That Little Red Can.

No intentions, whatsoever,
In doing this for another time.
So much stuff I rather be doing,
But we got a message from somewhere so sublime.

As I've learned whenever we get,
This message mind to face.
Then there's a need somehow, somewhere,
To release our thoughts into cyberspace.

I have no idea what we're gonna write,
That's been said a lot on tha daily.
The message is just so timeless,
Like a song by Phil Collins and Phillip Bailey.

Here we go, one more time,
Into tha light of an unknown abyss.
We are anticipating this one, just like you,
Hopefully, this will be one added 2 poetry's bliss.

Love me or hate me,
That phrase has become a rallying cry.
No in between, no Luke warmness,
U either want to see me fall,
Or see us fly.

We've learned so much,
And I used to be so sensitive by other's view.
Should I do this, Should I wear that,
All the trials of showing tha real "you".

Recently, or I guess tha last few days,
I'm been witnessing so much "top that".
It's like people I don't even know want to one up me,
Like, don't they realize Dr. Seuss's story is based on tha Cat...
Not tha hat.

Let me break this down, since this is our diary,
U may be reading this all cock eyes.
What are you talking about now, Galaxia?
And hurry up, cuz I got no time, for egos and sighs.

The other day I went to work out,
Up on 23rd and Collins Ave.
Drove up this time, straight from work,
Meaning my headphones I did not have.

This might've been tha day I spoke 2 Vanessa,
Good 2 see you girl, you're quite the sight.
I look for motivation is so many small ways,
Sometimes a pretty smile can help tha fight.

So I'm got my music banging, sans tha headphones,
Playing some music the get my mode of confidently hyped.
I go into the spa-like locker room, grab a towel,
By myself, so I won't have to see eyes that says,
"Guy u're just my type."

I'm switching some songs, into one of my favorites,
N.E.R.D's "She Wants to Move."
I can dance all night to that song,
Paula do you recall when we saw Pharrell,
Doing high-kicks to that song?

Now nobody bangs music like this,
At least not so it's like a musical speaker boom.
Usually the noise is about what club to hit,
What girls you hit,
Or why did those stock prices go "Ka-boom."

My boys are singing away on my Galaxy 3,
When this dude walks in like part-time gangsta.
Then guy then, pulls his phone out, puts on some Jigga,
I'm thinking that's a B-move like a wangsta.

So his music is like at a 32 max blasting,
I try to be cool and play it off like Nelly would.
Try to make small talk, I even picked up his water bottle that fell,
Not cuz I'm soft, but I was taught that I should.

We felt this air of like, ungratefulness,
Which hit me straight up like, "This guy is hating."
What is there to hate though, that I bust my butt,
I can resist a slice of American Pie,
Or that cool and beautiful girls I'm exclusively dating.

Motivation.  That's all it is.
T.I. said that back in what...2004.
That was before Obama, before Iphones,
Before Lady Gaga opened up Fame's door.

The M.I.A. is filled with so many stories of the same,
Where folks are hating...dude for no reason.
Like guys and girls can't handle who you are,
Not knowing that it takes time to reach that Championship season.

When I was driving on my Vespa, for years I would see,
Through 25,000 miles of simple fun.
I would come to a stoplight in Brickell or Coral Gables,
Though it would be heavy traffic, I could feel all eyes on one.

Then the light would turn green, and this machivemous,
Would be turned on like a janitor's flick.
People would actually try to out run me, a scooter,
I would shake my head like P!nk,
"You make me sick."

U're in a ride that can go an easy 220,
At least if you wanted to.
Dude, I got nothing to prove to you,
40, maybe 43 mph's, is all I can do.

I'm gonna get into this now,
The topic is starting to reveal itself in the air.
We got to write as if its our last time,
So I'm gonna write as if I'm standing in line,
To get into Success' County Fair.

Don't trip when you get hated on,
When people may not believe in ur simple dream cloud.
Don't let that stop you from giving your best,
Put in Nas' "Hate Me Now"...and turn it up Ultra-loud.

Hater-ade is sometimes the best drink to taste,
Especially when you are about to do something first.
Get a gulp of that to begin, and then
Tha champagne with rose pedals will be an even better quencher of thirst.

I wish I could remember tha name of that drink, so I could give tha name,
I tasted it last year during Miami's Swim Week VIP jump off.
Whatever, just have to take my word on it,
Tasted so good, next time I'll share a sip with a beach moth.

Down here in "tha land of tha beautiful people",
People don't say it, but it's like a secret society of  "Bigger and Better".
What Porsche model is faster, which yacht is larger,
Which wife's Pooh-nanny is wetter.

Comparison is like the lifestyle,
Sometimes it can get so bad like yesterday's South Beach flood.
There's no way around it, it forces you to get dirty,
Shoes come off, like it's fun to walk in all the mud.

That was wild yesterday though, for real,
But I'm not gonna talk about being almost sunk under H2O.
This is about all the hate, that comes with realness,
Actually it's tha gift, not tha curse, that comes with tha dough.

I've shared a lot through this diary,
Dreams I probably should have kept to myself.
Perhaps that's what has fueled some of the weird looks,
Like seeing Mama Claus going out with Santa's top elf.

Thoughts of living in Miami and L.A.,
Or even becoming talked in tha argument "the best."
There's a lot of things that come with achieving your goals,
It can turn into the battle of the Wild Wild West.

You lay in bed at night with one simple thought,
Is the goal worth all the trials?
Then u begin to wonder, I've come so far,
Yet I still wonder how many more miles...

This door opens, which is super cool,
The ones I really want still seem bolted shut.
I've tried this key, that blow torch,
Maybe I should just kiss somebody's butt.

That's not how I roll though, not me,
Being true to yourself hasn't worked thus far.
Let me pull out my Carmex stick for a sec,
I mean I can easily turn from life's ultimate fun guy,
To the world's ultimate porn star.

These are the never ending battles u fight,
From the outside to deep within ur soul.
You anticipate that "moment" to come just for you,
Like seeing a Feb. 2nd day, and that big ol' mole.

So as I spend this Sunday, just know,
That tha feeling of being hated is a good thang.
For it means that you're absolutely right there,
Something that will last longer than a Vegas fling.

Or should I say South Beach fling,
You know what I'm talking about here.
When things heat up for like 2 weeks, and then stop,
Leaving you yelling at the top of your lungs,
"God, U're cool and all, but that ---- ain't fair."

They go along with their life, and u see them about,
U wonder if u were just a spec on their radar.
Of course, when u see them, they look fine as ever,
With somebody else on their arms,
Who don't reach ur standards, at least u think by far.

That's ok, though, cuz u now know what's to be expected,
And the other side of ultimate fun is ultimate pain.
To think that a coin comes up heads every time, is crazy,
This only happens for Two-Face...and we all know he's insane.

When it keeps coming up tails, how will you react,
Will the odds overwhelm you and you'll give up and stop?
Will confusion make you go dizzy...
Like should I call this a soda or a pop?

Gee-ro or "Guy-ro", that's not tha question with this matter,
You have all the fuel u'll need sitting next to you in a red can.
It's been in tha garage for awhile now,
And I think now is tha time to become that handy man.

Let me see, on Tim Taylor's show he had a Tool Girl,
I think Debbe Dunning was her real name.
Don't have her, wish I did,
The thought of going to work remains tha same.

Now you pick up that red can, and bring it over a few feet,
Realize that this moment is now or never.
U've talked about it, thought about it,
No need for funky lines, or jokes that aren't really that cleaver.

Just do tha dag gone thing, what do u have to lose,
Somebody has to make a point that this can work.
Yeah, it's just like a German guy marrying an African princess.
By tha way, that German guy's name is Dirk.

A breath is taken, and you now bring tha can over,
To the grass where you're about to take a lay.
The grass is too high, it needs to be cut,
Don't have next week's barbecue make a mosquito gang's day.

U still lay down in tha grass, and then grab that red can,
Which has the smell of some old gasoline.
I knew Rachel lied when she says, "It only takes 30 minutes.",
Next time I gonna put all my faith in Paula Deen.

As u lay, you take another breath, and then,
Begin to empty tha can over you stomach by the sprinkle.
You never thought it would ever come to this,
Hey, it beats living with Failure's ever noticeable wrinkle.

You begin to pour, and pour even faster over your belly,
Now u filled soaked by some sort of magic potion.
Feels good, but scary weird by all accounts,
Like possessing a hope in a Dollar General lotion.

The thought of stopping doesn't cross ur mind,
Suddenly, this can is empty and no more.
You then pull out a book of matches, that are symbolic,
For this is what you found on the Four Seasons Hotel floor.

As u pull out the book, people now begin to gather,
Just like Harry H., back in his hey day.
Will he survive?  Will he crumble?
I didn't think it would end this way.

The match is now flickered on,
The flame is now a sight to see.
You make a declaration to the crowd,
"Now this flame is going on my soaked tummy."

"Phoom!" , is the sound which is made,
The fire is now engulfing you mid-section abs.
A woman begins to cry in the crowd,
She says, "He was my Buster Bunny...
And I wanted so badly to be his Babs."

The end looks like its gonna come like this,
With a red can, a five-star match, and some grass.
No more diaries of love, no more talk of fun,
No more dislike of Miami Beach sass.

Then after some time, a boy yells, "Look",
With some awes and ahh's the guy now stands.
What makes it even more surreal is his stomach,
Because the flame is still burning even as the crowd fans.

He tells the crowd to back away,
As on a birthday cake, he blows down below.
"Wooh!", the flame goes hidden away,
With the smoke being the only glow.

This guy then walks away, with a strut,
One that only Denzel or Johnny Depp could relate.
He sly smirk crosses his face,
Because he knows no one would ever forget this backyard date.

Then that woman who was crying ran to that red can,
Grabbed it, and sped off in her Mercedes SLR.
She headed to the hills, speeding by the lights,
Cuz she's been watching him from afar.

She pulls up to her Frank Gehry home,
The smell is all over her sexy silver car.
A question of "How did he survive that?" captures her mind,
Knowing this is gonna be a long night, she grabs a Snickers bar.

The red can is now put on the kitchen table,
With a jealous stare wish to be beholden by every guy.
She turned down every date request for this night,
Just so she can study and answer the question of "Why?"

'That fire was burning so strong', she ponders,
'It wasn't tha match, but something else that allowed him to still be here.'
She goes to the internet, looks up all these famous magician tricks,
Nothing interesting pops up, except that all great magicians have no fear.

The moment then happens, as she looks at the bottom right,
Of this now familiar red can.
She wanted to have something to remember this night by,
Now she's turned into a psychotic groupie fan.

Her eyes see at the bottom of the can, ever so dimly,
"To be used only when in need."
Those words are kind of weird to her, because,
That's what her Ex told her when they used to smoke weed.

She hold tha can up, and tries to reenact the guy's moves,
Like an old episode of Unsolved Mysteries on NBC.
Then she glances at the can again,
With four letters spread out like crazy,
Like the TV  logo of Contact 1-2-3.

Now she's excited and energized,
Because she's finally cracked this unbroken code.
The mystery is over to how and why this happened,
And to how this could be the greatest story ever told.

That's how he survives, that's how he's so motivated,
He uses this so much, and now I'm the only one who knew.
A red can was what made him one of the best,
This is why I wish this time would have never so flew.

She then wants an endless supply of it,
Knowing this is the key to making success happen.
People know it's in this can, but never tell anybody else about it,
What they go to, when all their spirits are dampen.

A thought crosses her mind,
'I have all the ingredients in my life to fill this can as well.'
She makes a recipe, to do the same,
Even practices in the grass, exactly how that man fell.

With no sleep in hours, it's no complete,
She even performs the trick just like tha guy she saw.
Although nobody was around to gawk at her,
The show went on without any flaw.

She smiled as the smoked pierced the air,
Just like the guy did, now on yesterday.
Her swag is at an all-time high, like his,
This is what u need to have, there's absolutely no other way.

See now she's stronger, and feels super good,
With a sense of urgency like never before.
Tha dame feels unstoppable, yet humble to know tha secret,
She'll only tell, if somebody is willing to explore.

Now she places that can by her bed every night,
Knowing that this can is better for her than any "hit tha town" date.
It's amazing how a little red can can change ur life forever,
Especially when tha four letters engraved on it, simply spell out...

H-a-t-e.


Austino.
Have fun on today...please!