Thursday, August 26, 2010


Oil painting, by the sun cascaded pink
blurs with purple bands, listening to instrumentals
conducted with seba jun’s sax & drums, pulls a
window seat next to the highlights of midnight sessions.
Arrest the sensual to reclaim samurai determinism, heart
of a mastermind bond by distant ambitions.
Spirit of the ‘88 gather your words and expand, hate
the sovereignty of uncertainty that confines
our soles to the ground. Apple falls from the withering tree.
Victors write the stories we call history, plainly
a fulfillment of humanity’s basic instincts, crowning
our deeper fears with a fictitious halo. A ring
that orbits the lifestream of young blood, sealing
disconnected thoughts on the oni’s contract.
Launder the skies for a clean slate, skeptical
vision impairs perseverance to a point of no
return, to the past we salute and to the future
we exalt the most grandiose dreams.

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