The Little Boy Heals


The little boy sleeps with tubes leading to & from the 21 machines keeping him alive, tubes that flow all across his body.

The little boy sleeps…

Why a child?  Why a child?  Why a child?

Why is that children must suffer so?  This boy suffers because he got sick when others suffer because of so much more… The more that is ‘wrong’ with this world, born from our evil, driven by our lack, the need to be filled through consumption shall never lead to The Truth, that’s just not where It’s at…

The little boy sleeps…

He sleeps because he’s sedated.  Sedation eases the pain he would feel were he awake for every sensation.  I’d wish not this upon anyone for to see the little boy who heals, with tubes to & from the 21 machines helping him recover each day, tubes that flow with life across his body.

The little boy heals…

May he rest for now and heal so that upon awakening he shall feel the love and the incredible help that’s been surreal. Seven teams, from departments throughout the medical center, these miracle makers working all around the clock.

Work do they so that he can heal, so his heart capable of so much life and live, so heart may never stop.

The little boy heals…

Heals that he may grow.  Heals so he can run again, pick up a pen, get to drawing again, and so that all will be well, once again for him and his whole family.

The little boy heals…

Prayers to the strong little boy, Andrew, who is fighting for his life.  

You are loved my little friend and may Love help you in your healing journey.


Remember, remember Baltimore…

Remember, remember Baltimore…

I live on an island, in a s0-called ‘Paradise,’ where you can work 2–3 jobs AND pay $1500 for a small studio & utilities for your family, just to make it right.

At least that’s the case with my little pseudo-family.

As for some, man, they gotta get that paper, make that money, for just the bare necessities alone, because you can live without a roof up top, especially in ‘Paradise’ here, where other cities ship their homeless because most times it’s nice AND increasingly warm…

But guess what, you’ll die, die, die without food AND water, so as for shelter, well, buy yourself a tent, and let’s just call this circumstance an adventure!

Two blocks from where I stay is a new neighborhood being populated. Where there are already many children AND their hard-working parents, already living there!

While it hasn’t been advertised like the new Villages of Ward, or the other developments that have been collecting all those cranes along its border, this project houses just as, if not too many, men, women, AND children, who bleed red just the same as you or me, just the same as any.

This is a bit more transient population AND though this ‘hood lives on that block for now, can anyone tell me how long will that last? A week? A month? who’s to say when really? Because sooner or later, someone’s going to come and knock…

Knock, knock Kaka’ako. Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there?

(Insert Mr. or Ms. X Police Officer, Health Inspector, any ‘official’ really, because it doesn’t matter, when who is just a messenger, with a message that doesn’t care):

“Time to clean up, yes, you, who live in Tent City. We’ve an exciting new development ready to break ground AND your time squatting is over. Why you ask? Well, because your residence here isn’t much of a necessity.”

Alas, Tent City will move like it always has before. At least that’s the age old assumption. But in this increasing state of lack, with a greater Culture of Fear governing growth in adverse poverty even further, who knows what else may lie in store?

Perhaps some might protest this circumstance. Or maybe it will be more?

Whatever the case may be, I’ll tell you what, one day, I hope not here, but I guarantee somewhere with a Tent City, Planet Earth, filled with displaced people just the same, “maybe it will be more” will happen for sure AND on that day, we’ll be forced to remember…

Remember, remember Baltimore.

Just as Now we’re forced to remember all other states of unrest before.

The Life of the Land is perpetuated in righteousness. Nah, that’s just a translation. We’ve a truly human crisis all across the globe on our hands, especially if what we keep perpetuating is inequity AND a lack of righteousness.

Broken Glass – Four

Broken Glass

Broken Glass… the rippling, the crippling first waves of the day, break the single reflection though not the whole.  Yet, still once it starts, the vibration won’t stop.

This is how it began way when the ocean of consciousness was but a void.

The chaos, its beauty, gave us Life.

Broken, glassy, dangerous, but beautiful.


Broken Glass – No. 3

Broken glass.

Broken glass, song, verse, poem, whatevs number three.  Here from beyond to “emancipate yourself from mental slavery.”

Slow rhythmic, rhythm with rhymes so magically… woven.  Woven through the tapestry of time our shared consciousness trav-els.

Slice.  Sliced a bit of my flesh open so the blood pours through these keys, making music with words when I type or the pen dances passionately across the canvas…

Of Paper or screen.  It doesn’t matter to me for even if I was blind, I’d paint, so long as the word, that Love, was with me.

Broken Glass – Pt. 2

Broken glass reflects the light like molasses, beautiful and cutting, sort of like Onassis, Jackie…


That tragic figurine.  So calm, so just, so just damn serene. A life lived that should have been normal, yet in its place was something else, ripped away so tragically.

As she fell from the shelf, glassy pieces of her soul lying there reflecting the light symmetrically…

On the floor. Broken glass, there, right there (!) on the floor, lies a life, that’s no more.

Broken Glass

Broken glass, the shards lie lifeless, filled with sharp light, ready to cut… the skin of any who dare to pass better be ready to fight.

Broken dreams, its fragments drift without life, both clear at night and dull in the day, dreams, were they mine or are they yours, it does not matter for these dreams are lost, lost without a fight.

A cry, its tears a collective utter, so mournful, lost is all the joy, the gypsy’s cards are turning, fear is no more, no more willingness to put up its fight.

Broken glass, broken dreams, a cry all mingle tonight, as I stare down at the brown residue on the floor of the one drink we lost on this very night.

Episode Ill

I’m ill in the spirit.

Shhh, my Heart beat, can you even hear it? At times I feel as though I’ve lost my muse. So much negative vibes, every time I hear the news, it’s permeated the environment all around, that beat beat’s so long gone, I fear it, just maybe, my spirit’s 6 ft. deep beneath the ground.

Oh to be the Fool once more, instead of just another one of Life’s fucking clowns…

I never liked clowns you know? Their archetype and energy never quite suited me. Then again, my friends,

I have never liked feeling the fool all that much either, “Don’t worry Dear, not in your Life…” My Teacher says trying to reassure that the mob won’t shoot me in this existence neither.

I’m ill in the spirit!

It lies within the shared consciousness. Gaze into the mirrors surrounding, see my own beauty and inequity from within so it shines there, like a blazing Dark Light, Here & Now right beside me.

“I’m a lunatic.” The haunted Artist shared with me the other day.  “I’ve a host of weirdos…” His crew ready to jump and share the message in their own maniacal way.

I’m ill in the spirit?

Nah, perhaps I’ve just not found my tribe.

Oh well.  Life’s swell no matter what, so long we stay a-LIVE.