Army of Artists                                            (For My Friend Horace)                                         Harmony of a hug, Rhythm of a rose, Melody in the mirror We are an army of artists Merchants of life, Beauty's our bomb, Love its shrapnel… We are an army of artists Infantry on feet of celebration, Toes polishing Hardwood floors with perspiration We are an army of artists Brandishing sticks and brushes, Softening up enemies with Strokes and notes, Partisans...

PRISM is a game that doesn’t calls itself a game   but the managerial skills of saving lives of getting all the kaleidoscope to evenly hold on the surfaces of the prism and in doing gamesmanship isn’t akin to upmanship  but a  juggling of scarce resources a juggling of  race creed color and still a game pretentious enough as to not call  itself a game as it shifts destinies across the poker table   balls tossed in the air, a juggling act  of calming the next foment that the axis also takes respective dire situations of us around the world and back, to a futuristic time in which the rough shod surfaces are made even smooth, fingers working at the speed of light knitting  intricate inter-plays of solution, while overflowing  the rim the impatience of those  whose spittle and bile runs like a busted  waste pipe  in the cry for some semblance of justice, fingers pecking at a keyb...