A poet friend wrote the following poem. I was a bit floored and posting almost seems conceited. However I’m thinking that in these times words and “the poet” are more important than ever. Treasures of the heart are worth more than Babylon’s gold. The Warrior is back.

I have a friend named Tim, who I don’t see much of
Beautiful wife and a daughter the color of red apples and candy colored crayons of princess rayon
Black hair like her mother’s, with jelly soft features, the future is bright if she is what it features
Suburbanite gripes, gripping cool whips, pushing past the poetry of Detroit streets
Techno music or maybe electronic forms, breaking it down to underground basement alley drums
Rocking the peasant hats, friends with pornographic editors and peasant proprietors, all while versed in old school raps, the cool kid imitators
Shepard Fairy imitations, along with reproduced prints by Jean Michel Basquiat
A loose crew of bomb blasting , loud bass thumping, thumb ring rubbing, pull pin loving with one warning like ETA
Flying fairies on the lunch box of a princess, separated from himself like Basque bandits from the Vatican Eucharist shelf,
A subversive in sense but a normal and decent man. No war over which one has the final word because both have their innocence delivered in a baby bird with ladybug charms and chubby arms…
Ornithologist of mistakes that escape from cooped up fates, now soaring into a bright digital sky
That has passed the death of cool cassette tapes and black vinyl tracks, to boom past C.D paths and expand into an mp3 Lego land
Full thronged supporter of black aspirants and Amir Baracka, he too was once the wretched of the land
Stacks and stacks of fanon, Buddhist cannon, old mystics and newer classics all managing space in his corrugated iron left leaning thinking
His ascent from wild hedonistic ascetic to throat vibrating mystic chanter is telling in his fortunate belly
Swells like the didgeridoo brewing like coffee from his decanter, burning cigars are his lanterns
Off the puff clouds his feet must fly back to his photographer wife on double duty with sure doubts
Rescued cat, named after a revolutionary track master, and a powerful dog, named after my father and a prophet that railed against the taskmaster
And a black cat named after a communist march, and a balancing home budget
-On Sunday he is loving the tasks of the garden tax and building decks that tax checks invest
Shoring up the wealth of his castle in this suburb of hustle and home-
And a daughter around whom
His life revolves, like the earth around the moon
And the sun around the earth and the moon pulling the waves and spiting the seas’ shores
and his other loves, all sharing an equal plane in this assortment of stuff, such
As a mother and a father…
Old framed pictures of himself from the early past, cushioned in a pimp’s plush pudding
Riding around in the past but plugged into an iPod production, producing waves of raves
The kind with the ecstasy of a morning commute to a desk and a screen, with the scent of a dream
Hanging and dangling from the rearview scene
You might not have a great big fancy car, diamond in the big… digging the scene with a gangster lean
Just be thankful for your diamond in the back, gem by your side, ink dipped memories on your arm as you take that seat belted ride with booster seats inside
Gangster silver walls closing off the outside’s doors ensconced in a summer rush, with fragrant flowers dropping from the ceiling of your Porsche, must be the greatest feeling
In the world, a man with his happy family involved
Soccer father, closeted TV screen, screaming into the Mac computer unplugged from the warm colors of wood and laughter, reflecting the clean design that is careening off electronic and metronomic, arithmetic ergonomic, style reflexes that reflects in the horn rimmed lenses,
Chest of secrets that seat wonders of a childhood palace where we are safe from disaster, insured by the chanting of a wiser but ice blue father… cool with cold-blooded calm, returning the anxiety, with a balm of harmony, forming from rubbed palms
Ready to cry at the drop of a dime, reading and writing poetry one at a time, long into the night under the foundation of mundane household fascinations.
Beautiful wife, the happiest daughter… working everyday and still learning to be a man…

-akin