An old verse I found from 12/19/2006:
I sit down at a computer at a time when I should be writing my thesis.
I’m at Little’s Market, my place of employment in the ‘real world’.
I call it just that because of my proximity to real people, and
because I have to pay and keep track of my taxes.
I decide to close my eyes, and even finish typing this sentence
in the dark. . . . I throw my ear into the air and all falls quiet.
The bells on the doors only jingle when someone walks through them.
And so I’m alone, but you already knew that.
The world—it wisps us to and fro,
while its reasons it whispers not.
It delights in birth and death,
by the process of growth & rot.
By the skeleton in my being,
and the muscle on my bone,
I’m a temporary creature,
whose living on my own.
Without a sure rationale,
and without a map of how,
I’m left to walk my own path,
and discover what I will.
“Change” and “temporary”…
the conditions of my state.
And somewhere in between these lines,
grow emotions I can’t escape.
Love and Faith and Hope,
propel me towards my ends.
Where from did they arise, friend?
With them, where should I begin?
Before you speak, will you agree:
One small goal at a time; each day’s unique;
With each foot forward, use my eyes to see;
One’s cobbled path is laid with bricks,
… of “choice” and “opportunity”.
…unfinished.
Massively perceptive (and accurate),
And extremely self-reflective,
To the point where all the Others think he’s right about himself.
That suddenly, in the mind of masses, he…
Gains propensity for brutal honesty, and
Compassion for the truth.
His affliction is conviction,
His heart, both light and sword.
The part that hurts the most,
is our response to his hurtful words.
We didn’t want to hear that.
It penetrates too much.
Half the ouch is that he’s right,
The other half’s from how he pouts.
Be confident, I tell him.
Rest assured when you are right.
Let the other person come to learn,
what you’ve concluded from insight.
It’s a letting, not a yelling.
Give a smile not a scorn.
Right or wrong, we’ll slow it down,
and replace with patience all our slurs…
by: Bell
Eternal presence is an activity of stillness…
A moment of the mind, the body, the soul.
But the soul, my brother, is not so easily known.
A bridge between Nature and God, we are a force that must be grown.
Take a good look at your skin, and the many scars you carry.
Then feel out your every joint — pay attention to the aging.
You’ll find its not the wars we’ve weathered, or the many lives we’ve buried,
But the soul my friend, emerges from the aim that we are bearing.
unfinished…
Two Couplets by: Eric Hoffman
I have to ask Infinity
How to manifest in Time,
For I have a personality
But it sure doesn’t feel like mine.
Spontaneously arisen and
Mysteriously ready-made,
I ride the wave of a separate-self sense
For the sake of this evolutionary parade.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I am I
But I am not mine
I am only here
Cuz God had too much free time
Now I am the one
With all of the time
To become a light
Through which God can shine
Knowledge before thought
Is what’s found
When nothing is sought
Wisdom
and…
In order to have clarity,
One must clarify.
This can be done by asking
Who am I?
Once this precious question
Has been discovered,
There is only one more
Thing to be done:
Ask it over and over
Until the many
Merge into One.
By: Eric Hoffman
Blowin’ In the Wind
(Bob Dylan)
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, and how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
How many times must a woman look up
Before she can see the sky?
Yes, and how many ears must one woman have
Before she can hear people cry?
Yes, and how many deaths will it take til she knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, and how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
“What’s real?” asked the Rabbit one day. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you… you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.” For he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at one, like being wound up, or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or who have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.”
-Margery Williams
“The Velveteen Rabbit”
Is collapse really coming?
Are we running out of the resources
That keep our civilization running?
How will we live
When gasoline is no longer pumping,
When the machines we depend on we can no longer keep humming?
What will life look like
When there is no more value to paper money,
When the tragic irony of modern life no longer seems so funny?
How will we eat
Without depending on the superstructure of agri-business,
When we cannot create chemicals to try to neutralize our environmental mess?
What will we do
When we can no longer rely on a computer,
When we are unable to be a 50-miles-per-day commuter?
How will we stay warm
When the furnace pilot lights go out,
When we are at the mercy of a prolonged and indefinite natural gas drought?
How will we stay cool
When we cannot fire up an air conditioner,
When the pollution they emit makes the ozone layer even thinner?
Will the human species evolve to meet the challenges of the coming era?
Can we create a new lifestyle from the remains of the approaching terror?
It seems certain that the hardships ahead will be severe’
But the courageous and cooperative can help the human race persevere.
With every passing moment the titanic crisis we’ve created draws nearer’
So let us get our acts together before that fatal time is finally here.
By: Eric Hoffman
Already naked
But still trying to hide,
I fearfully perpetuate
A living suicide.
Running away
But really running in place,
I assume false identities
Instead of facing my
Original Face.
Never satisfied
And continually searching
For something better,
I could waste my time seeking
‘One more’ forever.
These are the inborn tendencies
That I must work to overcome,
And when I am finally fully authentic
The first part of my job will be done.
Then I will really be able to create the future
And for all of the right reasons
At all times
In all places
Regardless of changes in weather
Or the turning of the
Seasons.
By: Eric Hoffman
You can make the inquiry
‘Who am I?’
But if you look for an answer
You might be left
High and dry.
Why?
For the simple reason that
Only the question is conceptual,
Whereas the answer is experiential.
When you finally intuit that your nature
And that of the Universe
Are the very same,
You will shockingly discover
That the answer to
The primordial question
Can only be God’s name.
By: Eric Hoffman
There are traditions of wise men,
But the wisdom they embody is ahistorical.
These wise men speak literally about the Divine,
But non-seekers assume their statements to be metaphorical.
Only our heart of hearts
Could believe a sage’s proclamations to be true:
That we can dissolve into the perfection God’s grace,
And become a vehicle in the world
For His love to shine through.
By: Eric Hoffman
Everyone is on a spiritual path,
Sometimes knowingly, and sometimes not,
For way back when,
When emptiness became form,
It began a developmental journey that would not be stopped.
But there can come a time in an individual’s life
When he becomes conscious of this fact,
And when he gains this understanding
He realizes that there is no possibility of going back.
He sees that he must continue on the trail of the spirit,
And that he must expertly navigate its slippery slope,
For if he is not careful
He could slip off the thin ledge of equanimity,
And topple into the deep and dangerous
Canyons of fear and hope.
By: Eric Hoffman
By: Eric Hoffman 9/8/06
Couldn’t care more,
Couldn’t care less,
These seem to be
The paradoxical dispositions
Of the World-Process.
At least there is a paradox
From the angle I see it.
In the future it may be otherwise,
But for now, so be it.
From what I have been told,
There is a formless,
Timeless realm
Where only more and more emptiness unfolds.
A place where there is
No this
And
No that,
A place where there is
Nowhere at all
For mind to put its hat.
A place where there is
No distinction
And
No manifestation,
Only
Pure awareness
And
Causeless elation.
Someday I might find myself
In that place
That is no place at all;
And
How incredible it will be,
To stare into
Vast,
Empty infinity,
Way beyond you and me,
And see as far as the I can see!
“The new poem utilizes several Andrew Cohen -isms:
—>ecstatic compulsion, evolutionary tension, Ego, Authentic Self, Ground of Being.
These words were flying through my mind, so I used them in the poem. I’ve pasted the poem below. Dig it:”
Torchbearer of the Absolute
By: Eric Hoffman
Big Bang,
Emerging from the Ground of Being,
Has produced all worlds,
Both seen and unseen.
Unfolding as light, energy and matter,
Followed by life and consciousness,
Creation has found beautiful ways to
Express its eternally divine essence.
Something new emerged
With the birth of man,
For this is when the dual forces of
Authenticity and contraction began.
The Authentic Self,
Always positive,
Is the conscious, creative aspect of evolution.
Whereas
Ego,
The expression of cosmic inertia,
Is a force of narrow-minded, selfish convolution.
Ever-powerful,
Self-illuminating
And
Totally without fear,
The Authentic Self sometimes feels far away,
But is always nearer than near.
Man experiences the demand to be authentic
As evolutionary tension,
Inspiring him to create new forms
Instead of complacently reaping his
Karmic pension.
Refusing to accept
The compassionate command of such magnitude,
Ego maintains its existence by
Denying self-developmental latitude.
Viewing authentic, ecstatic compulsion
As repulsive,
Ego perpetually acts in ways
That are inelastically compulsive.
Humanity,
The torchbearer of the Absolute,
Has been given a challenge
Of immeasurable proportion:
To recognize our capacity as conscious creatures
And to express our true nature
Without distortion.
Man lives right at the cusp of what is possible,
Free to believe that
“It is not my problem,”
Or to assume an attitude of feeling
Kosmically responsible.
I can’t help it; I’m lost in my own shadows.
My Desperation lingers in the back of my throat,
And as I choke, the Darkness grows.
There’s an utter incommunicability to it all.
Suddenly I’m all alone with my thoughts and feelings,
And now I lay bleeding, after a stumble and fall.
The choices I’ve made, the past I’ve survived-
Does it matter, should it be considered, is it part of me now?
Yet somehow, I’m to move forward with this twisted Self I’ve contrived.
I’m afraid of myself and of what I can do.
I can love. I can hate. I can harm. I can give.
But “How shall I live?,” is my question for you.
Yesterday or tomorrow, who cares of my deeds or what I achieve.
I’m a slave on my knees, trying to build my Essence…
It’s nonsense to some, but who I become is all Life can mean.
It’s work and it’s hard, and progress is rare.
I feel so alone in my project; I need to let go.
The path is slow, but outcomes considered all things are fair.
…unfinished
by: Eric Hoffman
Big Mind is Big
And utterly without border,
Whereas in in the Relative World
Creation and Destruction are the order.
However,
In the place where the Ultimate and the Relative converge,
There is an opportunity for man’s penetrating insight to emerge.
To penetrate Big Mind,
Man exerts strength and rests in relaxation.
To penetrate the Relative World,
Man unleashes the power of discrimination.
In Big Mind,
Nothing happening is the norm.
But in the Relative World,
There is a constant, spontaneous arising of form.
If a man truly sees Big Mind,
He will see nothing, clearly.
And if he truly sees the Relative World,
He will see that oil has peaked, or nearly.
Great is a man who can see the two worlds with clarity,
For he who has developed Peak Mind is indeed a rarity.
PS:
-How miraculous it is that nothing has emerged into something, and yet has remained
nothing all along!
-How phenomenal is the human being, who can find that place in himself where
nothingness and somethingness endure forever!
-How weird it is that souls deviated from their heart of hearts and decided to have
a dance with form, only to undergo the process of dancing all the way home!
-How crazy it is that there are an infinite number of finite things, whose nature
under analysis appears to be more like “no-things” thinging!
-How excellent it is that both theism and non-theism are metaphors for the ultimate
Ism that is beyond schism!
-How unbelievable is the awakening of an individual, where the eruption of laughter
and tears are the natural expression of a heart freed of existential tension!
-How excellent are friends who will help you without you even knowing that you are
being helped!
I climbed into the plum tree
and ate the grapes I found there.
The owner of the garden called to me,
“Why are you eating my walnuts?”
[ha ha! I think this is as ridiculous as the idea that ‘atman is brahman’,
… ha ha!.. oh, wait ;P
He was going to be all that a mortal could be…
No one should be kinder nor braver than he…
Tomorrow;
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew
Who’d be glad for a lift and who needed it, too;
On him he would call and see what he could do…
Tomorrow;
Each morning he stacked up the letters he’d write…
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight…
Tomorrow;
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy today,
And hadn’t a minute to stop on his way;
“More time I’ll have to give others,” he say…
“Tomorrow.”
The greatest of workers this man would have been…
The world would have known him had he ever seen…
Tomorrow;
But the fact is he died, and he faded from view,
And all that he left here when living was through,
Was a mountain of things he intended to do…
Tomorrow.
-Anonymous
“You may know me. I’m your constant companion.
I’m your greatest helper. I’m your heaviest burden.
I will push you onward or drag you down to failure.
I am at your command.
You may run me for profit, or you may run me to ruin.
It makes no difference. Be easy with me,
and I will destroy you. Be firm with me, and
I will put the world at your feet.”
“He’d be rolling in his grave right now.
If only he could see this,
this contemptible state you’ve created to date.”
My body lets out an exhale of gi-normous proportion.
I whisper to myself, under my breath,
like a small child before candlelight.
“You stupid, stubborn, selfish little boy.
How quickly you’ve come to waste!
You’ve layed down your sword, and your guard,
and this tasteless torpor has seized our face.
At any rate, what will come of you?”
I am in hell. Make no mistake.
My privatized freedom is now for the public sake.
What should be my burden to bear,
is now a heavy concern for others who care.
I could hack off my roots, and prove I can float on my own,
Turn ‘round my back, and teach a rude lesson to know.
I could pull the whole plug on this Aaron Bell show.
But there’s just no love in that. Too drastic.
There’s no where to turn. I’m on center stage.
I have no place to hide. No way to be unpredictable.
I’m just a show to them. A true cliffhanger.
But, old friend, my grip is slipping.
Oh, sad, sad face. Why do you torture me so?
If only I could have held your little hand a bit more.
You are so quick to leave me as fast as you came,
Why must you deceive me and play with my brain?
I guess you’re right, I am only fooling myself.
Your work is so thankless while you sit on my shelf.
From the heavens, the great arms of chance release their grip.
The strands of time can only do so much to fight this pickle,
But we persist, we shift and wiggle.
And there’s just no stopping some people.
Perhaps, they say, “it’s in the cards,”
But “why,” I ask, “is it all so hard?”
And then we hang our heads in thought, and wonder…
Perhaps these moments, where it all seems harder,
Is when we make and change our fate.
Forget the smooth, give back the comfortable.
I’m charging forward- call me ‘Impenetrable.’
I want the rocks, the cliffs, the heights,
The cold, the warm, the sun, the nights.
Let me feel the world from every flux and foe,
Feel its breath and weight, from head to toe—
It bleeds justs the same as me; I’ve come to know.
I’m not unique, nor do I desire to be…
Real strength erupts from synonymity.
If I think in terms of ‘only me’,
Then this is where I’ll probably be:
Alone at home, or in strange company,
Afraid to admit I have no new stories to tell,
I’ve been consumed by lethargy radical.
“Go and Live!,” take on all the world has to give.
The dreams of the dead are not your compass…
And the fabric of fate is not your sieve.
Destiny is what you make it — what you mold,
and where you take it.
Not the least bit tired, but still, he sits and stares, his open eyes have stopped their watching. The coffee’s cold and the page is desperate, but his will won’t play the game. With a rare set of wings, this dreamer dreams, and the sunlight comes to passing.
It’s as if Time itself is finer than the smallest grain of sand. Regardless of my grip, regardless of how hard I squeeze, regardless of how I position my hands, Time keeps slipping through my fingers.
I can see each tick of the tock fade into a mirage of spinning. I watch the shadows in my office and the shadows in my apartment creep across the walls, as the darkness sneaks in.
The routine. The up and down, the in and out, the come and go, and then its back to bed. To dream? I think not. There’s no time for such fancies. To sleep? But for a moment. My bed is the basket that catches my body as he falls…
Lost again in the dribble-drabble of the hum and ho, the pitter-patter of the now and then. Left, right, straight, back, it’s all the same. Circles. Like laughing at a dog for chasing its tail, but only you’re the dog, and the Situation does the laughing. How do dogs stay so persistent anyway?
Where’s the ‘return’ key, the backspace, the eraser, the white-out, the fire extinguisher, the brake pad, the drain plug, the exit door, the ejection seat, the porthole, the escape ladder, the…?
It’s an emergency and the glass needs breaking, the alarm is sounding cuz the smoke is billowing, the sirens are spinning and I can find no shoulder on this road.
I’m anachronic. I’m dilatoric. I’m catasrophic. But, hey, I’m still the same old me. So, “have at you, Time! I’m in the mood for a duel!”
Yesterday evening, hours after midnight, somewhere in the heart of Cougar Canyon where the river flows from the mountain side at nearly 105 degrees, I laid my back to rest upon the smooth surface of a river rock as hot spring water rushed gently over me, soothing my aches and relinquishing my pains; the air was calm and the mood was quiet, and there, in the moment of the night, as tiny droplets of rain pattered their way onto my brow, I closed my eyes, and opened my ears, and for the first times in months, somewhere between the rustle of tree leaves and the faint whispers of night life, I felt a stillness. And for that moment, all was right again.
Rebel Music – you live it, not chose it. Rebel Music, yeah. Movement, yeah.
This was written facing East,
In sleepy pearls of early mornings,
After two rakat salaats,
Where my body folds while falling,
Calling forward through the Heavens,
Plug my soul back in its socket,
Park my flying carpet,
And then embrace the day that started.
When it seems the Earth is sleeping – peep it:
Thought goes into actions,
Inspirations in my brains,
Spirits whisper words and captions;
And my hand begins to fly across the page from the reaction,
So fast I get dyslexic,
And I write my letters backwords.
With a passion like calligraphy,
A scupltor of the strange,
See, my lyrics make ‘em dance,
Like they had waterfalls for legs.
Bring the visions of a painter
To a canvas that was blank,
And shape a masterpiece –
Redecorate your mind with what we make.
It’s rebel music.
[Chorus:]
This is a movement that’s made to slay illusion
This is a soothin’: sun and moon and grass rooted
We put a light, and plus a torch to the confusion
Never lose it, Rebel Music
It’s a record revolution
Yo I done pointed many fingers,
Been caught tellin’ lies and failed,
Made unforgettable mistakes,
Because perfection’s not for sale.
Here, they’re starin’ like you’re weird
If you AINT never been to jail.
Some swallow pills with names from alphabets,
And tear ducts tend to swell,
‘Cause they told us men don’t cry,
And I been grown since I was twelve,
When they told us trust nobody – Damn,
I barely trust myself!
Pressure builds, trained to deal,
Change the taste of pain to milk.
Wish we had a dime for all the times
We tried to climb and fell.
So we fling our hopes to heaven,
Fear to everlasting hell.
You may not think were gonna make it,
But I know for sure we will!
So ‘till the day we reach the ESSENCE,
We’ll be fightin’ on this mission.
My heart has half of Love,
And half a hungry Lion in it
Rebel Music.
(Chorus)
This is not your favorite Lust song.
This ain’t R’n’B and Fashion.
This is Spirit, mixed with lyrics –
Dressed as music,
Filled with passion –
An Assassin, stabbin’ madness in its’ back,
Just for the answers.
And we travel like Moroccan Hash –
We make paths like ambulances.
Clear the way;
Our music’s dying on machines and tampered samples.
Yeah, I love to dance but, damn,
it’s like my radio got cancer.
Every time I change the station,
And they play out the summer anthems,
They’re all bland and seem to sound the same,
Like rain drops in Atlanta.
My band will kill it,
Like I jam with Sam and Manson.
So don’t Test it;
Feel the essence,
Seed to sidewalk circumstances
Picture that:
If I’m the seed
Then on the concrete where we landed,
There’s a crack!
We commin’ back with fruits;
Our roots are firmly planted.
Rebel music.
[Chorus:]
This is the music that makes you question what they’re doin’.
This is a soothin’: sun and moon and grass rooted.
We put a light, and plus a torch to the confusion,
Never lose it, Rebel Music.
This is a record revolution.
“You know, when you’re in a conversation, and you get on a tangent, and you go from one tangent to another tangent?? … that’s kinda like a metaphor for life — we’re just bouncing from one thing to the next, like a frog that jumps from lilly pad to lilly pad; and that’s just kind of how we are in life. So I wrote this poem:”
Frog Existentialism
Everything is nothing and nothing is everything,
in the spatious pond of “Right Now,”
where horny toads and bull frogs leap from lilly pad to lilly pad,
using their God-given know-how.
Throughout the cycle of day and night,
alternating between Freedom and Fright,
our amphibious friends dwell in both mind and matter,
where all their activity is purely filler:
croaking chitter-chatter, amongst raindrops … pitter-patter…
~Eric Hoffman
Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
Sound from outside fills the air?
Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
Than the breathing respect that you carry
Wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
For time to show you some better thoughts?
When you turn around, starting here, life this
New Glimpse that you found; carry into evening
All that you want from this day. This interval you spent
Reading or hearing this, keep it for life —
What can anyone give you greater than now,
Starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?
…. William Stafford
—————————————-
P.D. Ouspensky would probably clap, nearly as vigorously as I did smile.
And with the breath of a thousand souls, I sigh…
My pattern of woes has changed it’s beat.
Cerebral swirlings run rampant inside;
No ground below to greet my feet.
Oh dear, my Narcissus has shown her grace!
A pinch of my skin, and a blink of my eye,
I’m kissing my reflection and her face.
This deja vood’ist has me vexed with, ‘Why?’
[…unfinished…]
As I look around … I see so much.
A friendly smile and a simple touch.
Hearing sounds of an innocent youth,
Hidden by the beauty of nature’s truth.
Ain’t it sad, it’s not always like this?
When I leave, this is what I most miss.
I’m reachin’ out, grab onto my hand.
Help me now, do whatever you can.
I’m fallin’ free and I’m fallin’ fast. I’m feelin’ lost behind this facemask.
I need a hug, it’s no easy task. A sip of life is all that I ask.
So please … just give me what I need to keep me goin’ strong.
Just try… direct me to the place where the fun lives long.
Lookin’ out across the strawberry sky,
Watching the birds and wishing I could fly,
Feelin’ kinda helpless standin’ on my feet,
An eagle-eyed view would be a mighty fine treat.
It’s dark outside but there’s fire all around,
In my mind, in my heart, it gets my feet off the ground.
Tryin’ to escape, let me soul leave this place,
But no one can go without leaving a trace.
I’m fallin’ free and I’m fallin’ fast. I’m feelin’ lost behind this facemask.
I need a hug, it’s no easy task. A sip of life is all that I ask.
So please … just give me what I need to keep me goin’ strong.
Just try… direct me to the place where the fun lives long.
hmmmmm…. hmmmm…. hmmmm…
hmmmmm…. hmmmm…. hmmmm…
—————————
Summer, 99’.
Reuben on the Harmonica.
Chris Carr on the guitar.
Bell with the vocals, and the lyrics.
Like cement slowly rolling.
Like syrup slowly pouring.
Like ice slowly forming.
I’m feeling unenthused.
Like grain slightly swaying.
Like sloths slightly playing.
Like rocks slightly laying.
I’m feeling unamused.
As if I were the ocean,
Or an object lack of motion.
Something without devotion,
I know not what to choose.
Daydream delusion; limousine eyelash.
Oh, what a pretty face.
Drop a tear in my wine glass.
Look at those big eyes.
See what you mean to me?
Sweet cakes and milkshakes.
I’m a delusion angel. I’m a fantasy parade.
I want you to know what I think,
Don’t want you to guess anymore.
You have no idea where I come from,
You have no idea where we’re going.
Launched in life, like branches in the river,
Flowing downstream, caught in the current.
I carry you; you’ll carry me.
That’s how it could feel.
Don’t you know me, Don’t you know me by now?
And like that, the room is quiet.
Like a whisper was her shadow;
The air breathing no lick of her scent,
The oil, no reflection of her smile.
I find the fruit parched with jubilance.
All wicks without wax. All blankets without folds.
I lay on my floor. Alone, in silence.
And Miles plays on.
Ahh… another slow day in April
Without a care in the world
I run around but take my time
my friends, my work, the sun
Each passing moment, priceless
Each puffy cloud, a gem
But when I stop and smell the air
I feel fresh, alive, again
The breeze is cool, its talking
Telling me to look around
My heart, my soul - their pumping
This instant seems to last
And so I take a moment
and tell myself its time
I self deceive and begin to think
but down deep, now isn’t then
My smile becomes a whisper
Hey you, now don’t be fooled
I take it in, and sit real still
When I awake, I will have returned
“Straight for a punch, man, I got to get through to you. Mix what I do with Zion I is special and you knew it too. Times for your mind, expansion and were on the grind, answering the question to where the hell am I gonna find ‘Bliss’? My soul’s music is timeless. Keep it close to your heart; it’s art at its finest. A pint is not enough liquid courage to go around, so when I draw from this universe I put it into the sound. Would have been lost or found myself in the process, from gettin’ up over and over and dealin’ with God’s test. You best have believed my quest to relieve the pain that still remains, but frame by frame we make the sickest scene. The most equipped of teams, tall with tall torches; only the weak-hearted wilt like cowards with no voices. Of course, the choice it yours, pick the lock to open doors, get the crop to go for more because its pure. And, wherever the wind blows, me and my trusty pen go and at the drop of a 10-cent coin I let these men know: Get passed the windows, the walls and defences; let down your guard and come to your senses —— Let it Flow!”
- The Grouch (1st Verse on ‘Flow,’ on Zion I’s CD, “Deep Water Slang V2.0”)
I only brought one CD to Costa Rica and every time I throw it in (in between my spanish music), the Grouch sits me down, and tells me how it is. Yo, I’m feelin’ you, Grouch. Werd.