cheko boblo boat

if he was she

She was a seamstress that walked on water
It was said that men who used to drag her by the hair converted to worshipers
Running their fingers through her locks like children

When I rub the breast of her gold
body hanging on my chest
Men drunkenly confess all their good deeds

Back home we hang blood cloths above our doors to ward off evil spirits

During the rule of mother Magdalen over Rome, generals surrendered to their horses made rooms for their hearts by cutting off their tongue

Missionaries traveled to Europe to save the souls of the civilized

child priests drink pomegranate juice for moon day mass

A space camel, three wise hookers and Meryl Streep all arrived with gifts the moment she was born

When Columbus arrived to America
He washed the natives feet
And cried birds from his eyes
When he saw the extraordinary beauty of their faces
 
When I pulled her off the cross
She walked it off and asked if I was hungry

They used a wood saw when they castrated Joseph at the age of seven

Heavens fully equipped with 72 male virgins


The kingdom of God is in the hands of the Dula

We measure time in the speed of dreams

Militaries are humanitarian efforts

The church is a living body of water
The mouth of a river
The shade of a tree

When mothers pass
We tattoo crimson roses on our stomachs

The resurrection was her giving birth on the cross

As me and my homeboys were puffing blunts and pinning our hijabs to cover our beards
We bragged about the mercy we'd had on our fathers

If jesus was a woman

Check out our New Double Music Video. Missing LinX - The Road / How To Make A Gee.
brought to you by Ophelia Productions and Nationless Mind Records.
All Track Produced by DJ BLO
check out the album at
www.missinglinx.bandcamp.com

I WONDER

Do I wonder or am I under the stone of black crows

that love the color red. 

There is much space to wander, to perch, to pivot and to  march

but is there room to wonder. 

Is there room to wonder if you are always waiting for the cue. 

Is there any reason to wonder if reason has little to do with this story?

Is there any yearning to wonder to you wake to my shadow?

Is there any way to wonder if the steps are already placed for us? 

Admit, that we are taking turns in this cycle, for the silence is sweet 

if not for the effortless nature of it. 

Some pick the flowers others hit the highway. 

How can I prove to you that no matter what manner I wonder in, 

You are the one who I've chosen to ride it with. 

How can I make you believe in something you have only carried

for a short period, when there is the massive weight of your past

waiting for you to feel the loss of hope

and fall back into its expectant arms. 

If you fall I will pull, I wonder if I must fall as well. 

These lessons that are carried must be applied. 

That is the only way to know if they are worthless. 

To wonder, I cant be under the monotony of dependency. 

The habit of waiting for another consciousness to wake and rise

in order to wake and rise

yourself. 

In order to wonder and make bread, make love, 

there needs to be fresh air in the room, the sweet soil of calm silence

of two stars existing beside eachother

of two horses galloping in the same direction

without harness, without ropes 

simply to run in the wind

and see the nature fit and transform around them

To wonder effectively, i need to be let free, 

let live

for we struggle with wonder

if we are constantly being pulled upon, 

pulling. Worsened by the clown of jealousy and suspicion 

even my personal quiet individual reflections, (wonder)

are deemed lies, 

when they are merely moments

where i am wondering

about how to keep my sanity around long enough

for you to see

the real me 

so we can wander in wonder

together

and in ever. 

Ultra-Magnetic MC's

Hip Hop Hip Hop KNOW YOUR HISTORY!

Melisendra

La forjaron de las lágrimas de un volcán,

con una lengua de fuego que se veía desde

el albaycín hasta el Kilimanjaro.

Le dio color al día y a la vida…

Hecha de añil de Ginkgo biloba, cada

momento único y solitario como su corazón,

el que sólo se alcanzaba con el velero de la razón

que se mezclaba con el cielo, cielo carmín en

matrimonio dulce como el pionono.

¿Será ella la mezquita escondida en este mundo

de nombres falsos y tópicos?

¿Será ella el suelo que se estira por la voluntad de mi

frente?

Pues lo haré… Caminaré hasta el día en que me pueda

quitar estas botas y relajarme en sus brazos,

mis tobillos rendidos en las chanclas…

MY good brother and fellow Missing LinX member drops a trailer for his upcoming cinepoetry video with Partus Films. Looking forward for his video to drop. He deserves this.
Nationless!

Idle No More

Persuaded by children and blizzards

I crack the hard shell of indecision

proclaiming my reluctance in the belief

that I'm not so sure.

Sitting securely in my movement,

I think of water and light

Their enchanting dance through creation

I wonder for my friends

those who walk on fours, threes, those who fly

those who gallop and waddle across terrains

I can only dream of becoming familiar.

Standing stoic in my direction

I'm pensive about my food, its taste, its quality,

the nomadic ones that travel crippled from poison

meant to make it be something it is not

The colors that add vivaciousness to necessity of

feeding, from breasts of hands to poor to worry about

clenching their fists and screaming for serenity.

Running officiously through my inertia,

I propel my observation to the prospect of harmony

between those who look like me,

walk like me

think like me

but are of course, not me, but their own human selves.

Idolizing only the ability to say, We Are HERE,

And YEs We MOVE

Idle No More

Idle No More

Idle No More

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!

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1O7Ku0/:wgM0Qz5i:I_jJkxvu/www.popularmechanics.com/home/how-to-plans/woodworking/step-by-step-guides-offbeat-diy-projects-6/

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.

Death on a First Date

Can it be that it was all so simple than?

Things inside of us would stubbornly thrive and the heart would hallucinate being a liver instead. Tonight we break bread over carefully placed candleholders

shaped like your mountanous figure.

We have danced with many figures before but none more vivid than your breath on my neck.

Is it the wine or the time?

No one figures they will shed blood the first night anyways. Murder on the first date is not recommended, but it just so happened, that we killed anything in site.

In spite of the anti spree romance we have been gerrymandered to partake...
we were merciless.

Any and all livings things existing to keep us from extending our love past the parameters of death, shall perish on this first date.