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lyrics

An easy Sunrise precedes a touch of Madness. Touching the miracles. Touching the sleep. Touching the sound. Lingering lyrics falling graciously upon tear filled eyelids. Foot pedal and sly smile all moving in the same direction, the same rhythm, the same motion of Congo Square and primitive string instruments defying the burdens of slavery. Little Richard and Otis Redding and Sam Cooke and James Brown all saw and felt the passion of this genius of rare humility trying to get out to Sea. The laughter of idiots bleeding in his ears. The Mother Nile pleases in more ways than one. The Music in his stride has put his demons to sleep, he hopes. A White mist encircles the innocence of his Harlem Baptism. The Village calls. London beckons. So kind. So warm. So devouring… Ju Ju Jimi. Jimi. Jimi. Ju Ju Ju ju. Jimi… Ju Ju Ju Ju Jimmi Ju Ju. Yes! He was the Voo Doo child this is where he lived this is where he thrived. In the frayed and fragile wires connected to dangling dimly lit neon signs unconsciously flickering one last tribute to a Miles David solo over rain drenched vomit from the bowels of broken promises and dreams deferred. He kept turning on the Rhythm and blues. They kept trying to turn it off. The loneliness of trusted friends dropping your name carelessly upon the Wind. Staring into the reflections of Jimi God!... Jimi Prophet! Jimi visionary of pointless sights… Pointless reasons… Pointless memories… teetering and rotting Roman columns peeking through lively Magnolia Trees whispering Charlie Patton. Son House. And the spirit of Robert Johnson and his serpentine wailing of the Mississippi blues bent over Sunscorched Morning abandoned by god and devil inside your mind… your sound… Your Music… creating art forms faster than the speed of deceit. Where is the deception Jimi? What does it look like? What land does it frequent? What fragrance does it indulge in? What flower does it wear in its lapel? Where is the deception Jimi? Ooooh say can you see… By the dawns early light…And the rockets red flare. The bombs bursting in air. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the guns. And the guns. And the guns. And the violence of charred and burning flesh of children amusing themselves in the shadows of drunken and addicted stupors you climb stairs to find yourself in their despair. No more lust! No more lust! No more lurid decisions and business contracts in the thrusts of darkened rooms and phony orgasms of pretending to be you… are the FOXY LADY and I am the WILD THING will you please take your loneliness out of me. I’m tired of playing this game. He kept turning on the Rhythm and blues. They kept trying to turn in off. One night I danced with the real Atlanta in a Juke joint on the Northside. My Henessy took her Red Bull to new heights in the music of the Saints and to a BAND OF GYPSIES. There is a dance that the Poet dances. In the eyes… In the eyes of demons. In the eyes of children soothe his soul with kind gestures and beaming smiles they release their dreams to his words. They trust his jagged edges and sharp turns into funeral dirges and poetry slams for control freaks on the other side of pop culture there is a disease that festers on the pitter patter of busy feet of drug boys running through their night visions and day dreams bedazzled by slight of hands scribbling on jail house walls in small letters and close encounters with death and their illusions of power being reduced to its most common denominator. Where is the deception Jimi? What does it look like? What land does it frequent? What fragrance does it indulge in? What flower does it wear in its lapel? Where is the deception Jimi? No Jimi. No!... Don’t look back. Don’t look back Jimi. Be careful. Watchout! Watchout! Don’t Jimi! Don’t Jimi!... Don’t look back. NO… NO… NO… Keep going forward. Don’t look back. Please… don’t look back Jimi… No Jimi. No Jimi. No… No… It’s too late! Here comes that second glance. Here comes that act of denial. And the guitars on fire. And the static from the ELECTRIC LADY. No Jimi.
Don't look back. Here comes their entourages of schizophrenia. Here comes their depression. Their heavy handed Baroque counterpoints. And the fingers... crisscrossing, freefalling and tip toeing between the forces of good and evil. Ju ju ju ju jimi jimi juju Back to the Forest Jimi back to the Forest. Juju jimi
juju juju Back to where the Twin Rivers meet. Juju Jimi jimi jimi juju Back to the healing jimi jimi ju juju Back to the way. Back to the way. Our way. Juju juju Jimi jimi jimi juju juju juju Jimi Are you experienced jimi are you experienced jimi Are you experienced!....Purple haze are in my brain... losing self to lose this pain. Embracing the truth and wanting to fly.. Scuse... me beauty while I kiss your
SKY!....

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from Transcending Toxic Times, released May 10, 2019

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The Last Poets New York, New York

This Wind You Hear Is The Birth Of Memory. When The Moment Hatches In Time’s Womb, There Will Be No Art Talk. The Only Poem You Will Hear Will Be The Spear Point Pivoted Into The Punctured Marrow Of The Villain, And The Timeless Native Son Dancing Like Crazy To Retrieved Rhythms Of Desire Faded Into Memory. Therefore, We Are The Last Poets Of The World. ... more

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