Kingdom Cone: a rap commemorating twenty-five years of glacial melting and dissipation.

Having my own "data analysis firm" and sitting in a pool with 220 candidates for single positions on the internet; this consolidation reeks inflation by unemployment, death by lack of use, and dare is say, Rust.

Woken to find my socks off my feet, those sitting part way up, past my ankles.  Some friendly ghost had undressed my feet and left me pedantically nude in the night, and I had those same puzzle-solving dreams, problem-solving dreams, my mind working out solutions to unreal problems, my mind, even in slumber trying to pitch-in.

And "Woke" being misappropriated by popular culture.  I think of Shane, living by the popular dollar, and conversely, obversely, dying by the popular dollar the way Glenn did; it can happen, as so many put their lives on a thread.  I thought myself perhaps lucky to be outside of the "cash and carry" economy, but where do my resources come from?

Return of the Prodigal

Methodical, Chronological.

Captain in the doorway,

selling his wine,

workers on the promenade

they had trimmed the vines;

memorized the lines,

wrote it all down,

recited it,

twenty-five times.

As if to say, I will remember, even after ten years.

I will vaguely recall, after twenty-five years.

I still have a recollection of the shape of her bosom in that red silken shirt; she came to see me later, and it went not well, with not to much exchanged between.  I see her perhaps to a degree, still, as my own game of Simon, to push her buttons and sequentially react to this or that, action and reaction, flaming toothpaste volcano of love and sexually urgency, our timidities pounding in our youngling stupid ears, our plight still, even in the secret moments: only what someone else gave us.

The Big Niggah

The Steak Dinnah

Solace for the saints and sinnuh.

A man convinced, from his mountaintop, from his own promenade, from his own view of the countryside, that he had certainly lost something, a thing that he never really had anyway.  He missed it, and he wrote a cycle of best-selling books about it, getting a publisher firmly behind him with their marketing dollars, and an agent, feet on the desk, spouting ideas for his remonstrance.

I had took to the Evening Post, the fortnightly, and found that Mrs Hearst's vagina was still as young and vital as ever.  "May it always be so" I was saying, my mind trying to overwrite that with the thought, "somebody else's problem".

A rotund little jiggle-billy at the mercy of the Sanctions Monkeys, continually penalized when the prospect of pressure clearly doesn't outweigh the perceived danger; somewhere in that, they make high finance, monies, and hostile nations partner-up in the light of walls of red-tape and speeches that were well-paid for.  All the while their hope is not peace, perhaps, but to pay car payments, and that is what the system gave us--an endless cycle of words and punishments for words, stipends for bureaucrats.

Can a man lose that which he never had anyway?

Some threats have no teeth, as it were, and men a world away from the action cannot put their words at the scene reliably and with certitude of forethought, because they have put nothing to the fear of a loss, nothing on the table, no skin in the game, and only the endless selling of their words....

To contribute to this author's success curve Paypal at kaneroseup@gmail.com

or don't, cause it ain't all about the money, sometimes its just about peace.