Saturday, September 24, 2011

circle (for dama)


reunion
waiting outside the door (your

mother's disturbing
strength) i don't know
where else
to say that to
be weak is to be strong is to
be weak
discovering footstep ghost trails in
tomorrow's gardens that you
will wander meditatively upon and
around you will be all around you and
there will be

darkness
humor
parity
compromises
promises

pretend
tension
rebirth

and though lost there is
a dark and beautiful bird at
the window and you'll see it
forever and it will be noticed
forever and it will be invisible
forever and it will be heard
and known at the window and
is
known
and

no one knows but they will
say many lovely and despicable and
considerately inarticulate things and you will
listen to them and place them very
carefully upon freshly presented
furniture surfaces and your
sister is lovely she is
in your metered breathing and
the tips of your hair and
your penmanship and the way you
playfully hunch over and grin and
in many years her steady embrace will
have been so steady that you
won't exactly feel it anymore quite
but
maybe still listen to it hum in concert
with your imagination

i don't know what encircles us
like this but we will
always
encircle
farther
around it

Friday, September 23, 2011

axis

far and not beyond the
symmetry
of voices behind glass and
hellish afterwards
towards and not
beyond underwards not
before
that
transforming
point
that
metallurgy of conscience
where
elemental differentials are
the scrawled handwriting
that
signal our unimportant
names beyond and
afterward and here might not
be the truly here the
fictional frictional fractional
malevolent here the now is

a small piece of paper on a teenage tongue
drunken calls daring phantom police in the night
the night of lost
adolescent chimeras painted in
every parental antibody
wielding the accident
after the fact
afterwards
after wards
after words
before words i was
a flailing precambrian
lost in my own hostage
evolution
distrusting each newly discovered edge and

now i am logged and
known
far and
not beyond the
symmetry
past
and future
namastes
like hands to a mirror
very
closely
and
afterwords is
a place i live in
afterwards
we
meet

a tunnel / autumnal

like a strange rain the
tint of your eyes
prompts new goals
movements and
compromise savage encounters
rendering logic some
tormented salivating plaything
in

a period of time that will remain
split-seconds and
weapons
and
reckonings maybe i can
recall what the tactile
elementary
details of skin communicate
almost
ignorant in their
simple hunger
and
i want to lose
consistency
and poison each minute with
longing and loathing in equal
measure

uncooperative as we
sit together
ignoring
underneath each other
at the
same
time

Sunday, September 18, 2011

i got a gig

asian
overweight
she chews meaningfully on a ratty ziplog bag of animal crackers
i can't help thinking: what a rote treat to occupy lost subway time


5pm and the D is pockmarked with nightclubbers like
makeup on bad skin
manicured presentations
drowning in crafted dignity
haircuts: a fine overdose of it-factor
secure and insecure and secure
sinecures of the post-midnight landscape in
ambulatory preparation

these careful personas even wafting from
the rough'n'ready skaters who bumrush
eight orange seats and share the days philosophies
fistfights
neighborhood lore and the journalism
of the familiar bartered in animated
gossip around distant-eyed commuters
non-partying squares
myself

drifting out to a party in queens with
ragged strangers playing the part of
shadows of a former life i am
meditative
squashed against the windows a
manchild drifter

as the skaters exit some breathe easier grateful
away
from their dontgiveafuck

59th street is a disambiguation
grand human exchanges
the pack of chattering impeccable Guyana girls hustle
off to mysterious encumbrances in lovely
straightened hair and at
7th ave i hold the doors for five
strangers one of which
mentions it
and

in the camouflage of urban engagement i'm
a discreet unkempt itinerant
fraud
dancing between beeps and open doors

at the party i drink 7 beers and
sneak blow and
sing the lyrics to
one song

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

what i remember of a wake and a funeral (for billy woodz who had no black pants so he wore navy blue)

i'm wearing dark jeans at the wake with my ex-girlfriend at her
mafioso dad's friend's see-off
feeling weird and out of sorts

days later we take limos and towncars
eat at a preposterous italian buffet and
push food around plates with dozens of strangers
bust out for mostly silent smokes in the
significant and cold queens air and
return to plates no less
abstract and insecure

and a lot of it is lost in this weird shamespace
memory contradicting life shifts and
scattered homeostasis

tugged shirts
desperate teen lust and
lies and sadism and dreams and
contradicted elements

so, basically, lost time

but when i return i am at a chilly fall season
stage is a
grassy vista over dozens of embedded concrete
stones like choked pills dotting land i might never
re-tread or stumble by

and it's me
throwing dirt on an unknown casket
placing a flower down (they
said this was a nice
gesture)
staying silent
standing next to her
breathing
mixing in the gracious family i won't speak to for
over a decade
to this day

unknown in the cruel sun
i could be the interloper
walking with you
as far away from you as
now
walking with me
as far away from me

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

camera #3

streetcat food in a cracked martini glass next to a 29th street wholesale retailer storefront
tourist mom tugs tourist dad brings tourist daughter under wing
the middle-aged middle-roaded idle sunglassed hoards on line for first pickings at the sample sale at 8:20AM
hardfaced latina mom tugs a boston terrier roughly
we wait in line for cheap cigarettes at the clandestine bodega
outside children manhandle a too-small dog and are berated by a concerned neighbor
the mexican bodega serves some of the best food in the neighborhood from a tucked away speakeasy grill
i'm not following the young bottleblonde in tight jeans with the orange freddy krueger shirt from the 4 train i promise you it just appears that way
college student eats a morning cart tamale thoughtfully in a tucked away subway car corner with plastic fork
i read the sound and the fury pleasantly sleepy next to a man entirely too wide-legged testing tension in my left knee
share a cigarette with a coworker who doesn't smoke sweartogod
soft breeze collecting halal smells and fake bootlegged leather and sunlight down 5th
sometimes people on the train stand so close and at such intimate angles they could already be sarcastically distant lovers

critter

nervy
quick in the
woods like a
small deadly sleepy
lusty amoral peaceful desperate creature
scratching under a melange of old leaves and
nutrition everywhere i      am      either at rest in my own
defensive nest or killing something small and meaningful or
pacing softly under celestial looms getting paws nasty in morning
carpet looking for big lucky sustenance or hallucinations or
randy sublime encounters with my own kind or my
own shimmering
reflection in a pool of risky water
when i                                  drink
some and swallow
everything disappears

Sunday, September 11, 2011

bored college notes 2004

lusty tech
breakneck
spitting destruction at
new fangled texan
royalty with
armchair precision
or studio take 6 the
anger sounds sick
righteous with an
overdrive digital
mic simulator
the future is
now
but recorded in the past
time
remixed to death this
track has gasped its
last breath like the
mixdown is crucial
i'm learning and
prolific at the same time
dark glass
reflecting the
sunshine
selects me
to blind while
walking through
downtown I'm
daydreaming
beats unquantized
in drowned ground and
can't find
my studio seat
to put these treats
down

action is
education
mistakes are
meditation
risk taking makes
for
elegant creation but
planning flows
in the mental
preheat the oven
for the instrument
i'll
be
running for my mpc
a cybog missing
a piece of my body
reattached now
i'm waiting for the
startup sequence
till the match sound spent
triggers the torch crackle
spread the spackle
fill in the holes in my head
obscure flaws into
illumination
bacchus initiation
these fractals are
inflated
sensually flagrant
a vagrant feeling
for his
vocation

Big K.R.I.T. - The Vent...song of 2011


one of the finest, brightest, most inspiring lights in hiphop in recent years.  i know no one looks at this blog.  it's no beef fam.  but if anyone happens to trip and stumble their feet here they at least need to see this...call it chaos theory inspiration, feeling the breeze from the wing flutter.

big k.r.i.t. (king remembered in time) and some of his tremendously talented contemporaries have compelled me to reevaluate my preconceived notions of southern hiphop, poisoned by the years since that bitch with a bandaid - nelly.  his free mixtape Return of 4Eva is, quite simply, a masterwork of unprecedented quality.  the only free release i can compare it to of late is by another head who's hard at work in the UK: wretch32.  very different styles but equally inspiring and thoughtful.

don't get me wrong, the south has produced a bevvy of non-artificial soldiers.  goodie mob, outkast, killer mike, ugk, scarface, etc...i'm not hating, but the lcd radio has been playing that BULLSHIT for years.  when a single hits it's throwing that garbage most of the time.

it's a crime that his video hasn't hit 1 million hits yet but it's gotdamn close.

some youtube digging will dredge up his live performance as well:


look at the fucking intensity in his eyes.  he's ready to blow the whole world up with his talent and integrity.

i'll be watching, and spinning his sounds up til then.

EDIT: here's lyrics for the deaf and the rest.  why not?

a mother lost a child
i tried to ease her pain
it's only god's will
she said she felt the same
it's funny how the sun will up and battle rain
as if the clouds couldn't stand to see me outside the game
wrote a rhyme that was kind with some vision to it
bottom line: it might expand your mind if you listen to it
too much shine can dull the soul
if you feel how i feel then i'll rap some more

how can the devil take my brother if he's close to me
when he was everything i wasn't but i hoped to be
i get a little honest and i ask myself
if the time come, will you save me if i ask for help?
sent my mind on a journey to the outermost
to document what it had seen and cc me the notes
and ask kurt cobain why cuz i need to know
he stopped when he had such a long way to go

i saw love in the eyes of a perfect stranger
she overlooked my caring heart in search of gangster
will we ever be together? only time will tell
she call my phone and talk to me as her iris swell
i put my problems in a box beside my tightest rhymes
under lock and key, buried deep off in my mind
and when it gets too full and i can't close the lid
i spaz on my family and my closest friends

trade my materials for a piece of mind
i'm so close to heaven, hell i just need some time
who cares about life and the highs and lows
maybe i should write another song about pimps and hos
cars and clothes
idol gods
golden calves
louis scarves
i do this for the love and it's free of charge
i don't need jail to be behind bars

this is purely art
in my grandma's household this was surely taught
don't be naive
yeah these times is hard
in the midst of this glamor hope you find god
i never wished to be the burden-bearer
but souls need saving and it's now or never
shock value's all they want to see
it's us against them and it's just you and me

try and to take heed what i say in my songs
forgive me if i ever, ever steered you wrong
most people stop for signs but i've driven through it
if it don't touch my soul, then i can't listen to it

the radio don't play the shit i used to love
or maybe i'm just growing up
i never seen a star on a red rug
if i want to see stars i just look above
to the heavens

*
i know you been down so long
so i'll be stronger for you

i know you been down so long
cuz i been down too

yes i understand
what you're going through

yes i understand
cuz i'm going through it too

i pray that you find your way
and all things old become new

i pray that you find your way
for my sake cuz i'm lost too

yes i understand
what you're going through

yes i understand
cuz i'm going through it too

i lost my friend this morning
woke up screaming her name

she meant so much to me
i'm scared i won't be the same

hope you understand
what i'm going through

hope you understand
when i call out for you

to
vent

Saturday, September 10, 2011

rain, bedford park, again

in the random rain
we smoke defeated in the trainstation under
grand concourse and
plot our next move
reduce movements
clutch our bags
reorient
breathe

cars slash water onto the walkway
women tie their hair up and
straighten their work clothes
men pace like failed hunters
commuters collect
around puddles puzzling
the brave wear their fuck-it proud
and plunge into the curtains of current
and the train
lets more
off and

the mire of commuting life
softly collecting behind
curtains of rainwater like
muttering phantoms projected from
their corporeal employment to
reunite in 13 hours
to sleepwalking skins that
will have lost or renewed
this condensation

it's days of this and
we numbly conjure strength for
more days of this

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

seven years old

the day
dissipates into drifting curls of hair and

maybe i'm lost because
i very clearly can't be there

latchkey kid
in the window of his childhood home

watching strangers


i go there when its fucked
and none of the answers deliver mind clear

and i can't pull away
from what i can't understand enough to fear

tough nut to crack
spoiled brat junkie or clean liver

equipping self-doubt

and i march away with it
fuel for clumsy itinerant motives

spitting lies at the sun
posture incoherent like a stolen gun

shooting at the votives for
target practice till it gets dark

prayer for a blind man
who'll probably never know when
I make my mark

Monday, September 5, 2011

signal

i wrote it in sharpie
and folded it over and over and
placed it the static of
an old composition notebook
then positioned it next
to other books on an old shelf and
lived years

ugly moons
writing songs for old dogs
sitting in midnight parks pulling absentmindedly at grass
drinking inspirations
pissing them out in pathetic shudders
furious masturbation black magic
long fields broken by roads
screaming lies of love in faces slashed with dawning understanding
mischievous joyrides
melting into willing arms and

it remained there uncorrupted
some ridiculous message to self
lost in a move
destroyed
unknown
unread
forgotten in murkier ages and

maybe it's what's missing
a wildcard healing element
something to grasp
through xeroxed days

i just can't remember
what i gave to myself