When I think of orderly, I think of people that are well versed in compliance, and remind themselves daily that it’s time to make the donuts. A sort of iRobot feel only iHuman and actually feel enough to disrupt the disorder of the orderly- civil disobedience. See my neighborhood lived beneath its means and one’s appearance truly reflected its bank account to those looking through microscopes. Michael Jordan never had the chance to disrupt the budgets of baby boomers skeptical of becoming trendy, and loyal to Chuck Taylor, Stan Smith.
There is nothing orderly about confidence in systems which were meant to create dependence.




Shifting paradigms is a far greater challenge than fixating one’s eyes on a different example. One would have to perceive there to be an endlessness to  their current example which would take more than words, more than professional journals, more than eyewitnesses to verify conspiracies to be authentic, more than canon. With such a complex criteria before making the final cut each generation has been playing catch up, catching up to the example only the example has taken on a modern twist. The twist is the dead sea scrolls found in bottles of tears from the characters that were yet to be heard, that up to now are fighting the truth of their existence with examples.



At first glimpse I am eager to attack the subject of “fork” from an angle traveled most frequently, until my nature hastens to the time before time when mankind was in its most simple state.  Life was submerged in the comprehensibility of survival where creativity was  birthed out of an inherent desire to provide for the family, the priority-life. But what is now viewed as a fork in the road is a well designed and paved option to simple living. Not that the indulgence in a name brand negates choice number one, only that choice two risks seeing life as a mere flash without the liberty of eating without utensils.



I started to believe.

Funny thing just happened to me, I started to believe. I believe in me before the ink dries on the contract of failure and complacency, let the ink dry on the business card that says “KWESI” (all caps). I thought about the boredom of taking the blue pill, not insane enough to mix blue and yellow, but curious enough to take the red. There must be something to the idea of what we see being more than what we see. There must be an algorithm to everything that we see, even calamity reported as acts of God. We were given carte blanche but without the book of algorithms. So how foolish are we to veer too far from the mainframe. 

Funny thing just happened to me, I started to believe in the power of the confession of my belief in me. The repetition is force feeding my starving esteem to accept the shift in dimensions. I have punked myself with the familiar formula of “I started to believe.”

world changer

This idea of changing the world is more than a ideological way for people to approach their view of life and purpose. Each day that we interact with the universe we alter something. At a specific time my stroll through wheat fields caused the butterfly headed in my direction to consider me an obstacle, and flew over or around not through. Poor Mr. Armadillo on the side of the road with his feet in the air was some Armadillo’s dad, son, brother and he will never return leaving them to fend for themselves. Their family is forever altered. A kind word given to someone that the world considered unworthy becomes a complete disruption to a life submerged in gloom. Confrontation and disruption are good when a person is headed for a cliff. Our purpose involves changing the world.


I am unable to number the incidence which prove the power of love outweighs the evil that men do and think. So I choose to look at life through loves spectacles because I can. By law our intentions never carry the same impact as what we say. Oh the countless moments of miscommunication where expression and intentions are going in different directions. The legions of words as palpable as the anger on one’s countenance make for grudges untold, hidden by hello and a smile. Ever heard of a gazillion excuses? Well I am off the train of innumerable excuses and blurred views. My focus is on changing the world with a clear view through the spectacles of love.


At the Grain of my existence..

At the grain of my existence is an atrocious knack for freezing under pressure or being too excessive once the frost passes. Christ the merciful has spared me on countless occasions, and used the same breath that brought me to life to heat me.

At the grain of my existence is an anxiety so real that it is like an invisible force, a little kid holding my leg while I try to walk, 225 pounds of weight on burnout day with not one to spot me, and it is impossible to explain.

Of the grains on earth there must be at least one that looks like me, talks like me, lives like me, understands me.



We hop from dispensation to dispensation not conscious of the time in between decades and millenia, seeing the fine details as insignificant. We trot years like many trot globes only making note of the proverbial “big events.” I wish we could trot past the amount of melanin in a person’s skin, their earthly origin seeing that we all come from one. We simply took different routes but will return earth to earth ashes to ashes.


thank you

How reticent we tend to be when it comes to expressing adoration. We usually wait until people are pushing daisies skyward, detached from the five senses, and unable to take joy in these expressions. In our selfishness we are taciturn and uncommunicative, causing the greatest of heroes to question their worth. So to all heroes a big thank you.


I was forced to eat oatmeal as a child by my stepdad.
I would gag and daydream of days to come- freedom.
Lashes to the backside for a voice not so familiar- contradiction.
This life is the saga that legends tell of but exclude names.
The resemblance is all too recognizable but it is one size fit all.
The government turned its back on me by offering me a number to call for help,
But not providing witness protection.
Sagas are not always visible but rehashing from the primary source is epic.