Nervous, all the time. Stepping through life past dismay, rife with strife, sometimes I expect a piano to fall on my head and kill me dead. And yet I write, I speak and listen to the voices of my people, poetry people, human temples - complete with chakra'd steeples - of the word, of the heart, of the soul.

When I scribe a line I read over it two and three times, wondering if it’s going to be taken wrong, read like more of that same old song and dance…I need to advance in my understanding, reconfigure thought processes and matrices of infinite seas of becoming and peace. I need release. Wondering what I’m saying between the lines, if I’m consistent all the time, or if I’m just losing my mind trying to find a crime to make mine. Political thought and speech in these post 9-11 days of the War on Terror, Homeland Security and Thought Control at the national level, awaken hungry Carnivores and Elephants that thunder across plains stained with the blood of the massive human herds that over-populate the Earth. Their fetid stench permeates the airwaves and skies, perverting the shadowed dapples of Sistine-like chapels, searching for divine signs of escaped Slaves, freed of mental domination and oppressive subjugation.

Populations of nations and continents totter like fodder, bent by the weight of crass material consumption. The sheer gumption of Evil functions on assumptions of redistributive greed, reprocessing need to feed empty souls and hearts that can’t even begin to start to self-analyze their own lies. I realize the futility of my own intellectual mobility in the wake of luminary greats that confronted hate in spite of their own imminent demise. It’s quite the dilemma, the contradictions lent to this predicament by karmic causes that relish losses like so much flotsam and dross.

Hate has been awakened by the absence of Good, racists without hoods are trying to solidify our demise, relegate us to that same old state of unrelated pain, mixing up our minds attempting to find the key to freedom. Scientists mix potions and create melatonin lotions and sun screens to protect faux-Vampiric fiends from tropical, sunlit scenes. I mean, how could I not be paranoid, locked up in a contradictory void of otherworldly desire while remaining caught up in the material fire of passionate consummation, searching for relations in Indian nations that could care less about my existence. For instance, when did Native Americans become white, light skinned and blonde haired, wearing feathers and chapped leather to powwows and gatherings of tribes who have been denied the right of sovereign existence through fatal pretense and aggressive military offense? Or, is that preemptive defense projected past common sense into a worldly context of imperial pretext? You tell me, because my paranoid neuroses have closed my mind to alternative lines and irreparable psychoses.

I still feel jittery. But this mind spill has helped me to chill, I feel. Shadows still dance in the corners of my vision, my mind still focuses with this eerie precision, but my decision to let it go has allowed me to share this human flow. If you can relate, state your name in loud tones, so that I won’t think I’m playing the game all alone. Perhaps it is time to atone. The sins of the father don’t bother Gen-X or Gen-Next, Elvis has left the building and Bob Marley was seen with Bob Farley riding Harleys through fields of barley.

Do you want to parley your admirable attempts to analyze the substance of my defense for another chance to understand? Another chance to make a plan? Then demand your just due, what the Omniverse has promised you…the blessing of existence without pretense, the promise of affection and human connection no matter how shallow the waters; how fallow the earth; how broad the girth; how callow the daughters who married the sons of God’s sorrow, that rule the world until that tomorrow comes when the Sun of Eternity arrives and reveals whether or not humanity survives. Can you hear the cries? See through the lies? Realize that many have died, to get you this high? Don’t you know you can fly? That your eyes see past the sky? That death has been denied, dirty tricks tried, to keep you from ascending to these hallowed heights?

You should also feel jittery. Nervous, all the time. Each step is a trap that could start a flap that takes you to cold places, confine you in empty spaces that take away your free will and steal your most personal, and beloved quill. Refuse to allow you to write, deny you your inner sight, your most intimate delight. But it’s alright. Because we are here, tonight. To provide you with the light, to stand with you, and fight.