Wash the apple before you bite into it, because that’s the way you were raised. Germs, pesticides, dirt, gunk, it doesn’t matter—just wash it. The fingerprints, too, go down the drain with the rest. It’s easy to forget that there are people who harvest our food. Sometimes, maybe, we are reminded of the seasons and the sun and the way of the apple tree, and if we multiply that by millions of apple trees, times millions of tomato plants, times all the other fruits and vegetables, we realize, holy potato chips, that’s a lot of picking. Without 1 million people on the ground, on ladders, in bushes—armies of pickers swooping in like bees—all the tilling, planting, and fertilizing of America’s $144 billion horticultural production is for naught. The fruit falls to the ground and rots.
"it is only needful that we should not succumb to the erroneous, already defunct, public opinion of the past, which governments have induced artificially; it is only needful that each individual should say what he really feels or thinks, or at least that he should not say what he does not think."
Listen. Even in stillness we move. Souls stay intoxicated by the rhythms of mariposas. We transgress. Take a drink. Here da notes. Life is full. Let Religions and nations divide. We dance in fire. Orchestras within organic bottles. Unleash ure songs so that we all may listen to such beautiful notes and dance in ur parade!! - Asere
I lived on the even side of street at apt 22. I gazed at my neighbors across the street thinking they were happier, their rooms were sunnier, their parties more fun. Unfortunately, their rooms were smaller and darker. They too, gazed across the street … because we always think that luck is what we don’t have.
Oh, oh deep water, black and cold like the night I stand with arms wide open I’ve run a twisted line I’m a stranger in the eyes of the Maker And I could not see for the fog in my eyes I could not feel for the fear in my life
From across the great divide In the distance I saw the light Of John Baptist walking to me with the Maker My body is bent and broken by long and dangerous sleep I can’t work the fields of Abraham and turn my head away I’m not a stranger in the hands of the Maker
Brother John, have you seen the homeless daughters Standing there with broken wings I have seen the flaming sword There over east of Eden Burning in the eyes of the Maker
I’ve heard you say many times that your better than no one and no one is better than you.
If you really believe that you know you have nothing to win and nothing to lose.
From fixtures and forces and friends your sorrow does stem.
That hype you and type you makin’ you feel
That you gotta be just like them.