no surprises(for the record)

for the record

nothing could possibly
surprise me at this point
four months
in between entries
is not acceptable…

folded paper monster

beautiful struggle

the mind turned over

like fireworks

no one can see

with these eyes buried deep

in my mind made up

of wonderful moments

stacking them higher

with every night

away returning

true holistic creativity

beautiful danger

hidden in the folds

of the paper monster

created as the music

all around stops

night falls to where eye sit

alone on my perch

like that bird

putting pieces together

like the jigsaw puzzle

that’s fallen to the floor

time honored consistency

like jello always room

especially when a gray night

steps in the way

of sudden moonlight

reflected on the surface of the water

only for those who take

the time to notice…

backwards again

no one is making enough noise

so that everyone hears

when he arrives spinning

backwards again

no one is telling tales better

than worse than that

done in another language

no one knows

direction lost kept walking

no one is watching

so eye will continue to sit

out in the open air porch

airing out these thoughts…

esteban lives!!

yo miz, thanks for the comment,
but it should be a posting
so I am going to put it in it's entirety here:

Well niceFro,

It seems that you have left the door wide open as to where this blog will take its readers. If that is indeed the case, and I am the first to comment, then I will take what you selected to post and run with it.
For those unaware of my relationship with niceFro, we met over 20 years ago and our mutual appreciation for rap music and the Hip Hop culture has been a common thread. For anyone who logs on, views the video that niceFro references, and does not "get" why we would find that clip, art in its truest and purest form, then I would ask you "Why not?"
And here we begin to get to my first axe to grind. There are a large number of people out there who view rap music as anything but music. They feel rap is profanity laced trash that serves no purpose, and does nothing more than glamorize drug use, dealing and sex and the exploitation of women. However, these same people go on to talk about Eric Clapton, the Doors, Aerosmith or any number of "rock" bands who essentially project the same messages with one exception-they are white.
Sex, drugs and violence sell in America, regardless of the type of media or artists involved. Rap music began with young black males originally making music that was proud and playfully braggadocios, built on break beats from old records (guitars, pianos, horns, and drums are not readily available to inner city youth living in poverty-so they used what the had and created a new artform). Record execs new that black pride would not appeal/sell to predominantly white buyer base, but the good old sex, drugs and violence theme would.
Therefore, groups like De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest were replaced with the 50 Cents of the world. However, the greater crime here is the further violence that has been perpetuated by this transformation of what was once (and in many circles still is) a positive outlet for frustrated urban youth to express their ideas and opinions about their race, culture and history. One type of violence (see David Gill for the complete theory on violence) in this country is that which is created when our institutions deprive some of its citizens (generally impoverished minorities) the right to live and engage in meaningful work and activities.
We all should be granted that opportunity, but sub-standard educational systems, living conditions and health care prevent many from pursuing meaningful work and activities. When this pursuit is obstructed, the frustration and anger is often released in violence, which is of course met with violence in the form of our prison systems. So essentially rap music emerged as an art form that allowed urban youth to engage in a meaningful activity and release their frustrations positively and creatively. It was then stripped of much of its history and culture (a familiar theme when talking about white europeans and native africans), degraded (again familiar) and used to generate profits for already wealthy white males (hmmm).
Now, watch that video again and note the black, latino and white men all gathered around the artist-community building 101. Now, try to recite the verse that Mos Def raps at the same rate and articulate it as clearly. Now, go and write a 50 second rap that not only rhymes, but says something meaningful and engages the listener to the point that they begin cheering upon its completion.
Finally, tell me why you are not impressed and why when an affluent white man does it, its called poetry, but when a poor black man does it, its called trash.

R.I.P. J-Dilla.

Respectfully yours,

Esteban
May 29, 2007 10pm

eye reality

sounds of the night
mind trapped
stuck in the mind
the beat eternal in an irie place
spent part of the day
moving around H town
no direction seeing who is out while
eye work doing the best eye can
sounds of tonight
spinning beats moving from room
to room creating more room
at the island located not far away
unbelievable but undeniable
at the same time like flood
waters power through any
boundaries head spins away from the smile
starting the dread all over again
mind spins still as sleep will arrive
shortly as time together
staring into eternity
with these eyes no limits
to eye reality...

manifest

sometimes I just need to air it all out

frustration—yoga felt good

detoxification mind and body

sometimes I just keep it all in

never know what it’s about

never find out part of

the frustration

sometimes I will flip it inside out

trying to get a better look

never really works as well as it should

backwards from ten until I fall asleep

again each night forget the sheep

falling forgetting how deep

sometimes I wonder

why I am who I am

and not a better manifestation

of what I want to be…

months

there are months 
and days within them
they pass by silently
without a written thought 
wishing to capture them 
before they vanish quick
even when the days are long
and drawn out like sketches
on napkins 
secret meetings 
discussed future plans
there are months
and days in between them 
they go unnoticed...

beyond the reach (for the record)

for the record

every sound and thought
revolving like the sun
or around it
resonating into the night
beyond the reach
of imagination

never imagined

the scenario flipped
the mind
into another dimension
not to mention
undeniable attention…

loud as the whisper

cool breeze
stopped me dead
in my tracks
forgot where eye was
momentarily still shocked

ten days without
thought clear on these
pages finally
pen doesn't feel as stuck
loose change is always good

even when it doesn't make
sense at all now
could anyone
believe an official story
they all have flaws

cool breeze
what could be the cause
no hair lost the dread
any loss always walking
forward eye might not
know the direction
lost in thought

loud as the whisper
in the wind
as the winter ends
and in with change
cool breeze
refreshing not chilling
solitary deep
into the night
from below the street...

bald and dreading(for the record)

fifteen years of work
has done nothing
for my work ethic
wishing to kick back
and coast like an old timer

for the record

bald and dreading
the day still beat nature
to the punch
in the face
can’t believe she still
looks this way

for the record
insecurities will get
the best of times
at the worst times
a celebration
never been beaten down
by anyone except the most
powerful self
circles come out in
a mixture of smoke

for the record
every right to hold steel
fear only the self
and what it could do
never will carry or shoot
every right to bear both
in defense of the self
and the family extended
unarmed but fearless
may pass the point
of falling down
and keep right on going…

nothing planned(for the record)

gone awhile
six twos greet upon return
nothing planned
spontaneity insane
my father says the world
won’t ever change
war may continue
for generations
before and after now
what’s the difference
 
for the record
getting much closer now
teaching daze coming to a close
love his grey blue eyes
and white beard and
nomadic mind
inspired both sons
 
for the record
only one daughter
raging against every
machine life throws
her way who knew
she would grow
to be so strong…

cerebral experiment

twenty plus days and nights as well

been silent right through the holidays

took a run at some office

still don’t know how bad the loss

grandfather passing hard enough

twenty some days and bunches of hours

spent wasted on being busy with whatever

thoughts piled up against the wall

the days of Bickford’s are gone

although the grill still poses as one

nothing like before probably closes at eleven

twenty minutes from now eyes could be closed

as well as should be if eyes grown weary

in the day new experiment in the mind

silent like the wind barely moving the trees

in the yard still too warm for winter

hardly a complaint but something isn’t quite right

as the moon has been left dipping below

the tree line view twenty days

worth of pages blank as if written by a mime

unheard of eye know he might

be hiding something again…

stricken with silence

another month of near silence

pen stuck in the mud of non-thought

journal writing is automatic

like the weather bound to change

in the mind of non-thought

staring off into somewhere else entirely

visualizing that place not quite sitting

but comfortable another month

a failure in the skeptical eyes

of the alter ego another month

of knowledge and self scrutiny

under the microscope and the eye

my own got to do it alone

no one is going to pick it up

and eye will have to make it fly

be it's wings at 33

turning up everywhere

and even here now as the fire

turns the room smoky

and water in a glass it would be

half full and rising

or falling depending on the day

the trees are stripped

to skeleton fingers outstretched

over the neighborhood tonight

it's still early...

nothing concluded 172

more thoughts down

randomly throwing
twelve-sixteen
ten years since
they lied then too
 
claiming mission
accomplished and
job well done
ask the soldier
who comes home
 
without his legs
how does he feel
when the president
jokes about the reason
we went to war
 
and how soon
until we the people
are labeled the enemy
again some might
not have to worry
 
how many more
years will we the people
be here to warn
the others
nothing concluded
 
another rainy
November night
probably been ten years
since Scorpios stood close
open to new ideas
 
sprouting like herbs
in a garden of knowledge
someone will forget
no doubt continuing
under some other name
 
who knows when it will
all make sense again
when will we the people
be able to feel secure
in what we the people
 
truly are
not herd-able
as some might believe
there will always be
those who stand out
 
and those who stand up
for what is right
despite what has been accepted
without checks
and balances as intended
 
some will say
time wasted
on thoughts that will
change nothing
but minds
 
can move the masses
to realize we don't
have a choice
to fight this
abduction of freedom...

nothing concluded 171

there is no law

been said over and over
nothing found
all the research
turns up nothing
 
steadily approaching
twelve-sixteen
wonder if it will
truly end
at ten years old
 
spilled ashes all
over the page
and keyboard
luckily none
got into the coffee
 
spent nearly
the whole day
alone and didn't
mind at all
other half will arrive soon
 
so many thoughts
simultaneously
colliding in the mind
hand pen page
keyboard screen
 
nothing concluded
just wondering
around my own
empty head
worried about money
 
as always
none of us have
enough to do
what we want
and need meet
 
in the middle
of one thought
and into the next
another appears
as if invited
 
we are all being
tricked she screams
there is no law
requiring we pay taxes
as we do
 
confused staring
at a weekly pay stub
with this amount
withheld
nothing concluded
 
searching for answers
to the simplest
questions in the hardest
times was and fear
and violence
 
confused
into believing there
is no other
way back
when it all began
 
they lied the too
ten years since
twelve-sixteen
randomly throwing
more thoughts down...

quiet month

quiet for a month

reaching for a new way

out of the same old

hole in the wall city

east of almost everywhere

sleeping by now

or choking on smoke

enter quiet in a minute or two

quiet too long

so much still to say

just haven’t found

the right road

and the vehicle

has always been

out of control…

nothing concluded 170

as plain as
day time next door
you can hear
the conversation
down the street
silent autumn
nights until
the dog starts
yelling about
being short again

laughter and maybe
it’s a party
or someone
celebrating
all alone

remembering the idea
over and over
again rereading
in order to move
something around

jump start
creativity when
it stumbles
over it’s own
redundancies

is there time
for another
pot of joe
not knowing anyone
by that name

like my ring
when I shower
for fear of the drain
(and when I wash
the dishes)

extended summertime
feel in the night
air as I drift in
and out of a deep
or shallow

thought depending
on the moment
and if the sun
was out all day
most likely outside

at some point
look to the stars
through the trees
in the back yard
as high as eye can see

head down
full speed ahead
like the old days
in a closed down
restaurant

resonating like the bell
returning to the
mindfulness of
each moment
as they stack up well

and they may
fall over at times
somehow
still hovering
above ground

metaphorically
driven to find
the next thought
and that
might be all

there is
to it
driven daily
and certain phrases
don’t like to repeat

everything changes
and it should
for it’s own good
and the good
of all involved

in a thought
can’t tear
away from the page
like a surge of energy
holding the pen there

exploding longer
than the usual
one page limit
as of late
nothing concluded…

halfway across

listening to the rain

knowing somehow that act alone

is about as free as we get

halfway across the country

in the middle of nowhere

someone with something special to say

back to the solitary nights

this pen is the crutch

can see as I walk from here to there

until morning and the eyes begin

to cross like they were t’s

until morning

when sun shakes water from leaves

behind the wall

underneath all the darkness

and rain written black ink white page

trying to fit back into my skin

after all these years

so many thoughts uninterrupted

dreams waking three

maybe four times

after sleep has come

nearly one am with nothing to say…

my brother travels(for the record)

my brother travels westward tomorrow

might take two full days
before he is high in the mountains
thoughts and positive energy for
his safe passage…

for the record

we are closer than ever today
he needs to leave in order
to someday return
and no matter where
he finally settles
we will always be this close
 
for the record
it is a dream I will
never let go of
and when I wake he will be gone
my guru the man
I call my brother
and best friend…

red alert(for the record)

red alert

more restrictions
will apply pressure
on the liberty
it’s been planned
months years even decades now
admitted surprises work better
to induce fear
it’s probably how the rich
we don’t know run the world
no longer merely pre midnight thought
hung out on the postgame show
tires screeching
as for some the night has
just begun
still drinking coffee
as if to stay up for a fight
 
for the record
obviously internal
no one else is here…