A CRIMSON TINGE

Stop. Drop. Lock & load… Witness the rush of the lonely souls. Listen to the hush as the riot grows. Start the pursuit with the buffalo. Buzz on the street; X & O’s. Change the playbook as the season goes. Just some kids living in A Crimson Tinge. Saturdays corner where the Norman live. Beg in the light for the sun to give. A brighter day shines on the frontline again. Tested warriors; the score was settled by the land. Sooner you get it you got it. A stake in the red clay you wanted. Boomer at high noon when the run was started. Four twenty two of eighty-nine; eighteen hundred of the highest times. [04/22/1889]. Seven titles surround the finest minds; an institute for these trying times. The magnitude of people that can spark-light in the street will arise from the cream.

I didn’t cry wolf. I took the punishment. I could have absorbed another hit. But, I didn’t see leaving the scene beyond the means. Of a blueprint to this so they could all see. That I did what I could; I pressed the button in. Heady discussions with republicans. I wanted it, to be real on point. No frontages, not on these live joints. And it did a lot of good. It’s live on the transistor, given the ordinary configures Administer this sound. Get down. I want to be a bootleggers boy like Barry Switzer. I probably should. Move on another binge More sin - phenomenal friends. Pretend gems with pharmaceutical grins Like - a night in LA with A Crimson Tinge. And you knew that I would. Be reluctant when the topic gets discussed again. I’ll pack it in and I’ll be on my way. O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A !!

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LOCAL RESIN

LOCAL RESIN

Don’t want to hate upon the prophecies. But time can feed it honestly. You were wrong on everything, obviously. We can communicate and make it brace for traces. Try to annunciate like adolescents sporting braces. Create the fracas. Lungs descend into the Naismith. Brain hall of fame, cherry-pick and maintain. That grain of salt was a bushel. That train of thought was a dismissal.

Monitor surrounding spaces in a hovercraft. Massage hallucinations. Standing, I’m on common ground. Give me half a minute to get my head wrapped around the mayhem. Turmoil for the crown of angels. Confusion masked the star-spangled. Spy-cam entering from every angle. A temping first spliff that locked my ankle.

Ask why? These bonafides collide. Their facts are drenched in lies. When the truth came in, we got you. Is there a place in the city where you’ve come to hide? Yea, it’s out in the open where the focus lies. Time is a token you play to find. Like that, in a blink of an eye.

Pushing the button, boom. I got the hammer cocked. Click; bang, back on the block. It’s Naaman Norris and The Thousands. Out of retirement like I’m Brett Favre. Rap’s soul survivor. With Ana Mana Pia and alliteration peter piper couldn’t peck. Living good and still collecting unemployment checks. Still rocking with the family and aint shit changed. Y’all n----‘s still can’t stand me.

A premise to defend. Why end this discussion with million other gems to spend on the percussion? Dig in money vampires I’m damn tired of tolerance. Blow-hards and moderates; thin skin and politics. A lot of it, on a mission to binge. On the elementary thoughts being pushed from the fringe. The damage done from the message they send. The false revolution that they want to begin.

You can hear the beats when your thoughts erode. Find patterns in the hum of the mechanical. Erratic in the hub; it’s the radical. Use static to connect with the Manicflow. Fracture lines to design the breakdown. Keep it moving like an all-night Greyhound. Start pressing like Depp in ‘Blow’. Stop guessing just frame and flow.

Ask why? These bonafides collide. Their facts are drenched in lies. When the truth came in, we got you. Is there a place in the city where you’ve come to hide? Yea, it’s out in the open where the focus lies. Time is a token you play to find. Like that, in a blink of an eye.

So, they say this is a jungle. The mighty jungle. Where n----‘s aint got no faith no more. Streets full of Mr. Bungle’s. Hand me down street knowledge. Schooled by OG’s and uncles. Naaman got nice with the knuckles. One – two. I got a black-market gun too. Ghetto mothers regret deeds that their sons do. Words and art form, chess and Sunzu. We’re scaling up rocks wrapping sticks in bundles; open up shop. You want it, I got you.

Ask why? These bonafides collide. Their facts are drenched in lies. When the truth came in, we got you.

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AWAY

AWAY

Wait for it, fly past the terminal. Paid for it, fly puff the burnables. A turtle slow-pace, wasted from a weekend. Went to gather steam, to keep the ship from sinking. Tweaked and on the go, blow down the boulevard. Weeks since I was told to slow down and live along. Lines undefined, I go for the bigger find. Know what I know. Sewn from a silly grind. Woke up later than expected, with the retched. Hidden with the tunnel vision. The terminal bleeds the sound. Hypnotized by the underground and the man in the mirror. Wait for it. Stand and deliver the blunt of bad habits. What sand type am I standing in? Sexually smoking the “breakfast of champions”. AWAY. WE FALL AWAY. Get the content to the drop vent. You are now dealing with who some feel is the eternal optimist. Got to get it off the plane, shot eyes, half a brain. Meet me at the runway. I’m kind of hating Mondays. Come full circle to battle test the dumb way. Some say 10 % of something is more than 100% of nothing. Sleep it off in the stairway. Wait for the son of Friday. He’s just a stand-in, worked it early. They demanded he look burley. Turned the style at position one and came bye to rock-it thirty city streets. The kid was quick like a Kenyan mile. AWAY. WE FALL AWAY. Streets shine from the early rain. Up all night at it again. Twisting one burned end. Raise decibels to get it in. Sedatives stay repetitive. Find ways to turn positives into negatives. Other people begin finishing my sentences. Now, I want to expose without an emphasis. It’s not a test, just the stereo. Hover above the tempo. Time to throb the temple. Burn thru the night to keep it simple. The ripple effect. The evolution of a concept. Had to keep it honest with accurate responses. It’s run of the mill when you stand still on logic. Do myself a favor; extend myself an armrest. AWAY. WE FALL AWAY.

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PROJECT ONE

PROJECT ONE

Project one with my green thumb. Touch someone that needs love we spread the whole sum. Hover above force-field-frantic. Driven, manic in the smog and static. Ready when the moment had a notice; grab it. Everybody prepare and adjust your average. There’s a busload of words in a camera. Take the direction and start a new habit. Life, perfect for a minute-maid man. Thirty second drive thru to another sham. Listen as you’re lied through media scans. Maneuver until your head is dead. Removal of what’s left from red. Dried up body from the box left-checked. Donor removed all that was left unsaid. Maneuver until your head is dead. The scam you planned was damned from the beginning. In a city where the masses are totally unforgiving. Choose to be young and witty, not dumb and pretty. Your tongue is shitty enough for the both of us. Trust the last part of the process. Tested from plenty of dust, when “witty” was just a must. Ignorance was a moment of bliss. Push your face against the fist and dive into the grenade. Pave a new way and shit shrapnel for days. No fazes, no awkward social graces. We made this out of nothing and now they want to take it. Practically illogical as they grace us with fake shit. My bowel is getting wasted. Heard a conversation flat from flaccid placement. So basic, the way they built the matrix. Let’s trace it to the root. Trace it to the root. I’ll bet on a religion and loose. Fill the room with booze. And quell the rioting with Quaaludes. Everyone stays nude and sloppy. Protesting Detroit’s gas jalopies. Why not? It’s like a right of passage. Sharp as the space on the rasp is. Trapped in a hook like a hopeless romantic. Skip the static. Meet the parents in the attic to show my habit as “the addict”. Unpredictable, like the flow of the syllables. Even in a pinch, what I spit is refillable. At any event, gotta get what I’m looking for. Decadent to death, every breath in a liquor war. Search for meaning of the next phase. Staged in a space to understand what I’m looking for. Metaphors for “like that” and thoughts that blend exits left over again. I hope you can attend the funeral at the end. I’ll take my time with this one. Turnbuckle conundrum. Punch me make me dumb dumb. Now can I confront some? Undone analogies and misunderstood fallacies. My verbal reality. Why is everyone surrounding me?

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Limit

Let ƒ be a function. To say that means that ƒ(x) can be made as close as desired to L by making the independent variable x close enough, but not equal, to the value c. How close is "close enough to c" depends on how close one wants to make ƒ(x) to L. It also of course depends on which function ƒ is and on which number c is. The positive number ε (epsilon) is how close one wants to make ƒ(x) to L; one wants the distance to be less than ε. The positive number δ is how close one will make x to c; if the distance from x to c is less than δ (but not zero), then the distance from ƒ(x) to L will be less than ε. Thus δ depends on ε. The limit statement means that no matter how small ε is made, δ can be made small enough. The letters ε and δ can be understood as "error" and "distance", and in fact Cauchy used ε as an abbreviation for "error" in some of his work.[1] In these terms, the error (ε) in the measurement of the value at the limit can be made as small as desired by reducing the distance (δ) to the limit point. This definition also works for functions with more than one input value. In those cases, δ can be understood as the radius of a circle or sphere or higher-dimensional analogy, in the domain of the function and centered at the point where the existence of a limit is being proven, for which every point inside produces a function value less than ε from the value of the function at the limit point.

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080712

look (lk) v. looked, look·ing, looks v.intr. 1. a. To employ one's sight, especially in a given direction or on a given object: looking out the window; looked at the floor. b. To search: We looked all afternoon but could not find it. 2. a. To turn one's glance or gaze: looked to the right. b. To turn one's attention; attend: looked to his neglected guitar during vacation; looked at the evidence. c. To turn one's expectations: looked to us for a solution. 3. To seem or appear to be: look morose. See Synonyms at seem. 4. To face in a specified direction: The cottage looks on the river. v.tr. 1. To turn one's eyes on: looked him in the eye. 2. To convey by one's expression: looked annoyance at the judge; looked his devotion to me. 3. a. To have an appearance of conformity with: He looks his age. She dressed up to look the part. b. To appear to be: looked the fool in one version of the story. n. 1. a. The act or instance of looking: I took just one look and I was sure. b. A gaze or glance expressive of something: gave her a mournful look. 2. a. Appearance or aspect: a look of great age. b. looks Physical appearance, especially when pleasing. c. A distinctive, unified manner of dress or fashion: the preferred look for this fall. Phrasal Verbs: look after To take care of: looked after his younger brother. look for 1. To search for; seek: looking for my gloves. 2. To expect: Look for a change of weather in March. look into To inquire into; investigate: The police looked into the disturbance. look on/upon To regard in a certain way: looked on them as incompetents. look out To be watchful or careful; take care: If you don't look out, you may fall on the ice. We looked out for each other on the trip. look over To examine or inspect, often in hasty fashion: looked over the proposal before the meeting. look to Usage Problem 1. To expect or hope to: He looked to hear from her within a week. 2. To seem about to; promise to: "an 'Action Program,' which ... looked to reduce tariffs on over 1,800 items" (Alan D. Romberg). look up 1. To search for and find, as in a reference book. 2. To visit: look up an old friend. 3. To become better; improve: Things are at last looking up. Idioms: look a gift horse in the mouth Informal To be critical or suspicious of something one has received without expense. look alive/sharp Informal To act or respond quickly: Look alive! We leave in five minutes. look down on/upon To regard with contempt or condescension. look down (one's) nose at/on To regard with contempt or condescension. look forward to To think of (a future event) with pleasurable, eager anticipation: looking forward to graduation. look in on To visit: I look in on my grandparents each weekend. look the other way To deliberately overlook something: knew the student was cheating but decided to look the other way. look up to To admire: looked up to her mother. [Middle English loken, from Old English lcian.]

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Chase Scene

All the dirty fingers picking up finds Bruised with a motherless childish mind To be kind in the line of design without a proper subject

Got all apologies Signed up to steal Prednisone body Topic of ill for the chill and the thrill of the kill I see my woman calling

Cause I licked a little skin Like a fear in my bed Spilt all the toxic cream of my dead To be bled or fed in the spread Of equal wrong talking

Spoon me like a stereotype Rigging the race Believing in a feather Particular face With the grace for the trace to embrace The frontal feel falling

I think I'm ready to go I think I'm ready to fight for the seed of my life

Yeah I'm ready to go Yeah I'm ready to fight for the seed of my life

If the caterpillar cat turns free to a whore The idea that there's a seventeenth floor to explore Like hardcore for the more And never seem to free it

Cause I gave a little long Yeah I gave it a shot Bought me some land And a beautiful plot With a hot who was not to be got By easy thinking thumbing

Bottled up can Will eat through your life Down with the deed of killing a wife With a knife who thinks twice to the wise I think my woman's calling

Yeah I'm ready to go Yeah I'm ready to fight For the seed of my life

I think I'm ready to go I think I'm ready to fight For the seed of my life

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Thoughts from Chuck...

“8) Music is much like fucking, but some composers can't climax and others climax too often, leaving themselves and the listener jaded and spent” ― Charles Bukowski

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sub-mind

Our mind is a complex mechanism that records, stores and processes huge amounts of information every single day of our lives. Where does all this information go? We certainly do not remember each and every thing that passes us by and yet most of us are able to recall the minutest of details if required. The human mind is divided into conscious and the subconscious minds – the conscious mind is the active memory where details related to our day to day lives are stored and the total subconscious mind deals with long term memory. “The conscious mind may be compared to a fountain playing in the sun and falling back into the great subterranean pool of subconscious from which it rises.” ~ Sigmund Freud Subconscious comprises of 90% of the human mind, where as the conscious mind is only 10% . Therefore, the right brain subconscious is more powerful than the conscious mind, which has all the logic, thinking and intellect. The right brain subconscious has no logic or intellect. It function on the basis of instinct and whatever beliefs and ideas that have seeped in subconscious. It does not have the capacity to distinguish between right and wrong or acceptable and unacceptable behavior or thought. Due to this lack of judgment, if a belief becomes deep-seated in the right brain subconscious, it is very difficult to convince a person to believe otherwise. “Traditions are the guideposts driven deep in our subconscious minds. The most powerful ones are those we can’t even describe, aren’t even aware of.”~ Ellen Goodman The Subconscious carries within itself eternal memory – everything that the human race has gone though over billions of years is believed to be stored under the deep, dark folds of the subconscious. It will be difficult for people to carry on their daily lives if they had to carry the burden of memories of millions of years. Therefore, all these ancient memories remain forgotten and buried and surface only when need arises. The right brain subconscious mind is where all everything is neatly filed and stored and can be accessed or rather recalled anytime. However, this is not our active memory, which is why, usually a trigger is required to invoke any memory or detail. This function is just like a computer’s memory – in order to access any file where a particular data is stored, you must know the file name to choose, open and then access the data stored there. Similarly, the subconscious mind suddenly flashes certain memories that got triggered through some event. This what is known as ’jogging the memory’. For example, you may be in a bookstore and suddenly a particular book cover reminds you of a kindergarten schoolmate. The memory of this schoolmate was probably triggered because the shade of purple used on the book cover is exactly of the same shade that this classmate used to wear. If is a baser side to consciousness, known as subconsciousness, then why should there not be a superconscious? The superconscious is complete consciousness, without any divides. It is aligned with the cosmos and on this level both intellect and instinct merge to become intuition – ’the inner tutor’. At this stage, the conscious is one with the universe and all duality is non-existent and there is a sense of completeness. Universal Mind, Universal Consciousness and Collective Consciousness are all name given to the phenomenon of becoming identified with the ineffable Source from we have come. The Source and the Being do not remain as two different entities but resonate with the same superconsciouness.

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pondering

“there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock.

people so tired mutilated either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us that we can all be big-ass winners.

it hasn't told us about the gutters or the suicides.

or the terror of one person aching in one place alone

untouched unspoken to

watering a plant.” ― Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell

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