Tallon Fassi

I make like I’m going to scream.

The breeze absorbs the sound

only I am left with the din I created.

Soft feet tip-toe down a wooden hall.

Watching after the very small.

I feel the world shake,

A breaking of the crusty cuts of earth

cities fashion.

Installations of constellation to navigate my trip.

Dip the ink with feathered tip.

Quips about each other’s deliverance

I’m under mother nature’s influence.

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My mind melts magnetic.

Pulled to the greater pole.

My soul is a drop of water.

Disconnected in the speed of rain;

only to find the ocean once again.

You are my friend.

Active culture is the ride.

Separation breaks us  into tides.

Ages are stages but thoughts are contagious.

So tired of watching the rage inflame us.

Popped Trust.

Dream of self-lust.

These ideas are far from Notorious

May not pop pistols or sip models while fucking Cristal.

I can roll it up and kick it.

That’s quite enough chirping from this self proclaimed cricket.

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Still stars shutter in Parallax
Dripping their light into dark ink
The growing moon left soft to wax.
Chocolate irises dilate under winks.

Sun burning in a frozen sky
Formations flush diamonds
Howling winds snaking by
Bowed birches on the mend

Pools of water ripple aquamarine
Ivory bones washed pristine
Geyser building heads of steam
Callous mixtures bathing dirt clean.

Alone is not the answer
Together we stroll along
Slipping moonwalk dancers
To our very own song

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Foot Art?

The quiver of my arms,

sends electricity into my veins.

Rolling over opaled colored waves of my brain.

Tear it apart, gravity will enviably pull it back together.

Hold you a satellite in tether.

Is it any warmer weather?

Because of the lack of trees?

It’s not for me to say.

Control yourself and take only what you need from it today.

Or give it away.

You or Me!

You are me?

Why is it so hard to get free?

Little boxes on the hillside.

I wouldn’t say we are all the same.

There’s a Layer Cake,

We are burning while it bakes.

Drink some Saki and eat some Zen.

Let’s pretend to be civil.

And then live a little.

Life’s Texas Hold’em

Bluffing is what they sold them

My mind in the island wind drifts away.

Beautiful Got Random today.

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April is the month for me.

The first all the way to the thirty.

So Flirty and Gangsta

A love Rasta Prankster

With style that beguiles

the wildest of childes.

Serene and pristine

 while your rolling them mean.

Deviating from the strategy.

Lets get together…

 grow some trees.

Blow it into the breeze

giggle until we are weak in the knees.

Then chill…

In April the Secert is skill.

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Crystal Meth is turning a disillusioned Generation to it’s knees.

The Wondering Dead; driving SUVs.

Pulling into shopping malls.

It’s not legal to smoke the trees…

I’m entranced by the FIRE

Making the world less free.

Have you heard the word is

“LOVE”

Listen carefully…

Now that I know

how to ride the flow of

the space in between the worlds we see.

(I’m in a cave.  Can’t see beyond what is naive.)

Hiding; lying; industries.

Poisoning and raping and creating an ease for the upper class.

Not to be crass but

THINK.

Then put it to ink…

The Coal Miners,

Black Buttons down their backs.

It’s the lack of tears for the

hurt souls.

Disconnected.

Layers left neglected.

Predilection to recidivism due to economic depressions.

Stereotypes misunderstood, but its still all good.

When You are infected

with zombie complexions and mentalities;

only believe what You see.

Instigate while contemplating peace.

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Have I changed so rapidly or is it the world?

Trying to keep my eye on the goal while riding the Tiltawhirl.

Caught up in gender identites; not standing in line can have the side affect of enemies.

I’m trying to be the type of women that doesn’t bow down

to the mass of asses in Prada glasses that scuff from their crystal tower

until the final hour when the flames engulf freedom. 

YOU! Listen to the television, then you’ll know what to feed’em.

First its that Coco Crisp then its a Camel smoked brisk,

Don’t you dare take a risk, live through others, hide under your covers

and smother the voice of opposition.

Launch a inquisition, make it your mission to understand every condition because

now YOU are always right, there aren’t any omissions to your knowledge!

No Dear God! You went to college which makes you a Star Bellied Sneetch;

So sorry to preach but these height won’t be reached

while laying down letting your nertons clot.

Smell the stench and the rot from the top.

The Revolution won’t be televised if so we could devise merchendises. 

Come roll the dice and buy a toddler popping land mine

and there will be quiet the fine if

YOU don’t panic for the oil we believe in.

 But what I’m trying to say is you can’t get ahead

while your getting even.

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Dear Friend,

There was a brief instance in time, us still on the break wall, the ocean sublime. 

When symmetry of souls combined with intellectual burning coals to soutter together solidarity

(that’s when you tossed my cell in to the sea, setting me free.). 

On the brief occasion that your vocation allowed for the frolicking of two minds into one nation,

 Poetry would break free (the rhyming over the beat box while floating in the sea.)  and riot on Disco.

 Maimed it, thought we killed it only to flame the fire of what Hunter S. compared to herpes.

 So after the treatment ended I sat with hands braced on knees and listened to the never ending four four beat disease.

 Glitter and hot pants will not defeat our new frontier.

 (So let me make this clear.)

 Kurt Cobain is dead,

Hunter S lost his head.  

Bradley Knoll had it right, but heroin called it an early night.

 Where are the Prophet wearing red, green and gold?  

This MTV generation will mortgage your soul.

 As far as these globes of sight can see its down to You or me

to take a machete to this literary bureaucracy.

 If you make it to Oprah’s couch before me.

 Remember the break-wall, the boat and sea.  

The bottle of stolen Bacardi razz (split between you and me).  

Remember:

Don’t make that dash for cash, sit and hash through the hypocrisy, drop in with soul-flow, and no matter where you go there will always be a mind of simpatico that is waiting for the day that some one will really slay disco.  

love

Tallon

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It’s getting cold on the island and the weather is meant to say,

“leave before its biter, you know you only came here to play.”

But I’ve loved on this island, and cried on this island

and picked up trash on the way home from the bars.

I’ve stared up at the stars and planned a ultimate future then forgotten .

  I’ve been a day tripper, soul flipper and stepped on my pride. 

 Been eaten alive and

seen scenes contrived.  Hurt beautiful people and tried

to live life in harmony with the trees and breeze and seas.

Played up empathy and had multiple epiphanies about the way

I view life and strife.  I have strived to do right.

My island will stand and plan adventures strange and queer

for yet another time. 

Until then I will practice Zen and the art of all sublime.

Reflect on how being here seems a crime to the grind. 

And remind myself not every poem needs to end with a rhyme.

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Getting Away From It All…

            The Pressures of life are increasing for all of us.  To remain strong, sensitive, able to love and create, we need a vital center that remains clam.  A place away from cell phones, the internet, radios and television. 

            Antoine De St. Exupery found it among North African desert sands and the stars.  The Japanese build a special niche, Tokonoma, to hold one poem on a calligraphic scroll and a spray of rum blossoms.  We all seek a private place that makes contemplation, mediation and love more possible.

            Where to go alone ( or with one other) to think, to talk, to listen to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons or to hear Corneils Vreeswick’s Saskia or La Flute Des Andeas? 

            A place for seeing nature, burning joss and candles, reading poems, playing flute.

            In our societies places like this have ceased to exist-> To remain sane, we must make some…

            You may be lucky enough to look out your window at the bottle-green sky meeting the sea and the tundra.  Sled dogs barking and howling through your village and your own hands are busy with the mending of fishing spears and nets.

            Or you may lie back against the sun drenched wall of your pueblo.  Your son drills the center of Turquoise and Chalchihuitl and the steady beats of the dancers comes from the square.

            The wind rustles through the pine trees as you look at the moon above the lake at night.  You sit in sound completely at peace, with the smell of birch – whisks in your nose.  Soon you’ll race streaming to the lake, to be embraced by the icy water. 

            Sunlight breaks over the desert.  It is still cool as you hitch up your robes for the day’s journey.  The camels snort and the air is so clear that you can hear a village dog barking from miles away. 

            It is late at night.  You return to the village.  There you find the love of the people you know and there are none that you do not know.  There is only a long “Today”, a time-continuum of births and deaths, marriages and rituals, rain and earthquakes. 

            But most of us who read this have never lived these lives, or only for a few years at most.  Lacking nature, lacking close connection to a life-cycle, we need a place for being at peace.  But in this area, needs will be radically different.  You must invent for yourself.

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