Stranded Soldier.

There was a one-legged man with a gas can and crutches walking on the side of the road in the rain. I pulled over and gave him a lift hoping that he wasn't insane. His arms were covered were covered in road rash, and prison tattoos faded by the sun, his back was hunched from years of packing a duffel bag that weighed a ton. He had two fingers over his adams' apple and his thank you was more like a wheeze, he had a hole in his throat, he'd been shot thru the neck and he whistled ever time that he breathed. I bought him some gas at the 7-11 and I brought him back to his van, and i asked where he was headed and he said I'm headed to the promised land.

with nothing but a dream.

A man is born into the world naked and helpless with nothing but a dream, a glimpse of who he is, a shadow of what he is to become. As his life progresses his dream is buried, gradually beneath the weight of the world. If he is weak, his dream is crushed beneath the load and he is forced to stumble into the mold. If he is strong, he learns to throw off the weight and strip away the fetters that bind him, often leaving him again, naked and helpless with nothing in his hands, grasping his dream and never letting go. Deep down, we are all naked babies with nothing but a dream.

Kindergarden Bully.

It was 1989 and I was having a rough time. Every day at recess I was chased down and beaten up by a bully named Duran Mclin and his gang of goons, and we had recess twice a day. I remember despondently complaining about my daily beatings to my parents over supper...I'll never forget my father saying to me "Son, next time he comes up to you, you tell him that your dad said to punch you in the nose." and he held up his fist in front of his face and he shook it. A wave of courage and delight swept over me, chills ran up and down my spine. I could not wait to go to school the next day. I had a brand new attitude. I had been given permission.
Sure enough, at first recess, I was surrounded by his goons. I didn't run this time. I stood my ground with my fists clenched at my sides as Duran Mclin sauntered his way thru his gang and walked up to face me. I punched him in the nose as hard as I could. He limped away with blood running down his face, holding his nose, with a henchman on each side of him and the rest of the gang bringing up the rear as the procession made their way to the teachers' to tattle-tale. I felt like a million bucks standing on the punish wall.

Blood on the Street.

Blood on the street..words to a story left untold...spilled paint on an empty canvas...art that will never be sold...Blood on the side-walk...shimmering in the streetlight...turns to rust beneath the sun...cold rain washes it out of sight. Blood on the street.

Ms. Elmira

I took a walk just the other day. I saw my neighbor, Ms. Elmira, along the way. She was walking her dog, his name is Spot. It's kinda funny cuz Spot's a Rot. She swears up and down she saw Elvis at circle K. She reads the Enquirer and watches Oprah every day. She ain't got much money cuz she's a sucker for a deal. She's keeps a prayer cloth under her pillow and she thinks pro. wrestling is for real. She's Ms. Elmira.

The Devil you created.

You've created your own gods and devils. You have divided the land and exiled your brothers into the barren desert to be eaten by vultures. You have destroyed their cities and plundered their villages. You have killed their women and children in the name of your god. The day of Judgment is at hand. The blood of the slain cry's out from the ground. The oppressed have united against you. Action to reaction, the pendulum swings. You have cast the arch-angel from heaven, You have banished Adam from the garden. You exiled Hagar and Ishmael into the wasteland. You have claimed possession over that which you have no right to possess. You have dug your own grave, created your own devil, and made your bed in hell. They have established their own kingdom and created their own god. Their god as well requires blood for the remission of sins. Vengeance is the lords. They write their own book. They have their own commandments and prophecies...the red letter edition...the warrior prophets inscribe their letters with the blood of their oppressors. They spell RESTITUTION. You may run but you can't hide. Your sins will find you out. The law of restitution will not be thwarted by your false authorities. Justice will prevail and you will pay for your sins. You will reap what you have sown. God requires blood for the remission of sins. 

James Dean.

I wear my heart on my sleeve, just like James Dean...A box of lucky strikes and a book of matches. I wear my heart on my sleeve, just like James Dean...I ain't got nowhere else to put it. Maybe someday, someday I'll fly away, but today I think I'll stay underneath this golden sun. I'm gonna roam these streets with my guitar and my dirty knees cuz I still got a song to play.