A father tells his son to always be prepared in a polite
conversation as they rush down a five-lane highway, choking
the birds and the bees. Always be prepared. We’ve always been
taught that, a little ironic isn’t it? While they were busy preparing
us for life, teaching us how to tie knots and make bracelets,
they sentenced us to death. They weren’t prepared. Our cars
pollute the air, suffocating us. Our foods are polluted with hormones
and toxins, cold blooded murder for a nice warm steak.
Animals fear people, people fear people. Be prepared for what?
There’s no way to prepare for this future.
All these words that they’ve spoken seem to be nothing
more than controlled noises working for their own benefit. It
feels poorly planned. A building, a song, a verse. It’s all about
you. It’s all about me. No, it’s all about them.
I tell you my every single thought. Well that’s overdone.
They all seem the same. They all spawn from the same original
thought which was borrowed from someone else’s mind. It’s
kind of guilt ridden, angst ridden, ridden with something. A
laugh, a song, a smile, a glare. A hook, something to keep the
mind intent on watching, not processing, to make sure we think
less about what has happened and more about what will. We
can’t live in the moment because the moments already passed.
It’s time to keep it inside myself. They say that makes a
little bit of the soul die each and every day, well I don’t know.
I think that maybe it’s time to admit that my soul is meant to
slowly die off with the panda bears and the glaciers and with
humanity. I think the world will keep going ‘round, whether I’m
picking up trash or throwing out more and more. I feel like most
ideas die in a person’s voice box.
Smiles turn into frowns which turn into blank stares
which turn into smiles; it’s a cycle. A person gets offended and
they can’t cope. Well that person doesn’t realize that they offend
others, there’s no way around that. We’re all offensive. The offended
offend, that’s a cycle also.
Maybe it is better to live from day to day, looking out
windows onto busy streets, walking down streets looking into
cars, watching everyone watch everyone else. Waiting for something
to happen, waiting in lines, waiting for gas, waiting for
food, waiting for news, simply waiting. And while we wait we
can practice tying those knots and making those bracelets. We
can talk to our children, in our nice big cars, driving down those
nice big streets, remembering to always be prepared.

You say you see no color. I say you’re full of it!
I hope when you look at me you see black a little bit,
For when you say you see me how can that really be
when part of who I am is my ethnicity?
I like my hair, my skin tone, I like my heritage;
It influences my art enriches how I live.
I like your hair and color and even your eyes too,
One of my favorite hues is that lovely shade of blue.
But I wouldn’t want to be you; I like myself just fine,
And don’t want you to be me; we’ll both get there in time.
I know you like Scott Joplin, and I love a Bernstein score,
I love good gumbo and pot pies, one flavored be a bore.
When we escape these bodies, and meet at heaven’s gate,
Then we can say no color, we’ll have nothing to debate.
We’ll be at peace in truth, and understand all things,
But until then let’s be real… Enjoy what difference brings!
And until that day in glory when we are truly one,
Let’s love ourselves in color, not pretend that we see none.
Consider what it means, to love without condition,
It means to see all sides of me, yet love is your decision.
To be high but lay down low,
And love beyond yourself is the best way to love others,
But to claim you see no color,
and smile like all is fine is to say you don’t see wholly and if so,
We see you’re blind