New Poster is finally out.  It has been a long time coming, we have had a lot of hiccups this past year and have a few more to over come.

plastic poetry

when I say can’t, you say stop

when I say hip, you say hop

cant stop

hip hop

last night a DJ saved my life

last night my wife said its time to update to an MP3 player

I have hundreds of cassette tapes I still like listening too

I knew one day I would have to throw away those memories

those plastic cases of poetry

plastic poetry that held joy and pain

sunshine and rain

I used to listen to Rob base and DJ Eazy Rock every day

play another slow jam, that was my slow jam

I would run home every day after school to listen to plastic poetry

poetry was music back in the day

like I’m bad by LL Cool J

or, or, when I’m alone in my room, sometimes I stare at the wall and in the back of my

mind I would hear my conscience call, tellin’ me I need a girl who is as sweet as a

dove and for the first time in my life I see I need love

or like music back in the day

like my posse’s on Broadway

Kid-N-Play

she wore a raspberry beret

Jam Master Jay and Run DMC with walk this way

let the music play and you won’t get away

NWA, it’s all about pullin’ that GTA

RFTW, Ready for the World with digital display

look at all these rumors surrounding me everyday

Marvin Gaye, the way he took the stage

and the way he played and played and made history

the Commodores sang, Marvin, Marvin

he was a friend of mine

his heart in every time

man, the way they danced and sang

Kool and the Gang

Mary Jane Girls

ring my bell

Bell Biv Devoe

mr. telephone man

Boyz-2-Men

you remember when

UTFO made Roxanne, Roxanne

and Roger and Zapp, I wanna be your man

The Gap Band

Marky Mark

Biz Markee

Fab 5 Freddy

Beastie Boys

Chuck D and Public Enemy

EPMD and PM Dawn

Wolf man Jack

Dr. Dre and Ed Lover with Yo MTV Raps

The Huggy Boy Show

3 buffalo girls go round the outside, round the outside

Doug E. Fresh and the Get Fresh Crew

Too Short

Luther and the 2 Live Crew

from Electric Bugaloo

to Electric Avenue

to Beat Street, king of the beat, rockin’ this beat up and down the street

no parkin’ baby, no parkin’ on the dance floor

sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick

Rick James

Slick Rick

DJ Quick

Herbie Hancock with Rockit

Parliament

Arrested Development

jam on it, because when I was a little baby boy, my momma gave a brand new toy, 2

turntables with a mic and I learned to rock like

MC Lyte

Salt-N-Peppa

Dee-lite

and Rapper’s Delight

Michael Jackson was Thrillin’

and Ice-T was cop killin’

please Hammer don’t hurt em

and then, and then

The Fat Boys broke up

word up, W.O.R.D. up

and the beat goes on

and the beat goes on

when I say can’t, you say stop

when I say hip, you say hop

thank you for sharing those memories with me

and thank you for sharing plastic poetry with me

can’t stop, hip hop        

It started out as any other day, grabbed my lunch pale and CD’s and threw them on the front seat of the company truck.  Gotta three hour drive n front of me.  I gotta CD las night, Several Other Sounds by Cap Gun Quartet + 4, from a poet, Mr. Michael Wurster, featuring him an Ms. Romella Kitchens.  Headin north on 28, I put n the CD, turn it up an roll down the windows.  Each note reminded me of why I like music, the way it uses me, each song like a sound track to a movie I wanted to write.  I played that CD over an again the entire drive, my mind dropping fast, dripping poems.  My day ended, different than most, changed, a pen and paper in a hotel room, the ink as close to the page as poetry is to my heart, a John Deere tractor an a cap gun in the Congo. 

I emailed Ms. Romella Kitchens the next day to let her know her voice is art, it is especially kind and caring.  She invited me to contribute to The White Gardenia Press.  What an incredible honor and an incredible Press.  I went to check out the press an she had already posted a bit about our emails and the invitation to contribute to the press.  This is what real hip hop artists must feel like, the ones who don’t get the radio play, the ones who love it for lovin it sake, I am humble an appreciative, Ms. Romella Kitchens and The White Gardenia Press, Thank you.

“The Press is to showcase those who reach out to others through their words.”  Ms. Romella Kitchens embodies this.

Please take your time an visit The White Gardenia Press.

http://romellakitch.wordpress.com/

I read the comments on a person's writing work about a month ago. I accept constructive criticism and do appreciate any feedback though when a person is being overly critical I may not see what that person is really trying to convey. A person was being very critical almost on the side of being very mean towards the person and work that I read. Another person posted a comment I thought was a great piece of advice. The advice works in real life as well as leaving comments for people because their is a fine line between helping and hurting, between regretting what you have said and what you didn't say. There are 3 questions that I am know asking myself:

1.) Is it truthful?
2.) Is it helpful?
3.) Is it kind?

I also try to differentiate between it being the truth and truthful, or full of truth, not just my truth as well as helpful, or full of help. I understand some truths and some help hurt though they are meant out of kindness. These are just my thoughts for the day.

"I miss you so much," she remembers the softness of his voice as she grabs a pot of coffee. Faith is a waitress at a midnight diner on the corner of Main and Lexington. She is Demolition Debbie on Saturday. Most of the locals picture her in a bathing suit and a checkered flag, most of the truckers remember her as a cute smile. All the busboys call her Mom. Syd is tattoos, white t-shirt, blue jeans, jean jacket and a short order cook. Demolition Debbie calls him Demolition Daddy on Saturdays. They both love their son Kyle. Kyle was a bus boy at the midnight diner at the corner of Main and Lex. Kyle loved bottles in brown paper bags and hand rolled cigarettes. Faith and Syd love each other on the weekends and try to make a living most days. Kyle died about 1982 or so, huffing gold paint out of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag. On Sundays after church, they visit his marker, Syd says, "I miss you so much."

babygirl

the light

flickers

the hum of electricity

turns off and on

the neighbors roof turns from brown shingles

to flames

windows disappear

now smoke

the sirens whispers become screams

the closer they come

they seem to yell

“what do you want from me?”

grandma folds her arms

like desperation

babygirl behind her knee mouths the words

“momma, momma?”

like a babydoll

firemen walk away from the fire

like zombies

firemen run towards the house

axes drawn

ready to fight

tonight is blood and sweat

tomorrow ash and bone

the house will always be home

for some

the sirens and lights

are loud and bright

sane yet insane

I feel warm in my bathrobe and slippers

feel the warmth from the fire

on my cheeks

the house crackles and pops

like a campfire

smells

like a campfire

smells

like hot coco

my wife made hot coco

for babygirl

I watch babygirl

sip her hot chocolate

I watch grandma

arms folded

try not to cry

I watch zombies

firemen

I watch

the fire trucks

I try to separate God from the machine

clothes

From a free write last week. The topic was about what are the objects that define you, inspire you, constrain you.

never underestimate the power of clothes. buttons and shoestrings are the things that hold me together. my tattoos tell them everything about me that they need to know. I am nothing like they say I am. I don’t fit in, I just pretend. my eyes sometimes tell little lies. I am sun freckles and sunglasses. I am a glass of lemonade. I am shade. I am scared. I turn from being a man into an employee, 5 days a week, from 7 to 3. someone loves me, despite me. I can’t sing, I think music. I can’t see like they see, I see photographically. I draw literally what I see. I paint with light. first lines and then shadows, I let them fill in what they see. I feel like my car defines me. certified and pre owned. I wish I were a 59 cadillac, flat black with white, white walls. I want them to remember me. I am you. I want the same things you do. I want our grave marker to say, “SHARE.” I want to be buried with buttons, with shoestring bows holding our casket closed, never underestimate the power of clothes.

if I were God

So I’m sittin as this bus stop. I’m a pretty big guy these days pushin 350 plus. This little skinny kid is sittin nex to me. It’s a small bench, this kid is gettin on my nerves. It’s just me and him at this bus stop, oh and did I mention, 4 other empty benches. He keeps asking about my sweater. My wife made it for me. I think he’s snickering and laughing at my sweater. Punk kid. I’m gonna punch his little ass if he asks me about my sweater…one…more…f****ing…time… I member readin a bumper sticker earlier n the parking lot as I was walkin up to this bench, “What would Jesus do?” If I was God I would jump into this kids body and go rob a bank, why wont this kid shut the hell up. Yes, I know its after labor day, there just shoes dude, get over em. If I was God, I would just beat the crap out of this kid, take his identity and take his car. I would stop in the middle of the street and start a conversation with a hooker that I know is a undercover pig. I would get a million tickets n this kids name, come on man, I like the briefcase too, that’s why I bought it. Damn, man, just shut the hell up. I would barrel his car down back alleys and run over alley cats. I wonder if cats have nine; what?, for real, more with the questions, yes, I work downtown, that’s why I am sitting at the busf***ingstop going downtown. If I was God I wouldn’t even want to be this kid, I would be to annoyed with myself, suicide is always an option, I could probably help this kid right here and right now, staged suicides work, I could dump the gun n that burnt out house up the street. I wouldn’t want to be this kid, but I tell you what, I would park outside his bedroom window at four n the morning and honk my horn, letting his neighbor know I’m ready to pick em up. Oh and I would always park n his parkin spot, punk ass. I’d put jumbo on his hood an sugar in his gas tank, got me sweatin thinking about how I’m gonna, well I woulda jacked him up. Finally he’s gone, sit in peace. Thank God that bus aint goin downtown. What would I do if I were God? After killin him of course. I’d help out some poor homeless folks, oh and family, friends, I would definitely help out some friends. I think I would listen to people more, I guess with all the prayers, I’d hafta listen more. If I were God, I’d sit next to someone, anyone and show some interest n em. Hey, maybe that kid was God, ha, fat chance, we had some good conversations though.