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The Journey

Winter Time, After LA Rain. (With a Spin on Format)

It started with six feet.

30 toes,

3 different souls in different soles.

The day after a Los Angeles shower,

lifting a table across graveled road under a transmission tower.

Peering up in the sky like the vision of a kaleidoscope;

it was time.

Dividing them up in what looked like a peace sign I smirked and ingest.

Our tools preparing us for this journey:

An iPod dock station, books like Aristotle, and a pair of cheap aviators from Berkley.

We headed down a riverbed jumping a six foot fence which I fell from.

Laughing it off we continued.

The day was right.

Afternoon, around 1:30 pm,

Los Angeles after a shower with spots of clear skies,

and the water in the riverbed doin what it usually does.


Go forward...

It felt.

Go forward and looking back literally never happened that often.

Barely entering our 20's life seemed so funny.

From the high wire we tried to touch 30 feet above us

yet seemed so close.

Eyes dilated, feeling elated we just entered our journey.

And Portishead there in the Glory Box I held.

The volumes up to 30...no 40

and we're walking, feeling the pain in my leg from the fall

but keep walking it felt.

Go toward grass on the side that hosted leaves like electrical windmills

eyes zooming in to see how the dew feels

asking my friends how do you feel?


On our second hour,

we're half a mile into our journey

The Light by Cunninlynguists in the glory box my friend held now.

It cradled hip-hop instrumentals, and guitar solos by Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn

and like that music playlist there was no separation.

No distancing ourselves from what we used to deem foreign.

it was at this instance, I felt comfortable with death and its embrace

understanding if it took me away in sleep or swept me off my feet.

This, was my time to enter some enlightenment.

A stream of conscious thoughts from feelings of cops to past relationships and family.

Imagine a library, filled with books of your memories, horrors, triumphs, and depressions and your mind

accesses each book

and writes your thoughts page by page and it's done.

You're onto a new book now.

and another.


It was so overwhelming but it felt like my body communicating to me.

Speaking from my soles it told me

go forward mijo.

reaching towards the end of our journey a freeway in the distance,

with typical LA traffic and it hit me.

What was I doing?

What was it I'd like to achieve in this lifetime?

What are my friends ambitions and strengths

their weakness and my faults?

What will I be good at in the future?

Who in society tells me what to be?

What will my family think of me?

Chastising my drug use.

"But it's for my betterment!"

I'd say in my mind.

A dialogue I entered briefly but dipped out of.


Doubling back,

we're almost back to my car.

The peak was gone and now it's the afterglow.

Feeling wavelengths of this journey hittin' me back.

Every hit as strong with God's Bathroom Floor in my eardrums

go forward it felt.

Inside the car now and we decide on a dime

to allow us to recollect and reflect our journey.

heading to the bank the wave lengths

grab hold of me and in the car zonin'

and spacing out on un-orthodox things

ranging from:

annoying car horns,

slow walking pedestrians,

shortly timed intersection lights.


Parked and heading into the monster controlled

by banks of the east like Steinbeck in Grapes of Wrath

that have done so much wrong to unfortunate lives and so much right

to wealthy individuals.

For a brief moment,

I felt like a traitor.

Someone passing enemy lines not with a white flag, but his opponents flag

waving in the air proud to be a consumer.

I snap out of it.

Armed with an iPod its the day before Christmas eve

these lines reasonable but long.


the wavelengths hit me again.

I'm in a room full of people,

different lives, tellers, construction workers,

familia of different nationalities.

I'm happy to live in LA but sometimes not like this.

Where some families come to this monster to send money

back home. Where militants run their prior casa, and

crooked presidents hold lengthy terms and lengthier oppressions.

Not like this...

with each bank poster filled with Colgate smiles

and hands clasp together just to insinuate what they do.

put their hands together and pretend like what they've done

never happened.

Washing their hands clean like Pontius Pilate

I'm growing with more frustration towards them than this line.

But I'm distracted...

a paper slipping out of a nine year olds book on earth science

it was a bank statement.

Hesitating on whether I should interact with this person I did so.

Removed my ear piece and gently tapped with two fingers to the adult and pointed to the

paper on the floor.

Ordering her daughter to pick it up she presumed her rather

tired posture.

I saw the adult slowly turning her neck,

her eyes leading first in the direction

to see what I look like.


I've gotten the money,

and we've picked up what we needed at a friend of a friend's house.

we talked.

conversations that ended in laughs like hyenas

and conversations that let us relish in thought.

this day,

rekindled my outlook on life

and how I view it.


my life changed...

from that,

of what I

knew before.

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