As I stop, and take the time
To inventory, the inside of my mind
I realize, it’s not as full as it used to be
With images of justice, or designs of liberty
The world has changed, or is it me that’s new?
A different set of morals from a different set of clues
So still I wonder, is this all there is to life?
The ever changing cycles of a world that’s damp and ripe
There must more, yeah in my heart I hold to this
I’ve known the joy of love and I’ve seen the peace and bliss
But as you know, all things must end, except the need for faith
And the spirit that’s within to keep you strong
Move forward with power, program yourself to feel
With depth enough to know what’s up and heart to sense the real
Where you at?
As I stop, for the frame we set aside
Below the baseline a secret place awaits for us to hide
To pass the time as the war goes on-and-on
Post-apocalyptic sunset, Post-apocalyptic dawn
But just the thought of the world we once possessed
A place that wasn’t ours is just a house with an address
A false existence, wrought with fear and mistrust, a life inside a box
No life inside of us
Find your soul, and use your inner voice,
The road less traveled, is now the path of choice
Realize, with time comes change
New attitudes, new values, priorities rearranged
Move forward with power, program yourself to feel
With depth enough to know what’s up and heart to sense the real
Where you at?

Henrik Schwarz / Âme / Dixon Feat. Derrick L. Carter Where We At Pt. 2 (Body Language Version)

My madness 

there are degrees of madness, and the madder you are the more obvious it will be to other people. most of my life i have hidden my madness within myself but it is there. for instance, some person will be speaking to me of this or that and while this person is boring me with their stale generalities, i will imagine this person with his or her head resting on the block of the guillotine, or i will imagine them in a huge frying pan, frying away, as they look at me with their frightened eyes. in actual situations such as these, i would most probably attempt a rescue, but while they are speaking to me i cant help but imagining them thus. or, in a milder mood, i might envision them on a bicycle riding swiftly away from me. i simply have problems with human beings. animals, i love. they do not lie and seldom attempt to attack you. at times they may be crafty but his is allowable. why?

most of my young and middle-aged life was spent in tiny rooms, huddled there, staring at the walls, the torn shades, the knobs on dresser drawers. i was aware of the female and desired her but i didn't want to jump through all the hoops to get her. i was aware of money, but again, like with the female, i didn't want to do the things needed to get it. all i wanted was enough for a room and for something to drink. i drank alone, usually on the bed, with all the shades pulled. at times i went to the bars to check out the species but the species remained the same- not much and often far less than that. in all the cities, i checked out the libraries. book after book. few books said anything to me. they were mostly dust in my mouth, sand in my mind. none of it related to me or how i felt: where i was-nowhere-what i had-nothing-and what i wanted-nothing. the books of the centuries only compounded the mystery of having a name, a body, walking around, talking, doing things. nobody seemed stuck with my particular madness.

in some of the bars i became violent, there were alley fights, many of which i lost. but i wasn't fighting anybody in particular, i wasn't angry, i just couldn't understand people, what they were, what they did, how they looked. i was in and out of jail, i was evicted from my rooms. i slept on park benches, in graveyards. i was confused but i wasn't unhappy. i wasn't vicious. i just couldn't make anything out of what there was. my violence was against the obvious trap, i was screaming and they didn't understand. and even in the most violent fights i would look at my opponent and think, why is he angry? he wants to kill me. then i'd have to throw punches to get the beast off me. people have no sense of humor, they are so fucking serious about themselves.

somewhere along the way, and i have no idea where it came from, i got to thinking, maybe i should be a writer. maybe i can put down the words that i haven't read, maybe by doing that i can get this tiger off my back. and so i started and decades rolled by without much luck. now i was a mad writer. more rooms, more cities. i sunk lower and lower. freezing one time in atlanta in a tar paper shack, living on one dollar and a quarter a week. no plumbing, no light, no heat. i sat freezing in my california shirt. one morning i found a small pencil stub and i began writing poems in the margins of old newspapers on the floor.

finally, at the age of 40, my first book appeared, a small chapbook of poems, Flower, Fist and Bestial Wail. The package of books had arrived in the mail and i opened the package and here were the little chapbooks. they spilled on the sidewalk, all the little books and i knelt down among them, i was on my knees and i picked up a Flower Fist and i kissed it. that was 30 years ago.

furor.melancholica

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