"This is it,

the last time.

Not my last time,

for there will be many more,


but before I go,

take a second.

Or two.

As though leaving a humble abode


for the last time.

Or realistically,

one to be proud of,

one no need for humility.


A tendency to be crass, 

the one-stop coffeeshop 

that was the first building

foot stepped in,


the exact final destination

of a journey

across from

one Ocean to the next.


First impressions,

wild differences between

vernacular and tone,

'shaka brah', 


and an immediate inquiry

as to where the hell

I come from.



but immediately warm

the very first contact

turned out to be,

only to observe


more than a year of stumbles,

pieces scribbled,

baristas in and out,

one to be a brother


calling this location


locomotives blaring by

in a flash of red




the count not of years,

but of poetic conveyance,


written in the soft glow

of this shop,

this shop the subject

times so often giving


detail to who,

what, where,

and how that one girl,

that one time,


smelt as she walked by.


the time spent 

since the Spring,


but some things never change,

and that's how at home

I feel in this booth.

Bottoms up,


here's to you,

one last brew,

one last time. 

No more lines


to be written


skate to the next place,

though it won't be the same."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Home, closed down... I'll be wandering around town on a longboard for awhile. Two books written here at Brash Coffee, the local coffee shop I walked in the first hour of being in Chattanooga.


Cheers, Brash.

We need to take a stand

Screw all the dumb teenagers who use the term "YOLO"
While you're at it screw Drake too and the song "the motto"
I can't tell if the people are dumb or just simply confused
I reckon I should give a lesson on when and when not to use
You've got inspiration born from dedication from people who live once
then you got the stupid born from society deciding to eat a worm for lunch
Its gives me little faith in humanity seeing how people live their lives
I know it isn't mine but I think its a waste for the many soldiers that have died
We've been given freedom and equality I'm sure they'd be ashamed
The overdose of poison injected in our ear, The doctors are to blame
All they talk about is a messed up life and exaggerate the truth
Between listen to the nonsense, I would rather loose a tooth
Its time to make a change society need a new leader
We need someone who will make a change and be a good preacher
Cleanse the delusional minds of the modern day "Hip-Hop"
Its the same as a Chinese made Iphone, they're both rip offs.

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Facsimile City

Curbs are kicking back,
roads haven risen, fallen,
the avenues are tarred
and feathered thick with quills.
Quickened are facsimiles
of those who used to walk
the streets' uneven pavement,
leaving trails of trodden,
slickened slime from vats
where they'd been produced
to stand in for the dwellers.
Skies lit red with meteors
which we are ignoring
by means of screen and covered ears,
and all the shrieking billboards.
The day draws the shades,
the sun begins to plummet,
and beneath the massing shadow,
we do battle with our facade:
concede to maintain,
and continue on our way.

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Wall of I

There were old walls left standing
in wake of mass collapse.
They held fixtures and railways,
old and aging megaphones,
robbed of speech, impotent,
but symbols that echoed prior voice.

Of few survivors, one aspect crossed
borders to true neutrality
and became lost there for days.
He returned changed and so haggard,
like a cripple lost among desert dunes.
When he would kneel and vomit,
he could expel only muddy water.

And everyone was robbed of words
that were not bathed in metaphor.
All windows fogged, all mirrors obscured;
all means of conveyance and climb
fell into stupid, frantic disuse.

After the air became thicker and dense,
we'd only see ambiguous blurs
to accompany any sort of presence;
any sort of approaching touch.
We'd swipe at them like feral beasts,
lest they rob us, lest they bore us;
lest they attempt to ignore us.

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