Floetry

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Yadi the Genie

If you were on the west coast,

And I mean the far-left coast,

Where grey whales play way more often than they should,

Where tourists with eager anticipation wait for a specific sensation;

An indigenous guide that will lead them through the ocean’s doubtful trails,

To the splash of whale’s tail arching out,

Living sails on the horizon,

Spouts spitting,

Sides exposed in a cultural dance beside a time that’s no longer fitting,

On that line where the mountains meet the sea,

Right there where the edge of the water touches the trees.

They are attempting ancient communiqué to those interested,

uninteresting,

Disinterested and not listening alike,

One face watching exhibits ecstasy,

Another reveals fright,

While the two evolved beings sing songs older than birds,

The world’s ancient, unseen and unheard.

An oceanic dance encrypted with words of wisdom.

You don’t even have to see them.

Just sit and listen.

Here on the left coast you will also find the Haida,

An army of alive and wandering artists,

Armed with carving knives and slices of long lived and surpassed lives,

Spent respecting these whales, trees, totems and the four forces of nature.

Sustainable, proven, fragmented and spoken with pride.

These Haida have an oral tradition to abide.

To remember this,

They carve the totem.

Some stand older than the grown men that first cut, carved and sold them.

What they’ve forgotten,

A carver’s invention,

Stains the wood with tears,

Unclear to the unassuming eye.

From solstice to solstice since the cave tribes of the Middle East,

From winter, summer to a harvest’s newly-named November feast,

A culture’s story gets encrypted in new and old growth lumber left to learn and teach.

Soft and tender for the telling,

Receivers and senders,

On the top of this flowing story engraved in yellow cedar,

Sits the storyteller.

The natural orator offers structure, solace and personal agenda carved with personal conviction,

Chosen during the sun,

The moon,

For its thunder.

They share the narrative with those that deserve, take and reject it,

Those estranged, discarded and lost in a crazed maze where we ignore all in a haze,

We inject it.

That feeling that we belong to something older than this.

We shoot up family like it’s a drug we’ve been looking for all of our lives.

It surpasses the work of non-profit groups with access to legal loot,

In soup kitchens and blocks looped with the constriction of poverty,

Our lonely lost souls from the fixed lottery of fate,

Locked inside white man’s gate,

Their stolen innocence dripping through the fissure of a cracked life’s plate.

Trapped in urban ovens,

Stumbling around crooked.

They want to come back to the loving,

Something they can consider community.

It is all they have left to sustain them.

Faux families found,

To create, protect, amuse and take us,

Together,

Where we are always one person stronger,

Forever.

Each one added with every injustice, condoned and applied,

Comes a person adjusted and guided by a system that tries to listen,

Tries to help.

On these blocks where the rich sit low with their door’s locked,

Windows up,

Iphone’s locked away in the glove box.

Red and blues,

Red and white’s,

United Nation’s forces flocking in formation,

Affiliates stationed.

There is something to notice in the midst of an anticipated economic disintegration,

That surrounds us,

Slowly but surely drowns us.

The ancient patriarchs and the matriarchs stand like a rock,

Locked out of social acceptance and pre-ordained political organizations.

Broken loose,

Transcending constructed social structures,

Because it was the right thing to do,

When moment after moment forced decisions.

When too much of the city became obtuse,

Uncaring,

Restricted from sharing,

Here the metaphor of the totem became a real edifice,

Proliferated and sustained,

For thousands of years,

A paradigm ingrained,

Maintained.

Through the rise and the fall of all we have seen and will see,

Of our complex,

Corrupt,

Kleptocractic economy,

Based in the faith of our mutual psychosis of modern psychology and sociology,

One that leads us to our financial obligation to autonomy.

It makes a place where your debt gets sold and there are rewards garnered in your failures,

Your imperfections,

Tailored by A.I.G and Goldman Sachs,

With biorhythmic deductions,

Stacked in their favour,

A flavour of capitalism.

But there are totems here.

And sometimes the head of that totem is a Genie,

A cultural Houdini from a foreign Kurdish land,

That was trapped in the sand before lurid borders were imposed,

A disruption transposed in an ignorant attempt at a new world order,

Unopposed.

There, the winds of the mothers and fathers wept,

They formed a salty air where justice slept.

A society kept.

From here comes our Genie.

He exists on South Granville,

An Islamic Celestine shaping his world with an anvil.

He oversees realities sleazy, desperate and needy,

Bringing hope, comfort and food to feed,

The masses.

A power to provide,

A credence his archetype has super-sized.

Soft souled like a whale‘s awake eye was respected,

A man who remains suspicious and protected,

Yet still,

An angel for the affected.

He’ll even share his gold,

If you’ll trust him to make more,

But don’t kid yourself.

There are a lot of lost souls with your need for three wishes,

Some try sneaking in the stipulation for six million more on their third wish sealed with a kiss that misses.

From fair princesses from worlds depraved,

Rejected and neglected,

But willing to trade,

They come for their wishes.

Quirks, kinks and twitches subdued,

Helpful attention and intimacy accrued,

They know a genie hates to be left alone.

They see the man inside the stone.

Those lamps are way too small for such large men as these,

In a world growing bigger and smaller.

Life growing harder,

More meaningful.

Tolls paid,

Taking the time growing old to sow seeds of a lifetimes’ reflection.

They know that from inside the lamp to the shadow of the totem,

There is retention, divination and the gift of protection.

This genie is a hero worth listening to.

He is a soldier that has walked four hundred steps,

Blessed for the fight for freedom he knows is coming.

A dangerous freedom that will need structure,

Prototypes to maintain pro-social function,

Positive wisdom and gumption,

To safeguard and remain constructive.

A power intrinsic, lawful,

Deserved,

Indestructible.

And only the top of this totem can conjure the words,

If you’re listening.

It whispers to go ahead and vote in your democracies.

Ignorant or informed,

It is still hypocrisy.

Integrity will only be proven properly,

Outside the ballot poll,

A pushy poster or a political court order.

I’m talking about real leaders.

Real heroes,

Without borders,

A soldier with a vision of family and making the best of his community.

As more and more genies wash up on our shores,

Shored up in lamps stamped for a city, sleazy, needy, beautiful and bountiful.

If you can find their secret souls,

Their stories untold,

You’ll find leaders that have come and gone,

Some weak,

Some cold,

Some strong.

Some just trying to eat, drink, sleep and get along in our systemic wrong,

That’s been betting on your failure.

You should recognize an enigma,

A genie,

A totemic stigma,

A whale of a human.

Don’t be afraid.

Empower him.If you were on the west coast,

And I mean the far-left coast,

Where grey whales play way more often than they should,

Where tourists with eager anticipation wait for a specific sensation;

An indigenous guide that will lead them through the ocean’s doubtful trails,

To the splash of whale’s tail arching out,

Living sails on the horizon,

Spouts spitting,

Sides exposed in a cultural dance beside a time that’s no longer fitting,

On that line where the mountains meet the sea,

Right there where the edge of the water touches the trees.

They are attempting ancient communiqué to those interested,

uninteresting,

Disinterested and not listening alike,

One face watching exhibits ecstasy,

Another reveals fright,

While the two evolved beings sing songs older than birds,

The world’s ancient, unseen and unheard.

An oceanic dance encrypted with words of wisdom.

You don’t even have to see them.

Just sit and listen.

Here on the left coast you will also find the Haida,

An army of alive and wandering artists,

Armed with carving knives and slices of long lived and surpassed lives,

Spent respecting these whales, trees, totems and the four forces of nature.

Sustainable, proven, fragmented and spoken with pride.

These Haida have an oral tradition to abide.

To remember this,

They carve the totem.

Some stand older than the grown men that first cut, carved and sold them.

What they’ve forgotten,

A carver’s invention,

Stains the wood with tears,

Unclear to the unassuming eye.

From solstice to solstice since the cave tribes of the Middle East,

From winter, summer to a harvest’s newly-named November feast,

A culture’s story gets encrypted in new and old growth lumber left to learn and teach.

Soft and tender for the telling,

Receivers and senders,

On the top of this flowing story engraved in yellow cedar,

Sits the storyteller.

The natural orator offers structure, solace and personal agenda carved with personal conviction,

Chosen during the sun,

The moon,

For its thunder.

They share the narrative with those that deserve, take and reject it,

Those estranged, discarded and lost in a crazed maze where we ignore all in a haze,

We inject it.

That feeling that we belong to something older than this.

We shoot up family like it’s a drug we’ve been looking for all of our lives.

It surpasses the work of non-profit groups with access to legal loot,

In soup kitchens and blocks looped with the constriction of poverty,

Our lonely lost souls from the fixed lottery of fate,

Locked inside white man’s gate,

Their stolen innocence dripping through the fissure of a cracked life’s plate.

Trapped in urban ovens,

Stumbling around crooked.

They want to come back to the loving,

Something they can consider community.

It is all they have left to sustain them.

Faux families found,

To create, protect, amuse and take us,

Together,

Where we are always one person stronger,

Forever.

Each one added with every injustice, condoned and applied,

Comes a person adjusted and guided by a system that tries to listen,

Tries to help.

On these blocks where the rich sit low with their door’s locked,

Windows up,

Iphone’s locked away in the glove box.

Red and blues,

Red and white’s,

United Nation’s forces flocking in formation,

Affiliates stationed.

There is something to notice in the midst of an anticipated economic disintegration,

That surrounds us,

Slowly but surely drowns us.

The ancient patriarchs and the matriarchs stand like a rock,

Locked out of social acceptance and pre-ordained political organizations.

Broken loose,

Transcending constructed social structures,

Because it was the right thing to do,

When moment after moment forced decisions.

When too much of the city became obtuse,

Uncaring,

Restricted from sharing,

Here the metaphor of the totem became a real edifice,

Proliferated and sustained,

For thousands of years,

A paradigm ingrained,

Maintained.

Through the rise and the fall of all we have seen and will see,

Of our complex,

Corrupt,

Kleptocractic economy,

Based in the faith of our mutual psychosis of modern psychology and sociology,

One that leads us to our financial obligation to autonomy.

It makes a place where your debt gets sold and there are rewards garnered in your failures,

Your imperfections,

Tailored by A.I.G and Goldman Sachs,

With biorhythmic deductions,

Stacked in their favour,

A flavour of capitalism.

But there are totems here.

And sometimes the head of that totem is a Genie,

A cultural Houdini from a foreign Kurdish land,

That was trapped in the sand before lurid borders were imposed,

A disruption transposed in an ignorant attempt at a new world order,

Unopposed.

There, the winds of the mothers and fathers wept,

They formed a salty air where justice slept.

A society kept.

From here comes our Genie.

He exists on South Granville,

An Islamic Celestine shaping his world with an anvil.

He oversees realities sleazy, desperate and needy,

Bringing hope, comfort and food to feed,

The masses.

A power to provide,

A credence his archetype has super-sized.

Soft souled like a whale‘s awake eye was respected,

A man who remains suspicious and protected,

Yet still,

An angel for the affected.

He’ll even share his gold,

If you’ll trust him to make more,

But don’t kid yourself.

There are a lot of lost souls with your need for three wishes,

Some try sneaking in the stipulation for six million more on their third wish sealed with a kiss that misses.

From fair princesses from worlds depraved,

Rejected and neglected,

But willing to trade,

They come for their wishes.

Quirks, kinks and twitches subdued,

Helpful attention and intimacy accrued,

They know a genie hates to be left alone.

They see the man inside the stone.

Those lamps are way too small for such large men as these,

In a world growing bigger and smaller.

Life growing harder,

More meaningful.

Tolls paid,

Taking the time growing old to sow seeds of a lifetimes’ reflection.

They know that from inside the lamp to the shadow of the totem,

There is retention, divination and the gift of protection.

This genie is a hero worth listening to.

He is a soldier that has walked four hundred steps,

Blessed for the fight for freedom he knows is coming.

A dangerous freedom that will need structure,

Prototypes to maintain pro-social function,

Positive wisdom and gumption,

To safeguard and remain constructive.

A power intrinsic, lawful,

Deserved,

Indestructible.

And only the top of this totem can conjure the words,

If you’re listening.

It whispers to go ahead and vote in your democracies.

Ignorant or informed,

It is still hypocrisy.

Integrity will only be proven properly,

Outside the ballot poll,

A pushy poster or a political court order.

I’m talking about real leaders.

Real heroes,

Without borders,

A soldier with a vision of family and making the best of his community.

As more and more genies wash up on our shores,

Shored up in lamps stamped for a city, sleazy, needy, beautiful and bountiful.

If you can find their secret souls,

Their stories untold,

You’ll find leaders that have come and gone,

Some weak,

Some cold,

Some strong.

Some just trying to eat, drink, sleep and get along in our systemic wrong,

That’s been betting on your failure.

You should recognize an enigma,

A genie,

A totemic stigma,

A whale of a human.

Don’t be afraid.

Empower him.

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