Funky, funky, funky…
I got home
as Rick James said
”…coming home intoxicated…”
Well,
I decided to write something.
It’s not that because I had some
exhilarating substances
is that I have the will
the nerve
the inspiration.
Is just
that maybe
that I have the time.
Yeah,
the time.
The silence.
The lone oneself.
The proper moment.
To write.
Or to paint.
Painting is more heavy duty stuff.
Because you have to realize
many things.
Writing flows
more in accordance
to whatever you are thinking.
If you are thinking, of course…
Then again.
What is this world without craziness.
Without believing.
Believing that whatever you do
or whatever you are
is just part
of an infinitesimal moment
of time.
That without notice
without spectators
whatever you think
whatever you say
it has some meaning
however small.
No matter.
Is a part of the infinite sequence of facts
of the chaotic yet normal
transit
of the eternal traveling
in, on, and about this Universe…
