.
shining through speckles of darkness,
without righteousness
without reason
simply to be without bounds
without questions to be answered
without assurance or the soliciting of affections.
A LOVE so clear water is its daughter.

"Hyfidelik the GypsySun is a Nationless Mind. Immigrating through cultures and cosmic seeds, The GypsySun is one who gathers and collects all that he can find, artfully extracting its fundamentals and eccentricities like balsamic reduction, and adding it to the Sun's Goodie Bag. Hyfidelik comes from the fidelity required to remain loyal to the truth while channeling the high fidelity sound present in all of us. A world without borders to explore and a harmony with nature to be reclaimed. This is the story of Hyf's Blood Memory."

Lovely Labyrinth

Daedalus could barely escape after he completed building it.
Is it us who create such mirrors to entertain our life's theatre?
From the waves of instinct we dam ourselves into our own creations.
The damned. The pure. Single-filed like the the flow of ants.
Tuning in to the limits of our modesty. The hidden agenda of our chivalry.
The roles made for masks and the masks made from rolls of ancient scroll.
Evolved archetypes give young bloods their stripes.
Young guns their bullets. Young men their purpose.
The execuioner of instinct sits on your work desk.
Toggles your desires for the principle.
Prudent are they who can sway between the two.
Careless are those who must choose.

Meat

a woman was grieving over her lost cat 

thats when she met him 

the garlic was first on the purchasing lists

the lone cub

high ceilings

Her Majesty 

Her Love

Time is a moving image

running the pages on fingertips

so immediate

direct. love. 

Stonewalled by mine. 

If we could only prostrate. 

The shelving is key. 

To sustain such movement. 

Bedcast on the island. 

humbling to find 

the universe

under your nose

waiting for you to call her, 

and her, and her. 

Colors

I dont want to be color blind I love color and pay it mind, 

coffee my fingers on its grind 

and make it hustle like desire. 

I know about color and color knows about me.

I sleep inside every shade. Mother its every contour
and die before every stroke.
Color is my revenge against wearing a handicap.
Against the discrimination of my father.  

U ask me to be polite

ignore the contrast of attributes 

and move on with my life in black and white

but I carry no veil

I see color, I dont see your silence to polarities 

I a m everywhere in between 

with everyone ever seen

bountiful colors

graphed in texture and joy

brilliance and blood memory

all poured in the melting pot of hearts

colors

that i place no judgment upon. 

If I Could Leave...

if I could leave the country today, I'd go to where people smile at their misfortune.

To where the doors stays open for the beggar and the thief,

the paper man or the bread man,

To where they wake before sunrise, sweep your sins into heaven

and commence the days work.

I'd go to where people listen to announcements.

To where tea and coffee is warmed over wood fire.

To where the updates are brought by the birds, the wind, the sky,

the stories of people simply stopping by to take a rest, before they

take off to whatever servitude they must attend to.

I'd go to where daughters live with their grandmothers and

sons go to work with their fathers.

To where men drop what they are holding to help push a car,

To where children sit on laps of strangers when the bus is too packed,

To where everyone grows old with war, and young with resilience.

If i could leave the country today, i'd leave to where women are modest and trust their men,

To where men are honest and trust their women.

I'd go to where the contradictions of society are unknown to me,

so that i can feel

like i left somewhere

and arrived somewhere new,

just like that day i barely remember

where we left home to come to Canada.

Or that other day I barely remember,

the day I was born.

MOSS ART!

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Crime Bill

CRIME BILL

I'm a fuck up. I should be punished. I need to be forgiven. Dark shadows are often striking amongst the indiscriminant scope of lightning.

How do we manage the contrast of the light inside us, and the dark that surrounds it.

How do we express our jurisdiction?

I fuck up. Sometimes in major ways.

Miseducate my native heart to an illiterate level.

Then when I've realized I've spilled the corn milk, I clean it with the same rag I used cleaned my wounds.

To me it was the first thing I didn't understand...

so I called it my first nation.

I'm a fuck up. That's why I spit bitumen.

Trying to pick pedals from a white lotus only to see I'm plucking feathers from a white dove.

I thought it was my learning disability only to find out it was the teachers fault.

The preachers fault. Steven's fault. He needs to be punished. But what he is asking for is forgiveness.

Promising to eliminate fear on the streets by alienating the serene tears of peace.

Promising to bring music to our communities then giving us blue and white glock-n-peels

that only play music to our mother's fainting. Panting. Asking God to forgive us.

What shall we do with such a deviant? Written on every page of the Quran. Sold at every intervention.Inherent in your mother's mind is the secret to redemption.

The streets painted with her name are the safest streets in the galaxy.

But I fuck up. And I don't live on that street.

I'm being punished.

Cuz I don't know any better that what this hand charging down on me has taught me.

Punishement is debated under jurisprudence while forgiveness pickets outside.

Compassion is calling for the return of due diligence

because the moderates are the true militants.

I'm a fuck up. I should go on a hunger strike.

File a galactic class action suit against the advocates dressed in pinstripe suits

My wind pipe is loot. I sin tight. Cooth.

Live from the booth I transmit mistakes and errors so you buy my songs with chains and terror.

Lying men write about punishment while honest slaves write to forgive. I fucked up. So I dig for forgiveness. I dig for repentance.

Through the mountains of cyclical time I dig for acceptance But as a minor, I am being hauled up for strict punishment despite me being a child.

An innocent fuck up who is doing no better than the crooks who pump iron fists and spew forked salivaa.

I'm only alive today as a guarantee

so I write mandatory sentences.

No pardon for those who beg their pardons.

Down the drain is where the spartans are taking us,

I wanna fuck it all up. Shove the gavel up your honors pussy for being so vile and raunchy. Raw and frigid.

They write laws but us who walk with God know that fucking up is a law,

and without cliches in mind, Allah forgives and is the law.

I write For my love of weed and women, my love for my friends who pimp and carry crack rocks in their denims, for the pusher without a choice and the woman without a voice. For the love of crime and ego, for the love of police raids and

sawed off shot guns.

For those who appropriate judgement while the meek inherit the earth.

For these accelerated days of pride and shame, of ego and flame,

I say I do not want to live in a place that values punishment over compassion, uniformity over the asessment of of context and circumstance. I only wanted forgiveness to be our penance but it appears we are fuck ups. And we are being punished, rather than being forgiven. --------------------------------------------March 13th, 2012.