I want tacos. Boatloads of Tacos. I'm talking racks and racks of tacos. Don't judge me. Or do. I don't care. I want crunchy hard tacos, fresh corn tortillas, and fluffy flour tacos. Baby-sized street tacos? Bring 'em on. Blackened Mahi Mahi, grilled salmon, Bang Bang shrimp. Come on. Crispy Tofu? Yup. Veggies? You know it. Make them over-flowing with toppings. Fresh lettuce, shredded cheese, diced onions, cilantro, thinly-sliced cabbage, (i'm serious, slice it thin or you will endure a severe side-eye glare. I'm not joking. Do it.) and shredded cheese. Did I mention I want shredded cheese? Sour cream? No thanks. Save it for the guy with a baked potato fantasy. Hook me up with that salsa too. You know how I like it. Don't skimp out on me now, things are just heating up! Hot sauce. For real. This is a hot date between me and my tacos. Time to spice it up. Is this getting too real for you? Ok. No problem. Let's cool it down a bit. Squeeze some fresh limes on top. Damn, that still sounds hot. Company, you say? Your probably thinking I want my closest friends and family to join. No thanks. I'm not sharing anyway. An audience? Maybe. None of this live-streamed nonsense. Take me to a studio with stadium seating, high-quality lighting, and camera guys. The whole shabang. I need a wheelbarrow too. Roll me away into the sunset when I'm done feasting. Cue applause and tears of joy. End scene.

manifest the best 

within my chest

and bless my breath 

with the words

anoint in nouns

and vibe the verbs

escape in pain on

a paper plain

a needed refrain:

once again 

once again

Tension surges

like a draw-bride emerging

over a chasm of doubt,

foreboding the figurative,

"just figure it out"

Left right at a crossroad

with no road to cross

across from a cross

kneeling atop layers of prayer

peeling away

the sky-ceiling fading

sealing a way

reality unreal in comparison.

real expectations expected

unused to the ruse

of success

cast into a chasm of doubt

foreboding the figurative,

"just figure it out"

Bust slugs

slang drugs

Stack stocks

dress socks

Chopper loaded

clips swollen

Ballpoint bleeding

take-over rolling

Behind bars

wearing stripes

Ritzy bars

Starry nights

Downtown struggle

Uptown hustle

in equality

At the deepest dusk

under the merging hues 

of fiery orange and whispering white

I hide my heart's lamentation

The sounds of thundering, crushing waves

repetitively attacking the shore

cannot coerce or coax

a telling

Nor can the vigilance of the gulls cawing 

and circling, in vigil 

loosen upon my lips

a telling 

Not even the tide 

could compel a key

to unlock the secret

beating in my chest,

or the bereavement cresting

upon my breath

My mind floating adrift,

and soul set assail

attempted inquiries engrained 

but all of no avail

At the deepest dusk

under the merging hues

of fiery orange and and whispering white

I hide my heart's lamentation

and I'm not 

telling

I was lost in the clouds,

where I discovered myself

I used to stare into the clouds

sauntering on nimbus thoughts

floating yet grounded,

billowing in the smoke

with thoughts in shapeless forms

forming mirages of substance

absent a solid foundation

free of the commitment

of being

committed.

collages of sky blues and pillowy ivory whites

contrasted with thunder laden grays and ominous deep dark

blues.

I searched for meaning in the clouds

longing for depth,

yearning for answers.

the answer.

the clouds roll on and along

but now,

I

am ever present.

as the fog lifts slowly

I

acknowledge my self,

to myself.

and,

I

learn to be like the clouds

Aching bones like over-loaded levees

creaking and cracking

in triumphant tribulation,

trying just to try.

Sinews whisper sweet encouragement

to tighten and

rise.

While desperate digits

fumble in frailty,

trying just to try.

Palatable prayers

aware in their awakening

ignore the ignominy,

trying just to try.

Pickets set. British soldiers sweating in their crimson royal red uniforms.

Rifles, breech-loaders, with smoke billowing at the twelve round max per minute capacity.

Over-run by warriors with short spears and massive cowhide shields.

Shaka Zulu, triumphantly remains ruler of Zululand.

Europe does not dominate Africa today. 

Farcical.

     Farcycle?

     I reckon it's got uh flat tired.

No. Like, farce.

     Huh?

     Suppose its still pretty farse.