The Restaurant (free write)

Like salt from a shaker,
She flowed into the room.
Sprinkling just a bit too much of herself.
Ruining the assumption of true flavor.

My taste for the bland is non existent
However, I need the seasoning to be just right
To taste such a delicate dish.

Nothing to over the top, but just right.
Lying on the surface, ready, waiting to be devoured.

Her mood changed when she saw that I had dropped the napkin,
Saw that I bent the fork,
Dumping it next to the ice and wine.
And the waiter; that tight nosed voyeur,
Shrugged and harrumphed his way to the kitchen,
Saying there would be no desert. No tasting this night.

She thought she had seasoned me well, and left me to bake in the chandeliers and crystal goblets of this place.

Alas, she fell short of the recipe,
Foreplay burned in an overheated oven.
Burnt to a crisp in her little black number,
And over salted in the assumption of her come hither look,
And my desire or the lack thereof.

Each of us

Each man, and each woman is worthy of ascension,
Is worthy of the fulfillment of their dreams.

However, we must want it, strive for it, and work to achieve it.

Let those who would stifle your course, and destroy your compass...
Let those thoughts and those perpetrations be damned.

Nevertheless, let us Love them for their views, and respect them for their fervor,
For in their minds they are just.

Who am I, who are we to determine who is right or wrong?
We can each of us, only determine our own paths with the knowing that is laid before us in the present.

My knowledge as a child was not that of when I became a man.
My knowledge now will not be that of when my tooth lengthens and I become gray.

Opinions will always fall just as the rains,
Frequent and torrential.

It is up to each to weather the rains, and ascend green towers,
To harvest our dreams, to attain our fulfillments,
Yes,
Each of us.

I Walk With Kings

I wear a poor man's shoes, No shine, no wax, no Italian leather,

But I walk with Kings.

My bank, and my wealth are tallied in the sum of these comfortable toe crammed prisons.

Released now and then to smell varnished hardwood floors,

The matted gray carpets,

And dew kissed grasses.

Toes tapping to various jazzes,

blues and funk.

Yes a poor man's shoe I wear,

But I walk with kings.

I am free to walk, to run, and rest in wild fields of clover,

In sleeping fields of winter wheat,

In yellow towers of August corn.

I am the subject,

Yet I walk with Kings.

I wear a poor mans shoes,

They are my treasures.

My over the rainbow realizations,

That the understanding is...

The shoes do not make the man,

But merely convey him to his ultimate destination.

No matter the lace, or the heel, the cut of the toe...

I wear a poor man's shoes,

But I walk with Kings