In these hallowed halls of time gone by- I remember you.

You remember me in the worst of times- being at my best.

You remember the nights we shared together- your head on my chest.

Moving past each other, nameless in our crowd as we have years gone bye.

You remember me at my worst- during our best.

The mirror broke just like the promise.

Seven years bad luck- hard break.

California- the year two thousand and something
Three friends sit on the outskirts of town an stare into the black mass above them.

The stars out in force as they stand without contest from the city lights.

This is the beginning- or the end.

For these people- this would mark the end of their respective friendship as the carefully crafted pane of teenage friendship was about to be shattered by the reality of young adult life.

The group has gone
The memories stand- and the things said that night hold something of the former selves they were.

Time- too much time has changed them, too much has happened.

Even if they could go back, it would be a wasted trip.

This is the start.

The year I pen this is two thousand and sixteen.

I sit in a kitchen that badly needs to be refurnished as I drink a whiskey on the rocks. (Always drink Jameson)

I sit here in the summer heat, enjoying this moment ( which if I'm being honest is rare because usually I'm not a fan of the heat) but today for some reason I'm having thoughts of San Francisco- the beat poets, Hunter Thompson, Oakland California right next door and the Black Panther movement of the sixties..California has always been a place for artists and what some would call the "Freak culture." I myself just know it as "home."  

The sparks you could strike seem to have been reduced to small trashcan fires and bonfires on the beach, the love and hate seem to have created a haze of digital indifference. The power of the state seems to have shifted, yet days like these- these hot summer days that turn into beautiful warm summer nights...one can almost understand what it's like to be cast into those golden hills that run through the state.

A place for poets and musicians, a place for artists and life changes, a state that can and will eat you alive and spit you out without care for you after.

The spoils are all around if you're brave enough, clever enough, and just dumb enough to take a risk. We're not talking Vegas risk, we're talking every stone is make or break and if you slip and fall into the river, you'll be bashed against the rocks and your crippled, broken body will be tossed aside.

Yet moments like this- these golden afternoons, the charm of the state is revealed, the beauty and innocent side is shown, the sweet, loving, warm side of California shines through.

The old heads are still in a park chasing the dream of the beaten system, while the twenty-something tech heads bask in the future start-up possibility that this state brings.

One day when the water level rises, when it takes back everything and the Golden Gate sinks, there will be those who will make one last effort to preserve the Californian style...we're sitting on a land of dreams, broken,shattered and new, we're sitting on a land made of gold and dirt.

I think that's the irony and it sums up this- The prize is there, it's under the skin, under the dirt, under the trash, it's gold, pure, raw, ever staying gold.

But only for those with a strong enough will to keep digging.

I stole these words right from the poet's handbook.
All these feelings I feel can be found in Shakespearean work.

The thoughts I think can be heard from future seeing comedians of the social kind.  

What is new if it's all old hat to me?
I'm not being creative- merely skipping across stones laid by cerebral terrorists who came before me.

A dangerous idea- recited through a ghetto blaster megaphone, an artistic threat dripping in red spray paint, a post beat poem throne made of wine bottles and past society memories.

I'm stealing the work right out from under you, I'm playing make believe with art like it's something new.

The verbal thief
A penned cat burglar
I'm stealing the words of poets before me, posing as a priest to hear confessions that I'll later wear as my own sins to help forge a new book.

Best seller highwayman.

Stand and deliver- your stories and your life.

Thought process plagiarizer, reshaping forgotten words and bringing back into the modern eye.

Look at this wonder I create
With more research and black science magic I create more by the day.

I walk in casted shadows to hide away the fact that I'm simply smoke and mirrors.

I have no face to save that's why inside my home every piece of glass you'll find comes from broken mirrors.

But if I work harder by the day then maybe tomorrow I can stop and admire my work but tonight is not that night- so back to my workshop I hide away.

If they could only see my work the way I see it, then maybe things could change- but until that day I'll have to work in secret and show the world just what a genius really is- and if it's only on my terms then so be it.

Yes if it's on my own terms- then that is just the way it must be.

Tough as nails punk rock scream-*******-teen girl.

A real wild child maneater.

LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION- Girl.

Small town girl chaos all over the big city- long days and drunk days.

Hazed afternoons on the boardwalk- sublime shirt and a longboard.

Shaved hair and skin tight pants- creepers and two toned ***** dance,
no highschool claptrap dance for our action girl.

She's crazy as the glue she sniffs- she lives on the edge, she built a home on the cliffs.

*****, spunky hard as nails, screwloose downtown headcase.

Action all day, action all night- this girl don't back down from a fight.

Bad hearted woman taking me down to size
she don't play- just with my heart.

In this ocean of seduction she's the shark to my bleeding heart.

She got the devil inside her eyes but the angels inside her eyes tell me it's safe to fall prey to her widow kiss lips.