when we step it is to heart to know
The Burnt sole of another mans mile.
by K.A.Ambrose
Last night, as a haze riddled the outer innerly with alcohol, a man violently beat me. While I took the blows and acted the sort-of dancing visionary the world is when flying around being beaten, to the head with kicks and fist, I watched from a mental distance and bleed. First one round, then the next for it lasted about eight minutes I just kept getting to my feet. A protecting spirit stood besides, I know to say , for I just couldn't conceive of the ability to fight back. Fist can be jelly if not mad and I hate getting angry Lose of control is true insanity. And day I feel last night ,not just in the moving ways of facial bloating, but in the actual crime committed as my own and others, and for official rumors , the culprit WAS black man, I was drunk and not supposed to remember ,as that is said, THE words of a twenty minute ride and the conversation of two people encompassing front page exchanges, spoken by foolish people marching ---around emotional sub texts, and unheard reference. for which our society is always upon, ruling with reason corroded by blasphemy . the worst of two evils. he and I talk the buddy language of booze, a bonding fluid which often is a male repetitive machismo especially around women, but always sensitive and there by dangerous, and is it just male? or does any good conversation tend to stimulate a heart and body awakening a mutual cause? but how we argued this twenty minutes was me staying on top of his attitude knowing full well he DISLIKED ME FOR THE COLOR OF MY SKIN AND WHILE hiding from DEEPER issues, for which the least of these may be his father. A white ford Bronco looking truck made a smooth path from the watering hole to a street in artistic desolation of Boston south side, to stop dramatically only twenty minutes later with violent intent. Where did the conversation go from to end in violence? Seemingly the start was peaceful enough but for the boredom and constant rage in his eyes and actions. Bottles stolen form the party, to much drank even before, the stains of extremes littering the violent voice muttering about all the white people, and the other fool of my self not fully listening to the over bearing ignorance and insecure posturing, of the six foot tall prima donna. His eyes filled with the his own talent searches , blinded by the truth for his own insecurities. While the other him a fool (me) wanted TO BE WITH THE MOST EXTREME, the most talented FOR THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN HOW HE THOUGHT ABOUT HIS LIFE. EXTREME DEVOTION LEADS MANY TO blind paths to link TOTAL spiritual understanding. A drummer is a drummer , and the other fool a writer slash actor, slash construction flunky enjoys the character portrayal, the writer enjoys the looking glass of another personality, and this fool has paid for the honor of secret knowledge with blood ,sweat, money and secrets. Learning along the way tender entree to meditation and mobsters. Walking ,psychologically and physically ,through sexual preference and shockras enlightenment’s. Seeing the unseen. Explanations can't be exactly told but remain in social evolution. Retold only metaphorically through minimalistic gestures: the plotting IS A blashemous knowledge. This later only wanting the acceptance of such a critic for with his anger ,the insecure writer fool thought only of superior qualities," Isn't a man bored with society, angry. Bored by the commonness of elements meant to be higher, would not his demeanor be considerable "different" more aloof, or even angrier than normal ? " but then the side of man we do not see for our own blindness. both these fools lived; defendants of truth. Unseen for our petty prides, unseen for our life’s evolution. Such that when one took to steeling the remainder of alcohol from the unsuspecting host, the other was just his alcoholic self, to explore the nights promise of music and recording. For the other, would be to the world what he knew all to be , or is that just myself to say this that for which I watched the Might where I would talk of the other , I was the one drunk and made from hardships. this I , who did invite himself to destiny where destiny wouldn't be. As in the delightful fulfillment of so strong a beat keeper. I wanted to feel that groove so strong wondering what would come out, what would I say with the accompanying score. Knowing improvisation is creation only from a total man’s conscious and unconscious experiences. But even as these thought come, I see into them, ˆ see the man facing fears so subconscious and real , that he can only watch as fist cross his face, can only wonder at the speed and accuracy , never even remembering his life was at stake, instead watching as the scene spins by, and the city lights are streaks. Artistic vision celebrates often in dancing . discarding his body like a man in a prison cell on acid. but that is only part of the story, the words spoken. for I had promised to remember each one, where of a player status, the drummer I was meeting for the first time, maybe I wasn't listening to him , hearing the intricacies, but he reminded me of my brother, who I once knew, to be like him, scornful of everything , and quick to anger, they even are the same height, I wanted to be able to get through to him. And the night proceeded, with me wanting to understand one who people want to understand but rarely try, for the anger stops them. the raw "Fuck You" of a voice hiding behind it, hearing in slow ways the parting innocence of the actor who would be alive if only the inside was let out, for the other knew the act, knew because the intense growth with it. knowing mankind can only act so long , can only be wrapped up in the subconscious until it hits them back. and the whole falls either into hell or into "love" fully . Seeing how love lost is the first rebellions strike , the other knew himself the fool. We can not become peace nicks easily when our hearts are repelled from the reference. When all we have seen that which was to be love , by 'normalcy" standards, and natural instincts, has been thrown in our face as that to "get over" because if we let it go on , go on as in mourning the love lost, we would be lost . Twenty minutes of conversation, twenty minutes until a man would look at his attacker with the eyes given only to a brother to be understood and no one would understand. That a man could give his life to save another, the other thought he could get through to, this other who was like himself but life only repeats itself. the eyes are thought to be else than what they were and the blood spilled was wasted on the grounds of battle instead of the battle of unity. After the blows landed and the contest over. the other stared around to find someone who would see with distance and no one was there. So goes the truth , and so sorry the land which can not see its self or the world which has given so much to prove the lessens have been taught and need not be repeated, suffers the ignorance alone. The conversation. The air stagnate with an old attitude,; pain , the experienced, looking around at smiles for the youthful sake of smiling, sat in the drivers seat, proud of the ability to drive after coke and alcohol.. Looked at his passenger wondering how the white boy , the big mouth had come along . Searching with distant his white boy face knowing only this loud mouth is going to piss him off. the white boy says "God is equal to energy". , some other motherfucken thing, he just puts in, all stupid shit.. Silly laughing and a poser’s hyperactivity. The punk telling of the streets he has seen, homelessness and a taxi driver arrogance. he doesn’t even listen to himself. Pushing his points like they have weight, he doesn’t know pain. his white boy attitude thinking he is above understanding others. Freely exposing his own inadequacies like foolish pride is absorbed into his every word. he has no back bone he doesn’t care to be respected, he doesn’t care what people think, and he creates his own demise. scaring victims of untortured minds ,. His ego apprearent. his release, the ages. his heart strewn ito mine, where comes his voice, friends for life, this man without, Fuck that, To hate gives man life, to kill is to succeed, and make the grade, following history, following time seen reality, , this man , who won’t step up, this tranquil actor, in violence is mankind answered. Violence, the victums survival, cross first my world, casts asundar what has been till now. Here we create, I learn your life , to save you,with my own. I teach you to rebelieve, for this
by K.A.Ambrose
Last night, as a haze riddled the outer innerly with alcohol, a man violently beat me. While I took the blows and acted the sort-of dancing visionary the world is when flying around being beaten, to the head with kicks and fist, I watched from a mental distance and bleed. First one round, then the next for it lasted about eight minutes I just kept getting to my feet. A protecting spirit stood besides, I know to say , for I just couldn't conceive of the ability to fight back. Fist can be jelly if not mad and I hate getting angry Lose of control is true insanity. And day I feel last night ,not just in the moving ways of facial bloating, but in the actual crime committed as my own and others, and for official rumors , the culprit WAS black man, I was drunk and not supposed to remember ,as that is said, THE words of a twenty minute ride and the conversation of two people encompassing front page exchanges, spoken by foolish people marching ---around emotional sub texts, and unheard reference. for which our society is always upon, ruling with reason corroded by blasphemy . the worst of two evils. he and I talk the buddy language of booze, a bonding fluid which often is a male repetitive machismo especially around women, but always sensitive and there by dangerous, and is it just male? or does any good conversation tend to stimulate a heart and body awakening a mutual cause? but how we argued this twenty minutes was me staying on top of his attitude knowing full well he DISLIKED ME FOR THE COLOR OF MY SKIN AND WHILE hiding from DEEPER issues, for which the least of these may be his father. A white ford Bronco looking truck made a smooth path from the watering hole to a street in artistic desolation of Boston south side, to stop dramatically only twenty minutes later with violent intent. Where did the conversation go from to end in violence? Seemingly the start was peaceful enough but for the boredom and constant rage in his eyes and actions. Bottles stolen form the party, to much drank even before, the stains of extremes littering the violent voice muttering about all the white people, and the other fool of my self not fully listening to the over bearing ignorance and insecure posturing, of the six foot tall prima donna. His eyes filled with the his own talent searches , blinded by the truth for his own insecurities. While the other him a fool (me) wanted TO BE WITH THE MOST EXTREME, the most talented FOR THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN HOW HE THOUGHT ABOUT HIS LIFE. EXTREME DEVOTION LEADS MANY TO blind paths to link TOTAL spiritual understanding. A drummer is a drummer , and the other fool a writer slash actor, slash construction flunky enjoys the character portrayal, the writer enjoys the looking glass of another personality, and this fool has paid for the honor of secret knowledge with blood ,sweat, money and secrets. Learning along the way tender entree to meditation and mobsters. Walking ,psychologically and physically ,through sexual preference and shockras enlightenment’s. Seeing the unseen. Explanations can't be exactly told but remain in social evolution. Retold only metaphorically through minimalistic gestures: the plotting IS A blashemous knowledge. This later only wanting the acceptance of such a critic for with his anger ,the insecure writer fool thought only of superior qualities," Isn't a man bored with society, angry. Bored by the commonness of elements meant to be higher, would not his demeanor be considerable "different" more aloof, or even angrier than normal ? " but then the side of man we do not see for our own blindness. both these fools lived; defendants of truth. Unseen for our petty prides, unseen for our life’s evolution. Such that when one took to steeling the remainder of alcohol from the unsuspecting host, the other was just his alcoholic self, to explore the nights promise of music and recording. For the other, would be to the world what he knew all to be , or is that just myself to say this that for which I watched the Might where I would talk of the other , I was the one drunk and made from hardships. this I , who did invite himself to destiny where destiny wouldn't be. As in the delightful fulfillment of so strong a beat keeper. I wanted to feel that groove so strong wondering what would come out, what would I say with the accompanying score. Knowing improvisation is creation only from a total man’s conscious and unconscious experiences. But even as these thought come, I see into them, ˆ see the man facing fears so subconscious and real , that he can only watch as fist cross his face, can only wonder at the speed and accuracy , never even remembering his life was at stake, instead watching as the scene spins by, and the city lights are streaks. Artistic vision celebrates often in dancing . discarding his body like a man in a prison cell on acid. but that is only part of the story, the words spoken. for I had promised to remember each one, where of a player status, the drummer I was meeting for the first time, maybe I wasn't listening to him , hearing the intricacies, but he reminded me of my brother, who I once knew, to be like him, scornful of everything , and quick to anger, they even are the same height, I wanted to be able to get through to him. And the night proceeded, with me wanting to understand one who people want to understand but rarely try, for the anger stops them. the raw "Fuck You" of a voice hiding behind it, hearing in slow ways the parting innocence of the actor who would be alive if only the inside was let out, for the other knew the act, knew because the intense growth with it. knowing mankind can only act so long , can only be wrapped up in the subconscious until it hits them back. and the whole falls either into hell or into "love" fully . Seeing how love lost is the first rebellions strike , the other knew himself the fool. We can not become peace nicks easily when our hearts are repelled from the reference. When all we have seen that which was to be love , by 'normalcy" standards, and natural instincts, has been thrown in our face as that to "get over" because if we let it go on , go on as in mourning the love lost, we would be lost . Twenty minutes of conversation, twenty minutes until a man would look at his attacker with the eyes given only to a brother to be understood and no one would understand. That a man could give his life to save another, the other thought he could get through to, this other who was like himself but life only repeats itself. the eyes are thought to be else than what they were and the blood spilled was wasted on the grounds of battle instead of the battle of unity. After the blows landed and the contest over. the other stared around to find someone who would see with distance and no one was there. So goes the truth , and so sorry the land which can not see its self or the world which has given so much to prove the lessens have been taught and need not be repeated, suffers the ignorance alone. The conversation. The air stagnate with an old attitude,; pain , the experienced, looking around at smiles for the youthful sake of smiling, sat in the drivers seat, proud of the ability to drive after coke and alcohol.. Looked at his passenger wondering how the white boy , the big mouth had come along . Searching with distant his white boy face knowing only this loud mouth is going to piss him off. the white boy says "God is equal to energy". , some other motherfucken thing, he just puts in, all stupid shit.. Silly laughing and a poser’s hyperactivity. The punk telling of the streets he has seen, homelessness and a taxi driver arrogance. he doesn’t even listen to himself. Pushing his points like they have weight, he doesn’t know pain. his white boy attitude thinking he is above understanding others. Freely exposing his own inadequacies like foolish pride is absorbed into his every word. he has no back bone he doesn’t care to be respected, he doesn’t care what people think, and he creates his own demise. scaring victims of untortured minds ,. His ego apprearent. his release, the ages. his heart strewn ito mine, where comes his voice, friends for life, this man without, Fuck that, To hate gives man life, to kill is to succeed, and make the grade, following history, following time seen reality, , this man , who won’t step up, this tranquil actor, in violence is mankind answered. Violence, the victums survival, cross first my world, casts asundar what has been till now. Here we create, I learn your life , to save you,with my own. I teach you to rebelieve, for this