I still have a chance to leave a good looking corpse, if I act quickly


Every month feels longer and longer.

I no longer keep track of time by the changing of the seasons. The seasons take too long and have too many things happening in them that I can’t keep track of.

Time is growing shorter


I am disappointed with my life.

My heroes would be disappointed in me, as would my ancestors, I think.

If You Must Speak

If you must speak,
Speak a new season:
Speak to the benefit of others.
Speak that which is honest.

The people you have to lie to own you.
The things you have to lie about own you.
The identity you cling to owns you.

And when your children see you Owned, then they are not your children anymore, they are the children of that which owns you: If money owns you, then they are the children of Money. If your need for pretense and illusion owns you, then they are the children of Pretense and Illusion. If your fear of loneliness owns you, then they are the children of Loneliness. If your fear of Truth owns you, then they are the children of the Fear of Truth.

And you read this, and you instinctively know that there is something true in these words – that there is imbued within, a mindfulness and compassion – and you know that in these times where Truth itself is in question, that we must sit here in the Now, and quiet the mind and tend to the heart. That we touch that part inside of us which knows that “THIS is really what matters to me.”

And slowly, we do better.
Better for ourselves.
And better for each other.

Seek out and care for the Truth, always.
For the path that you walk leads the way back to You.
It has always been You…

The Destination,
That fundamental Truth,
which is Love.


The thing about being an “outsider” is that you’ve never fit in or felt comfortable with traditional or contemporary relationships and situations. Donald Trump is not an outsider. The folks who align with the Alt-Right or Black Lives Matter are not outsiders. They all have people and groups that they feel supported by.

I don’t know if I’m an outsider, but I sure feel like I am. I was raised in a fresh-off-the-boat Caribbean household, whilst growing up in a North American reality. I was singled out by cops while my white friends got away with everything but murder. I was too white for my black contemporaries, and too black for my white ones… And both sides called me “Oreo” to make sure that I never forgot where I stood.

I never had a father figure worth mentioning, and my mother – while having to work harder than most to raise two children alone in a strange and new society – was never capable of providing me the emotional support that I needed.

While I’ve fallen in and out of groups over the years, they’ve never accepted me as a whole. Years ago, I was hanging with a particular group… One day, I was laying on the back of a “friend’s” car and some randoms came up and punched me in the face because I tagged a wall that they claimed as theirs. Not a single person came to stand beside me as I jumped up and tried to defend myself. I don’t blame them… I was never really a part of their group anyway.

I’ve come to realize over time that I will always exist in the margins. I am a religious man in an aggressively secular society. I am a staunch proponent of unbounded compassion in a political atmosphere that applauds divisiveness… I live in a reality that favours individuality (…as if we’ve ever been) at the expense of the communal.

I float along in this human frame, forced to conform to an arbitrary measurement of time that doesn’t truly exist… I am stardust compressed and made corporeal, yet I cannot feel my constituent parts. I want to expand. I want to explode. I want to die and be born again, like a star that has sent off it’s last solar flare and then collapses into a black hole – the other side of which is just………. .

I’m tired of being outside of myself. I want to be whole again.

Unwritten Rumi

Gatherer of the Scattered Leaves



As the Potter begins to form new vessels, and as she begins to fill the many cups, from which would you choose to sip? Would you reach for the cup filled with a sweet honeyed tea? Shall it be instead the wine made of ugly and bitter fruit? Truly, you are the vessel from which the drink is poured, and the Cup which you lift to your lip – it is the selfsame well from which the Children of the coming Summer shall partake.

For you see, Winter has beset us and his bitter winds have instead blow’d us apart, though the cold should have drawn us closer, that we might warm our Hearts in each other’s glow. But Winter cannot last forever. And a time must needs come when the new, tender shutes of Compassion push up against the hard-packed Earth to breathe the common air. And which sky will the Rainbow Children raise their heads to see? And what then shall we name the rising dawn of a pale Spring that sees no new blossom that isn’t blighted by the inky black of Hate?

For just as we each grow only as high as our dominant aspiration, so too do we quickly descend to the level of our lowest concept of ourselves. And soon thereafter there comes the torrential rains of skepticism and anger that do poison the Gardens Within and Without; and the Stone crumbles; and the Wood rots; and the many-buttressed Selfs do bend and break; and the land, it becomes untenable.



But the Fragile Things – a thought, a dream, a legend – they go on and on because the unreal is far more powerful than the real. Ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies… These are the unquantifiable, immeasurable Truths that neither science nor religion could ever deign to explain. These are the Jewels which we bequeath to our heirs, and they are the salt which renders the land barren.

Beloved, it has been said: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on: Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy Tears wash out a word of it.” Therefore, let the Story of You be one of Love, and let the words therein be written in the boldest of hands. And though your tears may still fall, let them fall for Joy and not sorrow as they fill the Potter’s vessels of clay.

Beloved, it has been said: “Be careful of the thought seeds you plant in the garden of your mind, for seeds grow after their kind.” Therefore, let your Garden be sowed with the seeds of Love and Plenty, for truly that is all that is worth cultivating. And let these tender Orchids grow and blossom into acts of vanilla-scented kindness that redolently tumble in the wind and waft across all the land and sea.



So: Be LOVE and be loved, Beloved.

For only the LOVERS shall not be destroyed, and only the LOVED shall be provided strength and grace enough to maintain the roots that might find purchase in this rocky and inhospitable soil – this soil whose only fertilizer is the weak and watery milk-coloured solution of cabalism; whose tasteless insipidity gorges itself on division and bitterness and propagates amongst those who are thirsty for belonging.
So: Be You, bravely.

For they will try to bury you, not knowing that you are a seed of purest intention from which a Great Bloom will one day spread, and whose Flowering shall provide a sweet nectar for summer’s Rainbow Children.



And the bitter wine shall be drunk by those who have made it and they will try to poison themselves and will wail in despair when they find that the cup has instead been filled with the honeyed tea. And we will kiss them and embrace them, and let them feel Loved for they are our brothers and sisters and are deserving of our concern and compassionate touch. We will listen with our hearts and speak from our souls and we will reconcile the disparities, and we will be whole once more.






On the real, when I really think about it, my friends who have died young haven’t missed a damn thing. The world hasn’t gotten better, music hasn’t improved, folks haven’t become more understanding or sympathetic. Overall, ain’t shit gotten significantly better since “the College Dropout” dropped.

If anything, it seems to me that whether they died from drugs or violence, I’m the one whose life should be mourned; They lived and died exactly as they wanted – I can’t say the same for myself.