The Rush

Why do people rush so much, what is all the hurry? Can’t we take our time instead of acting viral and scurvy? The wheels climbing curbs and falling in canals and climbing trees when the drivers are anals. Screaming at each other when they aren’t on their phone and targeting like an agitator operating a drone. This is what happens when the focus is waylaid. You get Candy crushed and DOA and a hole where you are laid.

There was a time when people weren’t so harried. Running down the court like the Manimal Kenneth Faried. But those were days with less storms and more calms and people talked to people instead of mumbling their psalms. So many pressures in so many places. Like how can we watch so many programs in a time a lot less spacious.

Before we know it we’ve played twenty hours of games without sustenance. Then we go to Publix and in public we smell like mustiness. And rush our order so we can eat in two seconds, before racing home and shouting excitation’s.

Don’t expect perfection from a person feeling rushed. Some deal by slowing the roll and getting sloshed or kushed. The people who are kind usually keep things in perspective. And as a human race we should keep a guiding objective.

Do onto others as u wish done to you. And try to stop rushing as if its the only truth.


Blissful Sunday

Blissful is the morning after the storm came down. The torrent of rain that washed over the town. And then came the fresh start a waylaid Sunday morning bequeath. After the fortnite and a bed lacking sleep.

We think of new beginnings as something so grand. But it is often mundane like a desett of sand. But the journey is fraught with fear and fright. Then we find the prickly cactus and through peers light.

In the heat comes an eventual point, when what was right was shit and what’s wrong is gold. The power it takes to move toward that pivot is the gushing of relief when opening that spigot. Letting those feelings when dormant with regret.  Become free with startling candor and repent.

And Sunday came and all became new. The air once again fresh and the sky crystal blue. Whether a temple or God’s green earth, make the time count and may your life experience rebirth.


There’s a new film in town that may be as fresh, as the actors who are built out of mesh. Or any of the devices plastic surgeons use, the solutions to youth that people behold. But you have to be a Maverick to be Tom Cruise. He’s been on flick longer then POTUS in orange hue.

There was a debate on what make Tom tick. Is it Scientology or is he taking the mick? Because he is short or a tad bit loony, jumping on a couch with talk show Winfrey. What ever is said, he keeps in great shape, acting the impossible or eating Gilbert Grape. No, that’s the wrong role occupied by Depp, another mysterious soul whose paths intersect.

They both are known for their acting prowess along with suspected motives with girlfriends and spouses. Both a divergent path to the aging process. One seems active and the other uses a wine faucet.

But this is a focus on one who flies fast, jumps from buildings and trains till he’s gassed. There is other explanations on why he is youthful. There’s money, time and the need to be useful.  But one thing you cannot escape. His outlook helps because of his physical shape.

Some can speak to his outworldly influence but he has dedication and a young infusion. Starting with healthy beats of the heart per minute and the endorphins of happy ego synthesis. And nothing replaces the power of work, worthiness and good spirit and the sort.

So let’s come together and celebrate this old relic. Not Tom Cruise or even Tom Selleck. But the Top Gun reboot that finally came to pass. Like a gallstone move or a combustion of gas. And surely Maverick is must see TV even though its pimped as a big time movie. And this acting wonder has done it again. Remaining relevant while being a centurion. J/K, he is not a Roman commander. He is Tom Cruise, the somewhat aging wonder.

Handwritten Note

Seems en vogue to blare the trumpets and be the psuedo who gloats about being the recipient of handwritten notes. Oh how cherished and responsible art thou who uses a feather with ink even now.

Allow me to utter a bitter retort; when i wrote notes, the e-mail was how to court. And just like then, you wouldn’t hear a peep unless you were a bugger or money to bequeath. But that is okay as I’ve got no more ire except for the pompous ass who says notes are now fire.

Now I must reverse and buy PaperMates and stationary to open the pearly gates. Of acceptance cause now the note is en vogue. Just when did chivalry return and why wasn’t I told?

The Squad

Who is the person who called out “The Squad”? Is it the leader whose actually a fraud? Who name calls all who he abhors? Who looks in his mirror and says Que Calor? It’s the once underground racist whose supported by statesmen who don’t care about country but about their next bounty. Like Rubio calling a party Anti-Semitic while sweating the booty to NRA rhetoric.

They watch people jailed in the worst conditions but there is no such racist predispositions. Cause this was caused by Obama, they say. So therefore not racist in any way. Except POTUS 44 never caused these conditions. It was number 45 and his silent minions.

And who name calls the squad in these tweets? Is it a teenager or a zealot who prays? Someone who reads seventies comic books or anything with pictures with few lighter notes? But it comes from one orange haired bully who has 250 res who dress like a stoolie.

Club Fed

When playing the establishment in an epic five setter, you get up in skyline running away. In the indentations on his sneaks of Black London and the ominous number eight. Knew him from the volleys he ambush his victim. Like the stench of loss glued like stickum. Like a pickskin to the hands of Lester Hayes, Roger lays down the law to most that he plays.

So when a player has some hope in the form of a crack, the adversary has the name Novak. Rock in frame, eyes alabaster. He shuts up crowds like he is the master. He’s never outworked though his mind sometimes wanders. He pulled off an epic win on a court that grows flowers.

But Roger has his majors and his legions of fans that nobody can challenge in any of the lands. He has Club Fed and the adoring corp of press. Ever since he surpassed the record of Sampras. And now he has staked his flag on immortality, even one loss doesn’t stop the normality.

Of him being one no matter the ranking. On his mountain top, the others are thanking the opportunity to play a legend that is made. He is the King and Roger is his name.

White Dress

Fancy meeting this feeling on the way to work, getting a mind jolt, a Monday morning twerk. Thinking of how you adorned that white dress. And then an asylum of my head was a mess. Usually liking a red, or a blue, but white was clean and pristine and you.

In a setting where I expected a casual affair, you dressed up for prom and I immediately was not there. Transported to a time when I was giddy, gossiping and awkward about this hot babe I had met afterward. The eyes were wide, busting at the seams and the way the fabric hugged was the magic in my dreams. And you came of looking incredibly clean, like eyes in Clearasil or a mouth bathing in Listerine. At the moment of sight I was left incorrigible by the look that countered a personality so adorable. 

And now you’ve taken on the image of a predator and offered my mind another metaphor. But it is the beauty of you, my dear. The growth, the change, the having no fear. And although I’d like another moment with that dress on. I’d much rather see what this new attitude will spawn.