music, forms and witnesses

New Memoir Chapter - growing 35

2010-01-02T03:35:00.002-05:00

GROWING 35

last week, sometime after noon, i stopped at the library to drop off some borrowed items. it was bitter cold, and i was listening to a song by Ghostface on repeat. its funny because the song (BABY) concerns an emotion that i never thought i really was missing. the anticipation of becoming a father. as Ghost waxes poetic, i round the corner toward the bodega to grab some smokes, and sugar for the house. nostalgia sets in and i remember my first time in the neighborhood of Tremont - Loma, and i walking around our loft above the 5/3rd bank, both of us in love, bright as new snow. alive, not scared of life. the image falls away, and i remember years later, nearly a decade really - driving my caprice station wagon down this very hill toward a woman's house, who did not love me, and would never but thought it maybe fun to "entertain" the chubby poet nig. she did, and the image falls away.

back to the Ghost song, i know alot of parents, and they all seem so scared that they may fuck it up, so in awe of the creation made, so hopeful that it will all work out. they seem angry that we that have no children take our time, and our slight, slow -
stupid with our lives. perhaps i am projecting my own feelings onto them, but i think there maybe some truth to this. its as if you are not considered an adult until you have children, even though a good portion of the children born in the world are made by children. i love this song, it moves me to dream(day) about what it would be like to be expecting.

days after this cold morning of image fleeting, i had a conversation with a good friend about the nature of life, and what it means to actually try to control one's own - a life is time sensitive, but you do not know when the deadline is, nor do you really have an idea of what your life's work will be about once it is over. when i was younger than young, i thought it would be the overall body of work(art) that would set legacy in place. but when i think about what i know of my father, and how my mother held us together, and managed to get us safely to adulthood - i think that legacy is much like genetic memory, it echoes through the next generation. you do not get to set it. intent is never taken into account.

it is the night after the New Year -
as i lay beside this woman, and write this rough and rude draft i wonder what she thinks of my leaving the bed, does she take me as not serious about anything other than myself. (i often go there with myself, so its not out of the realm of possible thoughts) does she gladly take the head start to sleep? - seeing how i snore, and rock myself to sleep, and if one is not already asleep before i hit, it will surely be a long night. does she think that i may think of her as boring, and be already scheming for the demise of us?

perhaps she is just sleeping, and there is no thoughts menacing her nights. and i say to myself, yes. that may be it.
i was like that long ago, when my young was young, and i skipped along the beat of the woman that created my bed.

system of mister's hell remix:: canto one, two

2009-12-22T15:10:00.003-05:00

based on Ezra Pounds' CANTOS, and Amiri Baraka's novel - THE SYSTEM OF DANTE'S HELL
THE SYSTEM OF MISTER'S HELL was first written in 1999, and designed for publication by Lawrence Daniel Caswell, with images
by Alexis Savon. we sold some copies, perhaps a few hundred exist in its original form. last summer i unearthed the original manuscript in a lock box i'd set up and forgotten about it. so i've been slowly trying to find the time to re-imagine the intent. simply put, the hell of the son is the uncovered history of his father, and how it relates to the "system" used to govern democracies, namely the UNITED STATES. here are the first two Cantos.
-raw.

CANTO ONE

. . . when I came to stop below a hill
that marked one end of the valley
that had pierced my heart with terror,
I looked up toward the crest
and saw its shoulders already mantled
in the rays of that bright planet t hat shows
the road to everyone, whatever our journey
-Ezra Pound

rough and tangled so hard,
paved-ways lost in bright journeys
those sunny roads where truth hides
an old fear sinking
in the folds of human disgust.
when death is hardly more bitter
i'll tell you what i saw.
never telling of how i had come to this place,
shattered valleys below the hill of city,
terror with heart

the slits of young girl
feed family
thats how she learned
(for shock value ) taking me to myself
the tiny one that i had hidden in the search.

and the sinners hear its call
as regular as wind
sifting through the rare tree.
even as their martyr,
a christ with pierced hands
weighed down in the rare act.
rarely do trees kill,
for each line hold a little of you.
a regard still fleeing divine
love so we cannot see.
for its blind religion
a silent monster eats our young
to the motion of creation
dawns fill graves,
for sunlight is for fighting
someone's sons,
[THE] favorite daughter
giving head to greats
mastering to avail life from its own.
the tiny christ line holding
us apart, a second after using
the wrong word for belief.

a line could tell you history
if you had read the many(CANONICAL)
those pages that you love
but never hold in your mind.
but again i . . .
?
what did i come across on the hill?
a strange color had taken the men's faces
i'd only seen a few,
but those men
with shiny capital eyes
held the color of blood just under skin.
strange colored i,
had never seen blood
and still knew on sight.
maybe the smell of tasting bought wars
little lies kept in the tubes of tv
brought us a war, full coverage in bad wigs
hair all out showin' whose ape.

a man asked, " can you know a rain coming. i fell it in my bones."
his wallet had been snatched for the back pants pocket was torn.
i ran for i knew the answer was only his
and he had warned me as if a son.
in need of sowing. no country here.
its a long road for humanity when the bomb is dropped
and our god declares the victim as savage.

there's a small field far away from the picked man
i lay there my face to the world's ceiling
touch sky with eyes that claim your face
watching the cracks tiny lines in the armor of satan,
the world traveled claim/in god
just streets not fit to walk on.
the sound was clanging words
tell you of my madness. still walking in sweet fear of myself.

CANTO TWO
and i passed two men both holding poems out for me to see.
it had been several days since i had seen anyone living ,
no rest, so i stop to read them.
i could not see their face for the hoods they wore,
the fabric smelling of shot glasses,
the old basement meetings of junky revolutionaries.

first man's poem.
suliman dances
death’s wife
her sinful blood
staining flags
human/s often
see it as [a] her
purpose offer on up
feed the other storms

night.
four in a row.
A sign to women
who have lost their men
to the neighbor shore
from it ugly north
the allies red friend
sells his intellect
to the brown one
takes meals of brown
land to sell for more pounds
gives Satan reason to start listenin’
[demo] is the right word
sends aid to starving babies
the children of the west war
can we test the truth serum on that poem baby?
to ussy dreams out
exotic far days
when the nipple tasted mama
A Freudian slip of the tongue
still weep
let it be. strain
let it be then.

second man's poem
it has always been imperial
even on the continent
nature had fun with man
and left that in between free choice
will of mind a flower
hovers her head
she sells her promise
for stones to throw.
telling the secret
to the ones who listen.

it was Cuba, Africans were upset with?
well that ain’t new for who don’t
argue with themselves
the backed soviet must be Arab
just to prove the platform
when money loses hue to claim the heart
moving e w white to not matter in these parts
cuz his wife brought the checkbook, pen
to sign away sins
point to the [sir]name money
and it spends here
where the land is milk
cream of the worlds sweat
back, we fightin’
for the wrong end of the scraps
(and you know who was over most of that shit)

so . . . (god) was
at the gate askin’ to get buzzed in
they asked for the password
and he replied (BAIT) so he was in.
so (god) was in speakin’ of how to make the world
‘ bend the head of the greedy
for they east to eat all the land.'
yeah and touch her garment just so . . .
they’ll put you on their money and you
won’t have to buy in.’
in said-
“yo down in Babel to the tower touch the world and they get no farther,
still more fall in the light of tomorrow today just A past dream eating away all morals . . .”

what is [A]moral?
when written it sells UNholy ink
shell of idea
no moon no sea
a city of shiny stomachs
a line to feed.

BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE

2009-12-12T04:56:00.000-05:00

CLEVELAND TAPES is proud to present-
Veteran MC San Goodee's BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE.
Producers e.REACT + aLIVE have joined forces with San to create a classic summertime Hip Hop album, and being the jokesters we are we decided to give it to ya at the start of the winter.

San's concept is simple - "it seems that alot of the culture is dying off, and cats are wild for the night, like their Big Bro hasn't been watching." With a nod and a wink to Spike Lee's film- School Daze- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is infectious from the start, and filled with glorious lyrics and epic bounce.

Featuring guest appearances by ZION of Muamin Collective, and Singer/songwriter Donald King- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is the kind of album that will demand more than a few listens.
Click below to download now for only $5!

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/san-goodee-big-brother-almightee">FUGAZI by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

lyn(she) -new short story

2009-12-10T03:58:00.003-05:00

ONE.
it was the first time he ever noticed the carpet in her bedroom.
fluffy, not at all what it felt like under foot. although one could
not be counted on to notice the fucking carpet when one was
holding on for dear life.

she was a beer of a woman, not fat, but full and long
the kind of woman you had to hold onto. she was taking
longer than usual, she always took long, but he was starting
to resent her prolonging the getting off. shit - it wasn't like
they both didn't need it tonight. they did, him more than she
NO.
that kind of thinking was the reason they were failing.
Lyn said he was self-involved. it sounded foreign to him.
like someone else's words. his words really, it was something
he would of said. she had never talked like that, Lyn was more
ethereal than that. more Moonwalker than Shrink.
its what kept them together for six years - he was clinical
and she thought he could save her. it didn't take long for them
to realize that both were liars. he was a fool, and she was cruel
not anywhere close to the people that had fallen in love.

"babe? come on, what's the hold up?"
no answer.
"Lyn? what are you doing in there sweets?"
no answer.
"if you don't come out, I'M COMING IN."
silence.

he put his ear to the door, resisted the urge to try the handle.
his knees felt weak. it was strange, he had no idea why he was scared,
was he even?

he heard the water running, it sounded of song. like a sonata of his demise.
too dramatic, it had only been a few minutes, he told himself.
"LAY DOWN" he almost said aloud.
"LAY THE FUCK DOWN." this time he said it aloud.

fuck, he didn't even want to make love anymore, he just wanted
to stop waiting. he was always waiting, all his life he waited.

TWO.
the spittle was caked along his cheek, seconds passed before he was awake
enough to realize he'd fallen asleep, and she never had come out of the bathroom.
he scrambled up, and opened the bathroom door.
there she was- eyes open, face blue.
he caught himself from falling down.
he looked again,

LYN?

he knew she would not answer.
so he kneeled down next to her head, blood everywhere.
he sat in it, cradle her head, trying to wipe the color
he went to scream. no sound.
he felt sick, but choked it back into the base of his throat.
the blood was starting to congeal, nothing made sense.
he looked at his hands, there was no way he had killed her.
she was alive, had she killed herself.
she was alive, had she killed herself?
he looked at her body, and tried to solve her death with tiny hands.

LYN?
Lyn.

he pulled himself up - but this time he couldn't keep the sick
spewed all over his lover's corpse.
corpse.
panic.
they will think he did it. who else could it be?
he was the only one here.
he was it
HE tore off the bloody clothes, and ran downstairs,
checked the doors.
locked.
checked the windows.
shut, locked.

then again.

exhausted, he laid on the kitchen floor
he fingered the laminate tiles, tracing the night when she was alive.
he knew he hadn't killed her, but he had called her Bitch.

flix/er - Part 3 of The Pastiche CD Release

2009-11-02T00:20:00.004-05:00

work=patience=reward=sanity, well kind of

2009-10-15T02:16:00.003-04:00

trying to find more afrobeat mash-ups, and tracks for Saturday. fun work. got this mike nice reworking of AMERICAN GANGSTER mixed with fela. its pretty dope. so those tracks gave me the idea for a whole night. finished a track for Paloma McGregor's new dance work based on NINA SIMONE. it is part of a whole night of Simone inspired dances. i was trying to go and witness, but alas that fell through cuz not only do i have to dj- i couldn't find someone to go with me, and i should work - rather than see work. anyway the process was cool, its been a long time since we collaborated on anything. she is visionary in my opinion, and after the rough draft of the track- she knew exactly where she wanted it to go. spent yesterday digging for records, went to a few of my secret spots, and ended up at one spot PHONOGRAPHIC ARTS in Tremont. i'm telling you about this one cuz i want them to stay open. after the dig, listened to this mingus piano improv record that came out on Impulse. raw shit, and he was a bassist. Peerless came through- called out of the blue, and i made three joints for his new record. i made four, and he wasn't fucking with one of them, but we came up with three bangers. im really happy with them.

got to see my really good friend Chewy - she called out of the blue, and we got cocktails. got up. she was getting mad cuz i kept texting funny as hell. good night.

CD RELEASE - PASTICHE, A Memoir of sorts THE PICS

2009-10-08T05:35:00.001-04:00

CD RELEASE - PASTICHE, A Memoir of sorts

2009-10-08T05:14:00.004-04:00

So this past sat. we (meaning the cleveland tapes crew) threw a cd release for my album PASTICHE - you can download it, or any album out on the label by clicking here -

it was a good night, with an awesome dj performance by e.react spinning a mix of clevelandtapes/fare trade music, then delo fi brought some noise/funk to the mix, and folks wasn't ready. its strange how the city is just not used to seeing a beat set. they don't seem to get it. so we had to cut his set, and get on before we lost the crowd. i was surprise by the response to the songs, i think Mantis and me came off fairly well. i remember all my songs, which never happens, real excited to play again. this crazy dumpling lady tried to grab me a few times which made for some real comedy. man she was wasted, and amber and scott sykes tried to hold her back, but she kept charging. after my set, aLIVE killed a rare J DILLA set. he was on fire and it brought the house down. it made for a complete night, with e.react holding down sound man duties, and Z doing the host thing. Amber and the crew sold some cds and the night went off seem-less. in looking at the pics you would think it was just a dozen folks there, but there was about a hundred there, i guess the angles in that basement space a tricky cuz the back extends toward far stair case. anyway, it was kind of a let-down because so many of my friends didn't come out like they said they would. i wonder if its just that folks don't really care, or they just hate the art we are making and are too scared to say so. it makes it hard to want to keep going, even though we make primarily cuz we just have to- to live. but you want community support, and what we are doing as a collective with limited resources is kind of cool. i'm proud of us.

so below are some shots by Amber, and Scott Sykes(not sure if delo fi took any) i will up load more pics later. i just want to publicly thank the team, we making it happen, one day at a time, lets just keep pushing.

BALDWIN NOTES

2009-09-28T23:00:00.002-04:00

Been working on a trilogy of books about James Baldwin entitled BALDWIN NOTES. the first book will be a book of poems called "I HEARD RUFUS SAY". here are some of the poems from the manuscript.

The bridge
For Albert Ayler, who died along the dubious lines.

The mouth of a river,
Hold the soot of a country
And this city of bridges
Knows no mercy for thinkers

And if it was Bessie in the morning
Then its was, drifting he thigh at night.
So after it was guilt in the mirror
For the push to love weighed terrible
And these angels gargoyle the mystery

Temples are on fire
His beautiful mouth
His sly sugar walk
His tell in of a Rufus
The ashed Icarus
No wings.

And the soot of the city
Hidden by the fog
Faggot call words burst mountains
Jump.
Jump.
Jump. They never saw you.

The call

And for stars who die
What of their light?

I imagine, you the late riser
Chasing a hangover, last night’s
Pages in hand, a cig dangle
Lucien asks you if you are ready for coffee

You kiss him, full and bold mouth
For you are not of Harlem,
Even as its nightstick remembers
And the phone rings,
A shiver rises up the spine
Snuggle the sweater close, the fourth ring
You make it-

Your brother is whisper
Says
“they killed Malcolm come home.”
The receiver never finds the handle
As Betty’s face cuts your cheek.

Times Square, 1940

There was the palpable tension
For the earth too separate
Jews dying. The beginning

None of it mattered
The burn in my heart
The search for my place

I took him full on in the mouth
Rough kiss, he grabs me short curl
And I can see my father’s eyes

To blink, alley light swinging
Against the brick, “relax. I’ll do you.”
Spit trickles to my ankle

I wonder how I smell to him
If he can see my black skin
Underneath all of this shame

I finish, and he gestures to me
To return,
His eyes blaze and it hurts to hood them

The belt, fumbles
My hands feel dumb
The zipper sound of a thousand lions
His hair smells of sweat
Sweet anticipation
A beautiful indecision, I swallow.

flicks

2009-09-22T00:59:00.002-04:00

NEW RELEASES FROM CLEVELAND TAPES

2009-09-10T00:36:00.002-04:00

DID YOU COP THESE RECORDS YET?

LaToya Kent - SWEET OIL
(physical copies available 9.11.09)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/latoya-kents-sweet-oil">Valous by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

DeLO FI vs. Dookie Behringer - DRUG WARS and Other Minute Minutia
(physical copies available 9.11.09)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/drugwars-other-minute-minutia">a cut, put an E on it (intro) by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

New Surah Orchestar - SONGS FOR AMIRI
(digital download only)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/songs-for-amiri">ekua by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

visit our online store powered by Bandcamp@

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT FROM CLEVELAND TAPES + FARE TRADE RECORDS!

2009-09-10T00:20:00.003-04:00

So a year ago i started a boutique record label specializing in live electronics, hip hop, electro soul, and re-genre(make your own ish). we wanted to provide a very structured curatorial vision to what we presented, we wanted to be artful, soul epic, and witty. we wanted to make sure that every release would be available digitally and on tape. (of course we still had to make cds).
so here we are - CLEVELAND TAPES - and we are offering a contest to help us get the word out - send 25 people to our site, and if 5 of them purchase an album. we will give you exclusive remixes, mash-ups and singles for a whole year. yes! a whole year! here's how it will works. you send them to our site-and you email us their names and emails to clevelandtapes@yahoo.com

we check and see if your folks played ball- and then BAM! every week 320 bit mp3's show up in your inbox. its that simple.

PASS THE WORD!

THOSE TIMES

2009-09-02T02:16:00.002-04:00

THOSE TIMES

A good friend sent me some of her new fiction and while reading it occurred to me that this city of cle has so many folks without an outlet for what they can offer, without a safe place to explore new interest to push older ones and make waves toward actually reaching their goals. a live's work.

its time to change this:

so with this - the Praxis Method - i want your thoughts. what would you like to see in the form of forums, book clubs, shows, make some random shit parties etc. - any ideas that will make this dull ass city of ours better for the fuckers who have to live here. you can do it as a comment here on the blog or via the facebook.
let's go!

viva!

flicks

2009-08-30T05:54:00.004-04:00

So i've contemplated bringing the heckler blog back, but alas- DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING THE SHIT.
went to a few events last week. heres some flicks:

when glass turns to sand again- a memoir

2009-08-11T03:25:00.002-04:00

FLICKER

a tongue of candle
a thigh alabaster promise
and we cannot imagine a time without.
where we chewed flowers in a path of crumbling wills
your girlhood knawed by the petty- his a small hand
but you forgive him memory
believe, confused perhaps that sex can be healing
no i misspoke, you were hoping they could accept a gift
the (y) is for another time, for i have witness so many broken moons-
so few of them knew of themselves as flowers
we collapse time)
did you feel it? a second melts
decades, when we touched ourselves in belief we'd meet.
each tiny alone snatches cuz) they ignore genius,
focus instead on their dreams
(repeat)
on what form will i ghost to capture you?

for sonnets are never vast enough,
sestinas do not hold glory
epics?
love drips your spine,
and your eyes collapse stars
a hand trembles secrets, a mouth of tulips
franker than the solar systems
me, i am tiny, happy against your envelope- no enemy
full of me heartlion
]there are millions who will struggle, but we change time. we do.

2.

you left today. it would be the first time we'd be apart. as we were walking i could not help but notice how your eyes
glowed in the muted sun how you held your head, away as if saying goodbye would break us, maybe that's what i believed.
and as you closed the door, i lingered, wishing there had been more time, i felt as if things had not been said.

i can remember the first time i was in love
it was the summer of my 7th grade year,
she was tiny, her hands could fold into one of my own.
what a beautiful face, so muted, doll like really.
we would meet around the corner so as not to deal with the scrutiny of our skin, those pensive moments
were so charged with desire, or what i understood of it. and we took our roles easy- i pushy, and plucky
with early prizefighter brow, and she soft and giggly - submissive. i think she knew the roles did not fit, could
feel us struggling for our skin. we had terrible teachers though so there was no chance for us to be ourselves
we only small decades out of being created so how could we have been self made.

somehow we knew that our peers would not allow for us to be, they already had begun the age old separation of the different.
for some reason lost to me even now, we avoided this, and made our way to SPIKE'S Jungle, feverish, wanting our embrace
held up in my mind, and as if our story was being plot-ed by the Hollywood Maven, it was her mother coming to the front door,
and explaining to me- i was not to see her again. my brown skin stung, and as i walked away the tears wetting chin, i wished
i could burn away my skin, i could not open my mouth. i could not ask why it had happened. i just took my shame, made it clay
to place in my stomach, stoking.

my shame made it clay to place in my stomach stoking.

i can imagine you as a fourth grader, pulled tight, the glasses riding the rims of your nose, those eyes. from the few picture i've seen
they have always been the same they ease into ether, blaze soft trails, have always been a woman's eyes. i wonder if you kept a journal,
a pulsing record of your time, your crushes, and defeats-did you think of yourself as pretty?
how often per day did you blush?
could you see me in your far away did your thigh redden in the promise of their wanting? we(re)
you able to have a childhood bare foot on spring wet grass, double dutch sneak and read your mother's romance novels.

?
at 15 did you want the kiss, sneakily behind a bush, and of the boys of your childhood did you secretly want their attention?
were you always serious? i am alone tonight, and my thoughts drift pages, stories float like escaping Napalm across the occupied
soil, i keep bringing your face to mind in fear that it will dull, that the colors will bleed away, and i will not able to locate us. i know
it is irrational, but i am allowed for i am alone tonight and missing your voice.

so it started snowing and i went for a walk, taking the trail we made familiar, then to the swings, back to mine. but that only made me
miss you more. did you think about me last night? i got your note, and it made me nearly weep. i'm going to go read now-
sleep well dear-heart.

(this is an exercise in memory)
it was a week before i was to be married, and i was driving around trying to clear my head
after awhile of aimless peak oil i pulled into the now defunct downtown strip club THEATRICAL. the vibe was pleasant for it was a weekday.
dancers were plentiful, and after a time i approached a dancer for a lap dance, she was pretty, and had the ass divine.
we started to sway, both of us convulsing in our roles. as the night moved toward the close,
we made plans for us to meet up after her shift- the price was set, and the hotel picked - i began the descent, mapping what would be a dishonest
marriage. really it must of been doomed from the start for how could i keep a love commitment with so much wanderlust? did i even love her?
i felt and still feel that i did. i just had no understanding of myself, and what could make a love relationship real without playing house, without wearing
the frustration of responsibility. and when we finished, it was rather sweet, not at all as sleazy as it could of been,
we treated each other as if we were more than our roles demanded. sure i had paid for sex, but i had provided a sweetness
that she would rarely see, it was not as if i was an angel, or some such, i just was from a different place,
i related a little more tenderly than my role promised, and it was only because i was coming from outside her deal. although i wasn't a john i was still
paying which made me no more than a john. no more clean than the next john she would encounter? and why? for i would go back to our second floor, climb softly in bed
and pray my soul to keep.
please.

3.
"i'm not frightened of you. you all want to go to bed with me don't you? but it's me who wants to go to bed with you,
but it's me who say so, me who directs, me who rides you, me who cuts your manes with my scissors."

-Frederico Garcia Lorca

did the world sprout without any connection. well the earth, although beautiful pushes for someone to own its rivers, hills and valleys
it seduces the eye with bounty. in this it is an act of evil, even as it is passive, its what happens during the push for ownership those
that make the move, become fragments, push a domino down the steps of fate.
it was in the melee that i fell for her. it was summer,
my first year of college had been a mild success, and i would be embarking on my first tour for reading poems. there was nothing to it really, only reading a moderate set, no a short set, for i knew that if i left them still wishing to hear more than i had earned my fee. first stop was St. Louis, a dismal city, but not without its charms. i wondered around the downtown, looking through shop windows, and bantering with bums. there is a melancholy to the city, as if it knew that its ground was soiled with a blood promise, and there was no denying its history.
the downtown was sparse, more shoppy than i'd expected. the buildings were not old, and not new, but there were only a few skyscrapers. the workers i saw, seemed to be more haughty than most, and the bums were extremely funny in their parroting of the power. i made my way into a coffeehouse. the red awning promised home, so home i went.

the place was cramped, and darkly lit. faces were shadowed, folks dulled by the sitting. at the angles the old men jostled for disaster, each atop of the stories pushing for a way into the light. two of the coffee mavens pulled at chairs, wiped the odd spill, there was nothing there to grasp in their eyes. i took a seat casually flipped through the poems i'd hoped to magic. i watched people more than i worked however, and when the shift changed i could not help but notice this slight brown skinned young woman, more boy than girl as far as figure, but she had the most gorgeous eyes i had ever seen. she seemed more in touch with the regulars than the older women. more alive than anyone i'd seen really. i could not take my eyes off of her. i had the insane feeling of promise as eyes met gaze focused- ala! destiny, i thought that if i looked studious maybe she'd notice, and feel the love flow. of course, it would be too easy- if she did respond to my missive face- but i knew better and decided that direct action would have to be the method. i was after all in her town, surely i could extend a hand and make something happen for the both of us.(note to reader supreme huebris: see book entitled huebris)

she is unfazed by my advances and too busy to fool with my youthful excuberance. i was not defeated by the brush off, i actually felt that i still had a chance.

perhaps you should wait around. i get off around 5.

eureka! i mumbled that would be fine, and mentioned that i had a reading to give at the college, "its in the student hall."

she mentioned that she would get me there in more than enough time, and went i went back to my poems.

my mind fluttered about, ahead of myself, wondering if there was a future that i could control. perhaps hope was in the mode of youth, but i was more than just a young men
i indeed had several steps i would fail to take, but that would only be known later, right now i had a daydream going, and it involved a woman i barely knew named Blue.
the day faded, and her face softened- her eyes, which seemed grey, now had this greenish tinge to them. as key hit the lock, she grabbed my arm, and we swung in together. the city seemed smaller now in her company- more in-tuned with the earth. i do not feign when i say we fell in. it was that fast.

i do not remember the reading, or the going to her place, or the night there after. i do remember the cat, and its very unique way of purring more like a growl.
the light from her window flowed pulsed by the silk blue of her makeshift curtains. it made me feel as if i'd died. i had never seen a young woman's house that was so other worldly in its appointments. art lined the walls, books lined the base of each wall - so many volumes that they all stood on the edge perfectly, as if the floor was an invisible shelf.

how did you sleep?

her voice was music, a sound wave epic.

fine, i answered.

you snore, but you're cute so i think i'll keep you.

she giggled, and it caught me off guard how affectionate she was- snuggled up against me. i began to consider that touring would not be so bad.

your poems are very stark, and sad, it made like you more.

i stayed quiet, i was and still wasn't too comfortable with talking or hearing about the poems. it was something i had to do, i had not considered praise when
i began scribbling in notebooks, doodling words.

i think they enjoyed you. i think you scared them, you seemed so old and beat up.
sometimes i feel like that, i offered.

she kissed me long, and hard, the mouse of her tongue ate at me. her back melted in my hands, and my middle rose- she met me
and we floated the early afternoon.

ra- can you stay here?
i can come back.
do you want to?

her eyes were too much for me.
up until then i had not contemplated any of the feelings coursing through. i guess i never had witnessed a woman's magic, or its hold over me-
yes i wanted to come back.

why? there it was out, she wanted the truth,
i love you. it flew out of my mouth. shocking me.
i will wait for you, i do love you too.

i never saw Blue again.

(benediction) i would think of that summer from time to time, and realize what we were asking of each other could not
of been sustained by our youth. it occurred to me that the extreme mental violence i had committed on her by never showing up - i was to do this particular crime several times after, and only now through this love i share with you dear-heart. do i have the courage to take this first instance of my descent, no my self-inflicted demise scar my innocence.

4. or (and what is this supposed to be?) an imaginary letter as if men told the truth.
a play for play of my demise?
the sly treatise on sex and its additives, the mode of desire when couples tell their stories. possession still holds me in its vice
for it appalls me that other men have touched you, have brought to the watering, what kind of gene build patriarchy hold me in, logically it would not be too healthy for a woman of your age to have not come. is there a relationship with you that i secretly despise, or the possible prowess in bed- for you have had some tremendous trembles in my arms as well. besides my logical mind says she would marry you. after just a small week knowing you intimately, but no, that means nothing, for they never would of asked- and she never wanted marriage.
but it is their cocks that fascinate me, for it is the sucking of them by you that rises into my mind, and causes the feelings of possession.

why that particular act. you have said that you enjoy it, but have not been prone to blowjobs. is it that sensual, and special to me that i secretly wish to be the only cock you've had? why do men hold such a providence with a woman's sexual experience. why do women feel they must avoid the subject entirely/ or lie about the partners they've had. i know i am not the first man to have these feelings, but i wish to conquer this mindfuck, for it is the last linchpin of my ill-formed self -esteem. flashing images of one of your men between your legs fisting away, the times i have held a woman's ass to my cock and plunged. but what sweetness we have shared, what a great re-connection. it feels very much like i have never had sex before, but i know it is not shared by you. you do not feel a virgin when i hold you against mine, it is not that you feel, but the terrible reminder of other times, the rise and hot that has always made you sexual, that kept you fucking even as the relationships grew death, and you fell away.

i wish to own your history and color it me.
so the first children born into feminist politics, well mature feminist politics were born 1974-75. that would be me, or folks born during that time. may be that's why i'm writing this, its exercise in redefinition. a sign that whatever was pushing women toward demanding an equality so richly deserved got into me too.
perhaps i was born knowing women to be equal by some beacon in my mother's womb, and that's what pushes me to respond to my demise and attempt to snuff it out with paper and pen.(many folks will find trouble with this).

deconstructing is hiphop, yes, it is modern, even in the growing retro-ness of culture, a conservative push politicians, ministers, army, navy-
even the homemade bombs tearing at the face of Iraq are retro, the people pushed to the edge of atomic strike out, they know no flag, so they strike out to color their sky, to wave their anger toward the unknown enemy-greed. greed acts just as lust, there is no logic, only gain, only the gathering. the instant. but how can something so vile produce an orgasm? the singular expression of joy, and pleasure. if you can count your orgasms then you haven't been living?
hysteria?

I WANT TO BE LES McCANN:: or The Forging of a Key

2009-08-10T02:25:00.003-04:00

THERE is so much about Les McCann that i love, the piano is such a draw first off. ever since i saw Stevie as a child i was infatuated with the piano. it wasn't how beautiful it sounded, because its really when you think about it too powerful to be consider strictly beautiful. its lush and rhythmic - more drum, and skill and magic - its the command center of instruments. for you just know that the piano player never misses a note, writes most of the songs etc. when i got older and found out that horn players- the one that comes to mind is Miles composed core compositions on the piano, made sketches for future work on the piano - my love affair was cemented.

a good friend of mine gave me a piano last year, and while i couldn't afford to tune it, i would play it from time to time - waiting for my opportunity to get lesson. when i moved i moved it, and while it began to be a holding stand for records, it was mine.
enter Les.

Roberta Flack's first record has the tune - COMPARED TO WHAT. so one day on a digging adventure i found a copy of McCann's version. it floored me, and made me realize that what i was loved about Flack's version was the push of the piano, the piano riff drives that tune, and turns it into a fuck classic- you can put that song on today and people will dance to it.

well. i have moved again, and i had to leave the piano there. had not the space, nor the energy to move it to the new digs. i feel like i took a step back, like i had spurned a long time lover just when i was finally understanding how to love.

modo nigga, and the white spookems

2009-07-30T03:58:00.003-04:00

i live on the edge of ohio city, and one of the most fascinating things about the west side is the genre splice that is culture over here. sure there is the race camps- latino, black, whites, arabs. but then there are sub genres- whites who hang with just blacks. blacks who date hood white girls, but only hang out with ricans. etc.

i'm sure you get the drift, but what is not melding is astro blacks and everyone else. the art kids are alone in the skittles rainbow. SO. imagine a woman, mid thirties walking at night down Lorain AVE- no one hits on her, but the city itself is threatening . . . nostalgia. lets say she grew up on this very street.

THE SKETCH

II. she hung up but only after. there were no meeting of the minds place for her. being born here should make a difference, but she had been away and time makes things pass, for it is the past. the street split ten meters across the whole dark of it. lit in odd specks from windows, cigarettes. old liquor poured into Fel’s nose, touching at it with her own baggage, the men she had loved and this smell were one it seemed. and she walked on the corner cross blinking the red of cyclops . . . littered in odd glances the whispering lust tasting at her face, body. the military wool of her sea coat keeping every turn the wind made, in. her lips now. Fel had made the mistake of licking their dry and citystruck surface thirty minutes before, and paying for it with an ever widening crack splitting her top lip halves. she had learned to walk fast here. the city with its clasping men, dead eyes, her face. it was this in her head menacing steps now, she pushed it back, turned the corner into distant music. a blue light pitched a john’s shadow and suckapuss counting his day away, bills in hand. her clutching at her nine to five skirt flailing about ankles, his belt and zipper singing his sold shame. if he really was, for Fel thought he should be, for the woman in her street judgment would of sucked it and paid. she lit a square, pushing the tobacco out cool smoke, but she had since stopped for its hard aesthetic and smoked now for the heat it brought. they jane began to rough talk the man, needle him with the role he played. Fel laughed at this, for hadn’t it just been the other way around. the corner spilled further, black against the striking moon. the people, their eyes bright with secret deaths no man ever know. just simple freedom as it would seem to the dead, and they tasted it gulps from the watchers’ shot glasses. light snow had begun to fall, old men scrunched their faces lit each others’ cigarettes and talked on. the young crept for doorways and the out halls of apartment buildings, their mothers out in these same streets, only to come home when the moon gave way, as grandmothers scoured the corners for their daughters’ sons. they had been born to the prize of abandonment, and those who were not mimicked the former, only to begin the string of defeats again.) Fel had been able to compartmentalize these things that glare to the outside, (for it was not really hers to face while others denied it) for it bit into the very heart of it if she did not and the men who had seen her father kill and be killed (and those who killed only to be killed again) saw it as their burden, a solid proof as to why they continued to suffer. Fel made her way to an empty stoop, perching on the second stair to take in herself again. and of her what could this street have told her? her dance was held in the eyes of these women, everything in them a haughty up and moving with gravity instead and still chasing each other with high laughter. three of them to match the three penny men, their nickel stories pitched high on broken shoulders, their faces lifted with each note the talking grave.) when had she stopped knowing them. she hadn’t. and could not place it. ‘Skrow could place it.’ she said aloud, but still to no one. she had always knew them as hers, but still they were not. and of their color which shade was her? and of their death, which life was owed to her. (and that would not be solved today. for it is not in stories) it was to be kept just out of reach. dangling above them as their place trembled beneath. she knew that she had been here, and it had turned her into . . . ? she had not noticed the almost a hundred blocks she’d walked, and the time stood still for the sun had long since gone down and night flowed hour into hour – the same. a bent man with his bags and junky walk sat beside her. his metal keys stapled to his denim jacket front, and the stench cologne clashed with his eyes, (which he blinked now, then again.) he had no teeth. – ‘ you got no watch?’ he drooled. and wiped it up with a tie (handkerchief), holding it to his face, then blinking. she ignored him. and inched away(politely). ‘ you got no watch. you stuck here? or you lookinggggg? ‘ he turned his head the gray strands of hair on end. ‘ you got some nerves . . . we talk or take. ‘ and turned his head and gave her a sniff. yeah. thanks. Fel said, dryly adding, and you shouldn’t talk when you take. and smiled. a couple of less creative sentences from the bum had Fel mumbling, “what a fucking night. this shit grows on trees over here.” and he was gone. walk.

I

SWEET OIL

2009-07-29T04:37:00.001-04:00

Singer, writer, multi media artist LaToya Kent combines a sweet voice, with gritty imagery on her latest album and first on the boutique label - CLEVELAND TAPES. SWEET OIL is produced and co-written by ra washington(LeRoi Da Moor), and captures Ms. Kent in top form. After living in Southern Cali for 6 years, Ms. Kent is poised to turn heads with her remarkable energy.

the further adventures of gentleman richards - Chapter ONE

2009-07-26T02:44:00.002-04:00

First chapter to the new novella, which is a sequel to my book - HUEBRIS.
Which can purchase/or download by clicking the button below:

INTRODUCTION, REBUTTAL, & ADDRESS
for you.

so once again, here we are with the esteemed Christoph L. Richards, and his cast of unfortunate characters. before we proceed with the fiction, the legal department has asked me to inform you that this is indeed a work of fiction- any illusion, or actual jacking of real life or historic events, both real and revisionist, is on purpose and is meant to be taken with extreme seriousness.

this is after all, a work of art.

sincerely,

ra washington

(we have included Mr. Richards introduction as stated in his contract.) -ed.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"i love him who willeth the creation of something beyond himself, and then perisheth"
Zarathustra as told to Nietzsche

it was our sincere intention to write a memoir of parts, but after further consideration we felt that my unique story would be best served under the medium of fiction. we sought to upgrade the writer, but we were turned down by all the big names:

phil roth
steve king
walt mosley
deanus koonitz

delany was only interested in the pornographic elements of my life,
(wait. samuel r. delany- author of DHALGREN) there.
but i for one do not find his brand of meta gobble in the form of gay sex very stimulating. perhaps if some hetro fucking was involved, but alas. he is gay, so it must be gay. i dont really believe this, but why not.

in any event, the job fell to the relatively unknown ra washington, who although limited in his ability to write, has made up for his lack with zeal and verve. he is not a genius. we are not peers, but i was able to salvage his butcher job into a best seller in several journals, most notably Sports Illustrated Magazine (excellent book review section).

i suspect he may be a complete idiot savant.
so with the commercial success of HUEBRIS, we come to the crossroads and begin another episode of my life. it has been a one ball(ed) journey, but not without the occasional pinch or two. we have decided to call this one-

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF GENTLEMAN RICHARDS

enjoy.
Chris Richards, character.

***********************************

FOR THE SAKE OF TIME: Simone and Judith

SIMONE de Beauvoir: it would seem that after all this time writers would at the very least attempt to have well drawn, fleshy women characters.

JUDITH Butler: that's assuming they know any actual women. most male writers have the social skills of small rodents, so they don't know any women besides a sister or mother, an aunt or some such.

SIMONE: true, but is it really that difficult? the men characters have interior dialogues, a full range of emotions, passions. but the women characters are set pieces for self loathing, or the bed and a man's ineptitude in bed. they are used as foils to show how brilliant the men characters are. like this book for instance. the two main women characters bare no resemblance to actual women at all. they are just furniture. perhaps you could write a guide book, have that fancy university press of yours put it out.

JUDITH: well after my vacation in the Hamptons. i suppose i could smash something together.

SIMONE: well there is a perfect epitaph on pg. 75 of the second volume of my autobiography.

JUDITH: i did not know you wrote an autobiography!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

REBBECCA VS. HAMESH

SHE was running late, as was her lot after traveling across town to see Ben's band - SEXUAL FREQUENCY. despite knowing better, Rebbecca still thought of herself as the ideal girlfriend. loyal, supportive, docile. god! she hated the term girlfriend. she had not been a girl for some time, and she was not, and would never be a lover's friend. men had no concept. friends don't fuck, friends go to the locaql sports bar and shave each others back.

but you had to support the man. support the love, even if he never supported you. besides she hated his music- thought of it worse than Christoph's old band VERNACULAR.
(see HUEBRIS, The Notes, due out fall 2010)

SO. she was an hour late for work after the second morning quickie. (she did not come the 1st.)
but Ben was good, and non-committal like she, and since he was an idiot of sorts and means, he was completely at her wit's mercy. Christoph's ego, really his whole soul lived in debate. that is what she loved about him - at first. what she secretly channelled to make herself actually exist in the world of ideas. she had always felt that it was akin to a sort of social suicide to let MEN in on how smart she was.

when she was twelve or so, Rebbecca heard her mother correcting her father. it was nothing anyone would ever get mad about, a slight as a sneeze amongst the thunder- but her father wanted to remain firmly in the realm of idiot.

"no one fears a smart man." he'd once said.

Rebbecca still wasn't sure if he mad at his own brain, or disgusted with mama and her for theirs.
he went dark at the mere sound of her mother's voice, as if the vocal timbre could scrap along the side of his feeble skull.

BEN.
yes, ben was more like her father and when she was completely honest with herself
(a rare case indeed!)
that was the reason why she loved him.

the train pulled into the stop, time slowed as the dead - living, working for dreams began the final
click of their journey, each secretly praying that dreaming would not cost them more dignity than they had.

**************************************************

Analysis of opening chapter and preface
by CHRISTOPH L. RICHARDS

to with-
it seems that our dear Mr. Washington has taken to a more poetic (seeming) approach
to the prose of the sequel. while poetry is afforded a prestige that's mostly deserved by the actual poets working in this ancient of mediums, it lends itself to prose through its POESY! (see Ezra Pound's Guide to Kulchur)
very well then, Washington may indeed be an idiot, we will see.

****************************

MAXIMUS ALARMIST

do you still think about her?
the candle flicker brought Hamesh's eastern features to the fore, her eyes were white hot.

why do you ask?

only you would think its okay to answer a direct question with a question.
last night you called me her fucking name!

Christoph had never seen her mouth turn acid, all of the color in her lips had gone terse.

if i did call you Rebbecca, it was surely in the middle of an awful dream or some such.
its not as if i wished you not to be here. come on baby, i know you better than to be jeal-

she cut him.
no Chris, i know you. you live so much of our stupid life together in your head. it seems only natural that you would slip up like this. am i not enough?
don't you feel loved? am i not enough.

Hamesh tore at her blouse, exposing her soft and hard to him. her breath ragged and salt.

PAIN HAS AN ELEMENT OF BLANK
pain has an element of Blank-
it cannot reconnect
when it begun- or there were
a time when it was not-
it has no future- but- itself

- Emily Dickinson

some of the storm had passed, but Christoph still could not sleep. he could hear the slight purr of his lover, he oblivious to what she had actually accused him of, tried not to think about her, about Rebbecca, about himself.

there was something quiet in the house that enraged him. had we become so old and scared of dying that we had forgotten how to live. how to be with each other. everything between was odd swords.
tin words, and silence.

oh, the silence.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

A PROXIMITY BREACH OF SORTS

in a four unit apt building there usually at least one tenant that drives the building past an acceptable level of craziness, or noise. nor did they care. the building that Hamesh lived in was one of these buildings times ten. for the neighbors next door - Claude and Breen were the most notorious laughers in the TRI- State area. everywhere they went, and more to the point - they went everywhere with each other they were hysterical- two wee kittens on a sugar rush.

Claude was peanut butter brown (the local madame DEE said he looked like Eric Benet) with large coon eyes, and a perfect Cosby nose. his curls looked as if he had sprayed curl activator and placed his head in the oven for twenty minutes to cook.

Breen was petite, and fair skinned with eye brows that arched naturally as if tweezed. his cackle was high pitched, and he possessed the most ridiculous set of muscles stack onto the skinniest chicken stalks ever invented. he also possessed the longest tongue know to modern man. it furled an amazing 12 inches.

both were consumed by a love of drink, both were considered gay by common folk, and gods by art brut chicks wanting to get their pretty nig freak on.
of course as novels like this go, Christoph hated them and that only made them louder. it was so bad that Hamesh actually considered moving to christoph's place till the building blew up last winter because of faulty electrical wiring mixed with lit crack pipe.
(see HUEbris Appendix on sale Fall '09)

*************************************************

our little systems have their day;
they have their day and cease to be.
- Thomas Merton

the clinic was quiet for once, so Hamesh let herself relax in her office, flipping through a public health journal as if it was written in braille. she had wanted to be a doctor since she was a girl, her mother was, and so was both her sisters. but they did it for money, plain and simple. she did as a passion, and secretly despised herself for it all for she knew that deep down it was not her keen social justice, but because she wanted to distinguish herself from her sisters (names? come on, you not gonna remember?) who had always excelled.

always at the top of the class, always prettier, richer, with better taste in men. she was the runt, skinny to an almost alarming stature. sure, she was curvy, but she was kind of boxy as well.

DAMN, she thought. why am i doing this in my head.

she knew it was not true.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Amendment of the previous paragraph
by Christoph L. Richards

while i agree with most of the portrait drawn of my dear lover- she is in fact quite boxy, and a tad chubby come to think of it. which is a luxury that her people only have here in the states. if she was still living in INDIA, she would be as thin as an ETHIOPIAN.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

SEXUAL DEVIANT AND THE SLEEP AROUND BEER

a spider of dust traced the street light throughout the room, a pulse was kept by the hiss of the steam heat, its counter point- the hum of a neighbors TV, the air in the apartment felt light, perhaps because once again they drank too much, too fast- but they had reason to celebrate.

Christoph had finally sold his radio piece about meta fiction and it would air next week.
Hamesh cooked a dinner filled with burnt smells, and muted tastes- he choked it down with beer and gaul, each swig pushed the nasty bite down his throat. she knew she could not cook, it was one of those unspoken truths between them. if they ate at home, it was Christoph, not Hamesh, who provided the spread.

NOW, after her two bottles of red, and his twelve pack of a local micro brew - she swept along in full silk, the candles flickered winter, it was really bodice, tight and sheer- her face made up gypsy. it made his middle grow, and pump at the seams of his jeans. Christoph tried to ignore the heartburn scorching at his chest, and throat.

it was rare event when they played at seduction, usually it was a late night moan, and rub, a few awkward tongueless pecks and over. him satisfied in his mind, and ashamed in his body.

but this night, oh, this night! he would give her orgasm after orgasm, he would destroy her with the pleasure surging up. Hamesh twirled, and swooped to the anti rhythm and fell to her knees - Christoph, surprised and aroused, gripped at the arms of the chairs - a life-raft on the Titantic.

he was SHINE- he would not drown, no matter how black his heart was.

she asked,
what do you want me to do with this?

she grabbed his middle and stroked toward the sun. he flushed, his heart suddenly seized up and the fire came rushing up. the smell came before the sound, and Hamesh fell back confused, and totally engulfed in the most awful burp ever created.

the house smelled like rancid pork, and beans. then another, more powerful belch - threw Christoph from his chair, and into a projectile vomit that lasted a few minutes that slowly turned to dry heaving, and burping.

when he came out of the gastro trance, he realized that the first volley of gut landed all over Hamesh. her face was pale and twisted. he had no words. again she was covered in him and again it was epic. he chuckled as he lifted her from the floor- the smell of his guts, twining with her sweet perfume.

------------------------------------------------FIN.______________________________
(end of Chapter One)

subjective/objective - MUAMIN COLLECTIVE'S World B. Free

2009-07-17T21:51:00.003-04:00

In the 216, where everyone knows everyone, and at the same time knows no one - its rare to find folks of a common ilk. to make friends across the crawlspace, and watch as you both take your lumps, have success, and repeat the process over and over again.

and this might be for you, who really knows? i'm not one who can say -

Muamin Collective started with a concept - rapid fire critical thought over beats. simple? not actually as easy as it is said, but over the last 8 years what started as a concept, has become praxis. aaron "aLIVE" snorton, and josiah "zion" quarles have made a master work, three albums later - WORLD B. FREE is the perfect summer spin, a drive thru nostalgia and future. it is ASTRO BLACK, relevant, smart, asholey, and funky. the mix is sublime, thanks to their partner in crime Ereact - who brings us their vision clear and bumping. i want to say on the record, in this blog - THE BEATS ARE TERRIFIC, EPIC AND THUMPLY! period.

aLIVE IS THE TRUTH. and its only the beginning for his science, even though he's been building on it for years. original. heard it here first. his spit game is nice to and its the perfect compliment to ZION'S supreme gifts. there is no MC in the 216 seeing this guy on the crafting of a song. he is miles ahead, it makes me all excited, cuz finally its time and i'm picking this crew to do it.

listen to the links above and you will hear it yourself. i fucking love this album, and while i make my own ish, there is not just one book in a library, not just one record in the record store. its okay fuckers you can like something from your own town. no one would hold it against you.

to all crews - STOP THE HATE.

SERIOUSLY.

WE ALL KNOW THAT OUR CREW IS NICE WITH IT.

its a fact, not an act. let's unify on some real and lets not be gate keepers for this little tiny ass universe we tend to live in.

we all can get it, why should people have to choose one over the other? we can all be heard there is so much space.

so much potential.

steveLAND?

PASTICHE ALBUM sneak preview.

2009-07-17T17:16:00.001-04:00

<a href="http://moormusak.bandcamp.com/album/pastiche">for the midnight by leRoi of CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

once.

2009-07-16T04:20:00.002-04:00

it begins with hello, and ends in angry words.

takes the shape of anticipation

rides out harmful, a static.

a hurt. someone must do this.

and then you wait it out

as if a thunderstorm, but it never fades . . .

it keeps banging at the windows

thumping the roof.

the magic part is when hello begins . . .

my imaginary harem - The Aquarius List Pt.1

2009-06-29T21:19:00.012-04:00

based on the lindy loo principal of imaginary harem building- i have compiled a secret wish list that i will share with you. a few years ago, while doing some press for some early blktygr show (ha. doing the press!) i told a french journalist that all i wanted was a

"black lady who wrote french poetry, read sarte, fanon and had a fatty."

(definition of fatty - is a big butt, but not just big, it has to have a soul and porportion to the actual overall body)

[not everyone who reads this blog would know that.]

and while making a list like this is fun, perhaps an adventurous publicist will find my humble blog and make it happen - an actual meet and greet. seriously though, while this list is made of lust candy, only one was picked strictly because she is fine.

So i decided to break the list into two posts, i encourage debate on this one so have at it.

and here we go:

10. Keri Hilson

Keri- what can i say she is the truth. wonderful pop talent, beautiful. according to certain magazines- she

is a composer, and writer of her own music. i am a talent whore. this picture is not even close to how fine she is, i was so taken by her face. wow. double wow. she has face and body games!

9. lisa bonet/cree summers

what can i say- a different world

put me on the path to loving these two. i remember the first time i saw denise huxtable- wild, creative and damn fine. it was around 6th grade, and girls were starting to be on the agenda. i thought she was the perfect girlfriend - cool, smart, sexy, with a hipster flair (before that type of flair became co-opted). for some odd reason i cannot even remember lisa bonet these days without thinking two things: 1st. wow she was in ANGEL HEART, great nipples, and 2nd. she made the most beautiful baby with lenny kravitz - i mean their daughter is seriously fine and grown up now. which makes those two - wow they have to be in their 40s.

cree summers is just fine. i hated her character o

n the show, but hey i seriously wanted her and probably masturbated thinking about the both of them in some kinda nerd threesome. the real reason for cree other than the fact that she posseses an heavenly ass- i love her music. cheese stick that it is, i love her songs. really nice voice.

[don't believe me? check her out on myspace. oh find the link yrself.]

8. zoe kravitz -

wow.

that's it. first saw her in the jay z video and i fell in love. not only am i seriously infatuated with her mama, but her daddy has to be on the top of my "i'm straight but he's fine" list.

7. gwen stefani

ever since i'm just a girl, i've been infatuated by gwen. not for sure looks mind you, but she is fine. and i typically don't even like blondes. too easy to like em, and i do not like it easy. this pic of her is too much, but i find it kind of funny seeing how we first came across her image in popular culture all valley girl ska and ish like that.

6. grace jones

first off let me say, grace jones makes some pretty raw music, and was a fashion icon who held herself to a very high aesthetic. she was challenging the very notion of beauty, and what it meant- and still should be considered a visionary. many remember her from movies like BOOMERANG - where her

power was held in the marvelous line -"she put her panties in my face!" i love me some grace jones. earlier today, while i was loop digging i found one of her records, and its still hitting. i'm not gonna give you the title, cuz frankly i help you too much.

(shot out to the record hounds.) this picture says it all, and her name is the perfect description of her to me - GRACE.

AND SO. that is the imaginary harem list 10 - 6, look for the top five in a few days. the diversity of spirit, and the independence of these women is what makes them extraordinary. sure they are all quite beautiful, but while physical beauty is a wonderful thing, there is something else that speaks to me when thinking about these wonderful women.

strength is a concept i've been thinking about for sometime, here is what is catching me up about it - its totally subjective.

there are somethings we all can agree are strong, or aspects of strength, but when we get down to who is strong and who is not, it begins to grey, and its that grey that makes it so damn interesting to be alive. i've been finding myself counting my blessings and really thinking about how wonderful it is to be here now. so many things are changing the air is electric with change, my fear is that we all may be to busy staring at the beauty of the changing times to define it. that once again we will have an opportunity to make a huge jump in the quality of life for the planet and we will blow it for lack of vision. or worse- authorship. damn i love women.

lil' michael - rest easy, you don't have to play for them no more

2009-06-26T02:23:00.003-04:00

TRUE STORY.)

when i think of MJ, i think about THE WIZ. i was about five when my mother and the man she was seeing took me out on some kinda, let's test how he is with my kid date. you single mamas know what i'm speaking on, but hey i didnt care - we were going to the movies, and i was going to see Michael Jackson on the big screen. i didnt even really understand what THE WIZ was, or the political implications- ma's date being of a pro black sort, but disco driven too. combination huey p, and travolta. tight leather pants suit and the shit was green too.

anyway, we get there- him wanting to kinda squeeze up on mama, puts me in the aisle seat. im totally engrossed by the vivid colors, and quincy soundtrack - the characters are wild, and then it dawns on me- this is a black people wiz. i distinctly remember thinking that it was so wild that there were none of my Aunt Fran's friends in the movie(she was a multicultural lesbian before there was a term for it) and then it happened . . .

all the little kids my age, older even started to dance in the aisles, and it was to "you can't win"

the solo song for MJ- and he kills it and the kids can't sit down, and the parents are overwhelmed, a couple sit their kids down, but most just start clappin and yelling encouragement. seriously left a mark on my soul, for i got up, and started in with the rest of them. it was my first public performance, it solidified my weirdo stance for it turned on the brights on my technicolor. ever since that moment in the theatre art has been my refuge, my friend, and my shield.

the guy wasn't around by my sixth birthday, i stopped asking about him after the new one moved in. yeah. i guess he didnt pass the fam test.

and while over the years MJ changed from visionary young talent - to world icon - to worldly shame- i will always remember the simple wisdom of "you can't win".

yeah, you can't win, but you sure can moonwalk while trying.

rest in peace.

musak, dance, one off's and lack of media outlets

2009-06-25T02:49:00.005-04:00

i was chopping it up with my stepfather last year and he was wondering why it seemed that there was nothing going on in Cleveland like back in the day.

"yeah, i hear you telling about all this cool stuff going down, but you don't see it in the paper."

pops, there is no such thing as media outlets in this town. sure there's the plain leisure, and scene, but scene can only cover so much - not enough pages really, and they got to make it work out advertising wise.

"well they do a piss poor job."

perhaps.

we ask for more media outlets, more alternatives to the shit we get, but when they crop up, we dont support them. sure we pick em up and put it in our bags, carry issues around but we do not support them as we should. and we dont have the money to support them without the help of advertising, and local businesses are hurting too much to use their limited resources and advertise with start-ups.

we all know the issues. we all know solutions. i just wonder what we are waiting for.

governor . . . RALLY TIME.

2009-06-24T08:56:00.003-04:00

okay.

he's lost his damn mind.

im wondering what happened to the governor i voted for? its like the STAR TREK wrath of khan switcheroo - somebody implanted the mindcontrol insects from Sedi Alpha 6! KHAN, KHAN, CON . . .

as if we didnt have enough problems in Ohio with education so now your plan is to shave millions of dollars off the state library budget? oh and slots! lets put slots in the 7 major race tracks while we are at it. i think this calls for mutiny! perhaps now fuckers will get serious- and actually hold government accountable.

RALLY

Wednesday, June 24, 2009
	10:30am - 11:00am
	Steps of the Cleveland Public Library Main Building E. 6th and Superior in downtown Cleveland.
	E. 6
	Cleveland, OH

Press conference and rally designed to demonstrate public outrage and opposition to Governor Strickland’s proposal to cut $227 million from the Public Library.

article about the problem: http://www.olc.org/news_story062009.asp

http://saveohiolibraries.com/

Ye West thinks he's the ART BRUT HERO and other complaints.

2009-06-16T01:44:00.005-04:00

So one of my favorite pass-times is to go to Bank News on Clark, and cop magazines.

i'm a fashion

magazine whore, but along the lines of the actual mags i cop it p

robably equals out to about 10 percent of the whole monthly habit.

(this has been going on for about 12 years)

while i do fuck with popular mags like - nylon, wire, and paper. i devour t

hem upper ish joints like -

TAR (a quarterly arts journal dealing in film)

WAXPOETICS( a music journal specializing in rare records, beatmaking etc.)

i'm not gonna name drop all of them, but i spend about 100 dollars a month on the copping of mags.

while i blogged about the borrow issue i have-most folks don't even ask to borrow TAR. the joint is 20dollars. and i buy quite a few joints that cost that much.

A 2O DOLLAR MAGAZINE!

yeah i know. its kind of stupid, but i likes my reading material, and i love

pop shit, even though i cannot abide by rules enough to make any.

so why YE? Kanye West is an interesting study in - art brut- i'm taking the term here out of its orginal context and using it to describe rich people who pretend to be art scholars to the masses who could really give a flying f- that they own a keith haring.

the actual definition of art brut is -The term outsider art was coined by art critic Roger Cardinal in 1972 as an English synony

m forart brut (French: [aʁ bʁyt], "raw art" or "rough art"), a label created by French artist Jean Dubuffetto describe art created outside the boundaries of official culture; Dubuffet focused particula

rly on art by insane-asylum inmates.

While Dubuffet'

s term is quite specific, the English term "outsider art" is often applied more b

roadly, to include certain self-taught or Naïve ar

t makers who were never institutionalized. Typically, those labeled as o

utsider artists have little or no contact with the

institutions of the mainstream art world; in man

y cases, their work is discovered only after their deaths. Much out

sider art illustrates extreme mental states, unconventional ideas, or elabora

te fantasy worlds.

Outsider art has emerged as a successful art marketing category (an ann

ual Outsider Art Fair has taken place in New York

since 1992). The term is sometimes misapplied as a catch-all marketin

g label for art created by people outside the "art world" mainstream, re

gardless of their circumstances or the content of their work.

ART OF THE INSANE! is another one of the labels the movement has co

me to be known by.

anyway, West is all about

picture posturing that he is completely nerdy and into avant shit. he is not an avant nigga, but carries himself in black hipster fashion - and not the ny times definition, but a more faux-spaced stylized version of it. would the guy go to galleries if he was poor? i think not. he probably would be sippin' on steel reserve and selling crack. ok, did i take it too far? could he be the next- quasi sexist racist black nig bot art brut? it seems to me that this may be true, but hey i love YE, and most of the shit he makes. i just hate that he signs these fucking half talents, puts them in DIOR and trots them out to all of us as if they are the most sincere, inventive and witty popperstars since COMMON left the SENSE behind for a righteous shot at Erykah Badu's booty!

BUT THE GEAR IS FRESH TO DEATH.

i remember the islamic scarf being a symbol to all that you may have revolutionary tendencies. when i first started wearing them it was 1994, and people just ignored it as either as sign of misguided black power costume for the new nigga/student, or some 5percent black muslim shit. now everybody and they mama wears them and they mean absolutely nothing. this is not the first time gear i used to wear became popular, surely i can remember exactly why i donned the trench coat look, or the beat sweater. i wanted to feel like a writer, even in the midst of me learning how to write. it was the clothes that let everyone know what you were into. now, i just want to wear stuff that fits. ok not true.

but close. i do not think its wise to tell the truth on the internet seeing how they are going to be charging us to get on soon. and that will be when this blog stops, and typing will be strictly on the portable. and the only way you may catch my meanderings then, will be to stop by 52nd and catch me on the porch bumping a little Eugene Mc Daniels and having a mint tea.

a convo over a joint

2009-06-11T10:27:00.002-04:00

While listening to the new dilla album- JAY STAY PAID, mixed by Pete Rock the following

conversation happened.

black guy #1

hey man, do you ever ponder why you are so agro?

Me(black guy #2)

nope. maybe its because i've smoked too much grass and can't get high anymore.

black guy #1

that's total! you can never get too high dude.

why are you saying dude? you never say dude.

black guy #1

i've been listening MGMT lately, and i just feel like saying dude. what?! cuz i'm black i cannot say dude?

no, it just sound funny coming from you.

black guy #1

see. that's your problem, you never have anything nice to say. that's why all the women you date hate you.

they don't hate me.

black guy #1

your lying to yourself! they hate you cuz you are mean.

oh.

(silence for maybe five mins, then)

you want to roll another joint?

black guy #1

sure man, but i gotta go after this, my lady is cooking.

why don't you ever cook?

black guy#1

i cook man, but she should cook, you know what i mean?

no.

black guy # 1

fuck you man.

see, now who agro?

FIN

THIS LITTLE SKIT IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTERS -M and J. and the number 7.

Some kids just get it- The Jouvert Screen Test

2009-06-09T22:35:00.005-04:00

So, if you follow this blog then you know Jouvert and in keeping with our regular playtime we made a screen test. she is too much!

A STUDY OF NIGHT SMOKING

2009-06-09T22:27:00.001-04:00

my new nephew

2009-06-09T12:44:00.002-04:00

introducing, Zion Rafeeq Washington - Kenner

blog question of the day?

2009-06-08T09:20:00.002-04:00

is it okay to post your sister's labor pic's on yr blog?

de boo

2009-06-02T11:42:00.002-04:00

ever get the feeling that if people could just constantly ignore the writing on the wall they would>?

the further adventures of gentleman richards - 1st chapter

2009-06-01T14:18:00.003-04:00

first chapter of new boy. INTRODUCTION, REBUTTAL, & ADDRESS for you. so once again, here we are with the esteemed Christoph L. Richards, and his cast of unfortunate characters. before we proceed with the fiction, the legal department has asked me to inform you that this is indeed a work of fiction- any illusion, or actual jacking of real life or historic events, both real and revisionist, is on purpose and is meant to be taken with extreme seriousness. this is after all, a work of art. sincerely, ra washington (we have included Mr. Richards introduction as stated in his contract.) -ed. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ "i love him who willeth the creation of something beyond himself, and then perisheth" Zarathustra as told to Nietzsche it was our sincere intention to write a memoir of parts, but after further consideration we felt that my unique story would be best served under the medium of fiction. we sought to upgrade the writer, but we were turned down by all the big names: phil roth steve king walt mosley deanus koonitz delany was only interested in the pornographic elements of my life, (wait. samuel r. delany- author of DHALGREN) there. but i for one do not find his brand of meta gobble in the form of gay sex very stimulating. perhaps if some hetro fucking was involved, but alas. he is gay, so it must be gay. i dont really believe this, but why not. in any event, the job fell to the relatively unknown ra washington, who although limited in his ability to write, has made up for his lack with zeal and verve. he is not a genius. we are not peers, but i was able to salvage his butcher job into a best seller in several journals, most notably Sports Illustrated Magazine (excellent book review section). i suspect he may be a complete idiot savant. so with the commercial success of HUEBRIS, we come to the crossroads and begin another episode of my life. it has been a one ball(ed) journey, but not without the occasional pinch or two. we have decided to call this one- THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF GENTLEMAN RICHARDS enjoy. Chris Richards, character. *********************************** FOR THE SAKE OF TIME: Simone and Judith SIMONE de Beauvoir: it would seem that after all this time writers would at the very least attempt to have well drawn, fleshy women characters. JUDITH Butler: that's assuming they know any actual women. most male writers have the social skills of small rodents, so they don't know any women besides a sister or mother, an aunt or some such. SIMONE: true, but is it really that difficult? the men characters have interior dialogues, a full range of emotions, passions. but the women characters are set pieces for self loathing, or the bed and a man's ineptitude in bed. they are used as foils to show how brilliant the men characters are. like this book for instance. the two main women characters bare no resemblance to actual women at all. they are just furniture. perhaps you could write a guide book, have that fancy university press of yours put it out. JUDITH: well after my vacation in the Hamptons. i suppose i could smash something together. SIMONE: well there is a perfect epitaph on pg. 75 of the second volume of my autobiography. JUDITH: i did not know you wrote an autobiography! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- REBBECCA VS. HAMESH SHE was running late, as was her lot after traveling across town to see Ben's band - SEXUAL FREQUENCY. despite knowing better, Rebbecca still thought of herself as the ideal girlfriend. loyal, supportive, docile. god! she hated the term girlfriend. she had not been a girl for some time, and she was not, and would never be a lover's friend. men had no concept. friends don't fuck, friends go to the locaql sports bar and shave each others back. but you had to support the man. support the love, even if he never supported you. besides she hated his music- thought of it worse than Christoph's old band VERNACULAR. (see HUEBRIS, The Notes, due out fall 2010) SO. she was an hour late for work after the second morning quickie. (she did not come the 1st.) but Ben was good, and non-committal like she, and since he was an idiot of sorts and means, he was completely at her wit's mercy. Christoph's ego, really his whole soul lived in debate. that is what she loved about him - at first. what she secretly channelled to make herself actually exist in the world of ideas. she had always felt that it was akin to a sort of social suicide to let MEN in on how smart she was. when she was twelve or so, Rebbecca heard her mother correcting her father. it was nothing anyone would ever get mad about, a slight as a sneeze amongst the thunder- but her father wanted to remain firmly in the realm of idiot. "no one fears a smart man." he'd once said. Rebbecca still wasn't sure if he mad at his own brain, or disgusted with mama and her for theirs. he went dark at the mere sound of her mother's voice, as if the vocal timbre could scrap along the side of his feeble skull. BEN. yes, ben was more like her father and when she was completely honest with herself (a rare case indeed!) that was the reason why she loved him. the train pulled into the stop, time slowed as the dead - living, working for dreams began the final click of their journey, each secretly praying that dreaming would not cost them more dignity than they had. ************************************************** Analysis of opening chapter and preface by CHRISTOPH L. RICHARDS to with- it seems that our dear Mr. Washington has taken to a more poetic (seeming) approach to the prose of the sequel. while poetry is afforded a prestige that's mostly deserved by the actual poets working in this ancient of mediums, it lends itself to prose through its POESY! (see Ezra Pound's Guide to Kulchur) very well then, Washington may indeed be an idiot, we will see. **************************** MAXIMUS ALARMIST do you still think about her? the candle flicker brought Hamesh's eastern features to the fore, her eyes were white hot. why do you ask? only you would think its okay to answer a direct question with a question. last night you called me her fucking name! Christoph had never seen her mouth turn acid, all of the color in her lips had gone terse. if i did call you Rebbecca, it was surely in the middle of an awful dream or some such. its not as if i wished you not to be here. come on baby, i know you better than to be jeal- she cut him. no Chris, i know you. you live so much of our stupid life together in your head. it seems only natural that you would slip up like this. am i not enough? don't you feel loved? am i not enough. Hamesh tore at her blouse, exposing her soft and hard to him. her breath ragged and salt. PAIN HAS AN ELEMENT OF BLANK pain has an element of Blank- it cannot reconnect when it begun- or there were a time when it was not- it has no future- but- itself - Emily Dickinson some of the storm had passed, but Christoph still could not sleep. he could hear the slight purr of his lover, he oblivious to what she had actually accused him of, tried not to think about her, about Rebbecca, about himself. there was something quiet in the house that enraged him. had we become so old and scared of dying that we had forgotten how to live. how to be with each other. everything between was odd swords. tin words, and silence. oh, the silence. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ A PROXIMITY BREACH OF SORTS in a four unit apt building there usually at least one tenant that drives the building past an acceptable level of craziness, or noise. nor did they care. the building that Hamesh lived in was one of these buildings times ten. for the neighbors next door - Claude and Breen were the most notorious laughers in the TRI- State area. everywhere they went, and more to the point - they went everywhere with each other they were hysterical- two wee kittens on a sugar rush. Claude was peanut butter brown (the local madame DEE said he looked like Eric Benet) with large coon eyes, and a perfect Cosby nose. his curls looked as if he had sprayed curl activator and placed his head in the oven for twenty minutes to cook. Breen was petite, and fair skinned with eye brows that arched naturally as if tweezed. his cackle was high pitched, and he possessed the most ridiculous set of muscles stack onto the skinniest chicken stalks ever invented. he also possessed the longest tongue know to modern man. it furled an amazing 12 inches. both were consumed by a love of drink, both were considered gay by common folk, and gods by art brut chicks wanting to get their pretty nig freak on. of course as novels like this go, Christoph hated them and that only made them louder. it was so bad that Hamesh actually considered moving to christoph's place till the building blew up last winter because of faulty electrical wiring mixed with lit crack pipe. (see HUEbris Appendix on sale Fall '09) ************************************************* our little systems have their day; they have their day and cease to be. - Thomas Merton the clinic was quiet for once, so Hamesh let herself relax in her office, flipping through a public health journal as if it was written in braille. she had wanted to be a doctor since she was a girl, her mother was, and so was both her sisters. but they did it for money, plain and simple. she did as a passion, and secretly despised herself for it all for she knew that deep down it was not her keen social justice, but because she wanted to distinguish herself from her sisters (names? come on, you not gonna remember?) who had always excelled. always at the top of the class, always prettier, richer, with better taste in men. she was the runt, skinny to an almost alarming stature. sure, she was curvy, but she was kind of boxy as well. DAMN, she thought. why am i doing this in my head. she knew it was not true. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Amendment of the previous paragraph by Christoph L. Richards while i agree with most of the portrait drawn of my dear lover- she is in fact quite boxy, and a tad chubby come to think of it. which is a luxury that her people only have here in the states. if she was still living in INDIA, she would be as thin as an ETHIOPIAN. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ SEXUAL DEVIANT AND THE SLEEP AROUND BEER a spider of dust traced the street light throughout the room, a pulse was kept by the hiss of the steam heat, its counter point- the hum of a neighbors TV, the air in the apartment felt light, perhaps because once again they drank too much, too fast- but they had reason to celebrate. Christoph had finally sold his radio piece about meta fiction and it would air next week. Hamesh cooked a dinner filled with burnt smells, and muted tastes- he choked it down with beer and gaul, each swig pushed the nasty bite down his throat. she knew she could not cook, it was one of those unspoken truths between them. if they ate at home, it was Christoph, not Hamesh, who provided the spread. NOW, after her two bottles of red, and his twelve pack of a local micro brew - she swept along in full silk, the candles flickered winter, it was really bodice, tight and sheer- her face made up gypsy. it made his middle grow, and pump at the seams of his jeans. Christoph tried to ignore the heartburn scorching at his chest, and throat. it was rare event when they played at seduction, usually it was a late night moan, and rub, a few awkward tongueless pecks and over. him satisfied in his mind, and ashamed in his body. but this night, oh, this night! he would give her orgasm after orgasm, he would destroy her with the pleasure surging up. Hamesh twirled, and swooped to the anti rhythm and fell to her knees - Christoph, surprised and aroused, gripped at the arms of the chairs - a life-raft on the Titantic. he was SHINE- he would not drown, no matter how black his heart was. she asked, what do you want me to do with this? she grabbed his middle and stroked toward the sun. he flushed, his heart suddenly seized up and the fire came rushing up. the smell came before the sound, and Hamesh fell back confused, and totally engulfed in the most awful burp ever created. the house smelled like rancid pork, and beans. then another, more powerful belch - threw Christoph from his chair, and into a projectile vomit that lasted a few minutes that slowly turned to dry heaving, and burping. when he came out of the gastro trance, he realized that the first volley of gut landed all over Hamesh. her face was pale and twisted. he had no words. again she was covered in him and again it was epic. he chuckled as he lifted her from the floor- the smell of his guts, twining with her sweet perfume. ------------------------------------------------FIN.______________________________ (end of Chapter One)

New videos

2009-05-25T00:22:00.003-04:00

"For the Midnight"

from my new album, PASTICHE

(this actually went down. crackhead, ambulance!)

"Just You"

from PASTICHE

(Shout out to Darryl Dickenson, and Julia Smith on the cameos)

a time for . . .

2009-05-19T14:17:00.003-04:00

alot of people come through my house all day. rarely do they call before coming, and always seem to stay long enough to take something-

a magazine, a book, (some try and take records) a dookie. stuff like that. beer, mary j uan a - yep.

it makes me laugh cuz there is always a sneak element to it. especially when it time to take a dump. i caught L boogie

on the toliet in this shot. pretty ambiguous i think, but if you look real close you can see that is a person sitting on the toliet!

with her quiet pooping, an vegan diet it is the most unobtrusive poop out of the range of poops.

j. dixxx is the worst offender though, cuz since he once lived here, he assumes he's entitled to the full range of poop situations. not the oh, i got to take a small poop. but the "oh shit i haven't dookied all day and i need to take my power poop right the fuck now. and because he's an alien, and expels anything he consumes immediately - the dookie is deadly. if the guy drink a ton of beer, he smells like beer for three hours and then he is no longer drunk. you get the picture, which is why he stay so trim even though he eats everything. and i do mean everything.

my rule is- if i have known you for sometime i will blow out a dookie at your house, but if i just met you, or am trying to get to know you - no dookie. hold course until home- then dookie shards flying. but at my house.

yep.

PASTICHE ALBUM VIDEO and notes

2009-05-18T06:25:00.005-04:00

live and direct. that phrase sums up what i love about HIP HOP music. its what spoke to me when i made my first pause tape, its the layers really- the double meanings and interactive message of the thing. like any art its up for the interpretation but with HIP HOP if you say - "blast your face with a laser beam" you may just mean just that. or perhaps you wish you could do it.

i used to wait for producers to make me beats, the process was slow and frustrating. usually they just give you whatever, never considering how your voice would sound with the track- its always been a you fit the beat and figure it out sort of relationship. while the MC seems to get all the shine now days, its the beatmakers, who i really love. its beats, the digging for sound collage of it all that is the butter for me.

so the virtual publicist said this about the new record,

RA Washington's producer/mc alias LeRoi Da Moor is at it again with a new project straight off the two inch tape at the Zombie Proof Studios. Produced/arranged by ra, mixed by Paul @ Zombie, PASTICHE is a nod to the art of collage and the once golden era practice of sampling.

this is a medley of three songs off the album, the first being "ROMERE BURDEN'S SIC". the actual Romare Bearden is an amazing collage artist of serious fame. check his stuff out, while it is not the most post modern shit- its a very early example of what you can do with the collage medium. here's what his foundation has for a bio. i flip the spelling because i was just riffing off the idea that prevails now that collage is a child's game, and the continued bull-ish that sampling is not an excepted musical form. "if you sample you are not a musician." that kinda logic burns me up for alot of reasons i'm not going to even discuss at the moment. perhaps i will write it sometime, but for now consider this, if you are a painter, do you make your own brushes? your own paint? and since we all know most folks do not, and since that argument seems a tad off how about this, - when you mix your paint, and make a new hue is that creation yours?

Romare Howard Bearden was born on September 2, 1911, to (Richard) Howard and Bessye Bearden in Charlotte, North Carolina, and died in New York City on March 12, 1988, at the age of 76. His life and art are marked by exceptional talent, encompassing a broad range of intellectual and scholarly interests, including music, performing arts, history, literature and world art. Bearden was also a celebrated humanist, as demonstrated by his lifelong support of young, emerging artists.

Romare Bearden began college at Lincoln University, transferred to Boston University and completed his studies at New York University (NYU), graduating with a degree in education. While at NYU, Bearden took extensive courses in art and was a lead cartoonist and then art editor for the monthly journal The Medley. He had also been art director of Beanpot, the student humor magazine of Boston University. Bearden published many journal covers during his university years and the first of numerous texts he would write on social and artistic issues. He also attended the Art Students League in New York and later, the Sorbonne in Paris. In 1935, Bearden became a weekly editorial cartoonist for the Baltimore Afro-American, which he continued doing until 1937.

After joining the Harlem Artists Guild, Bearden embarked on his lifelong study of art, gathering inspiration from Western masters ranging from Duccio, Giotto and de Hooch to Cezanne, Picasso and Matisse, as well as from African art (particularly sculpture, masks and textiles), Byzantine mosaics, Japanese prints and Chinese landscape paintings.

From the mid-1930s through 1960s, Bearden was a social worker with the New York City Department of Social Services, working on his art at night and on weekends. His success as an artist was recognized with his first solo exhibition in Harlem in 1940 and his first solo show in Washington, DC, in 1944. Bearden was a prolific artist whose works were exhibited during his lifetime throughout the United States and Europe. His collages, watercolors, oils, photomontages and prints are imbued with visual metaphors from his past in Mecklenburg County, North Carolina, Pittsburgh and Harlem and from a variety of historical, literary and musical sources.

In 1954, Bearden married Nanette Rohan, with whom he spent the rest of his life. In the early 1970s, he and Nanette established a second residence on the Caribbean island of St. Martin, his wife's ancestral home, and some of his later work reflected the island's lush landscapes. Among his many friends, Bearden had close associations with such distinguished artists, intellectuals and musicians as James Baldwin, Stuart Davis, Duke Ellington, Langston Hughes, Ralph Ellison, Joan Miró, George Grosz, Alvin Ailey and Jacob Lawrence.

Bearden was also a respected writer and an eloquent spokesman on artistic and social issues of the day. Active in many arts organizations, in 1964 Bearden was appointed the first art director of the newly established Harlem Cultural Council, a prominent African-American advocacy group. He was involved in founding several important art venues, such as The Studio Museum in Harlem and the Cinque Gallery. Initially funded by the Ford Foundation, Bearden and the artists Norman Lewis and Ernest Crichlow established Cinque to support younger minority artists. Bearden was also one of the founding members of the Black Academy of Arts and Letters in 1970 and was elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1972.

Recognized as one of the most creative and original visual artists of the twentieth century, Romare Bearden had a prolific and distinguished career. He experimented with many different mediums and artistic styles, but is best known for his richly textured collages, two of which appeared on the covers of Fortune and Time magazines, in 1968. An innovative artist with diverse interests, Bearden also designed costumes and sets for the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and programs, sets and designs for Nanette Bearden's Contemporary Dance Theatre.

Among Bearden's numerous publications are: A History of African American Artists: From 1792 to the Present, which was coauthored with Harry Henderson and published posthumously in 1993; The Caribbean Poetry of Derek Walcott and the Art of Romare Bearden (1983); Six Black Masters of American Art, coauthored with Harry Henderson (1972); The Painter's Mind: A Study of the Relations of Structure and Space in Painting, coauthored with Carl Holty (1969); and Li'l Dan, the Drummer Boy: A Civil War Story, a children's book published posthumously in September 2003.

Bearden's work is included in many important public collections including the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and The Studio Museum in Harlem, among others. He has had retrospectives at the Mint Museum of Art (1980), the Detroit Institute of the Arts (1986), as well as numerous posthumous retrospectives, including The Studio Museum in Harlem (1991) and the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC (2003).

Bearden was the recipient of many awards and honors throughout his lifetime. Honorary doctorates were given by Pratt Institute, Carnegie Mellon University, Davidson College and Atlanta University, to name but a few. He received the Mayor's Award of Honor for Art and Culture in New York City in 1984 and the National Medal of Arts, presented by President Ronald Reagan, in 1987.

book reviews

2009-05-06T23:50:00.003-04:00

anybody read any nice book reviews?

i'm on the hunt. or new magazines that you would recommend.

shoot them as a comment.

magazines and other shit people don't buy for themselves

2009-05-05T02:34:00.003-04:00

most of my friends, while very nice, and intelligent for the most part (hmmm.) don't really buy media. or incense, or paper, or sugar. things like that go missing from my house all the time. the kicker is the magazines. what the fuck? if you like the read mags, which i do- buy some then. its fucked up. LDC he and i have shared media for years, but he buys media. so he has something to offer back, for my poor friends- i mean stupid poor, not arty poor- i dont mind it, but when you come in the house with 300 dollar boots, but never once bought a book, or a record, or a fucking magazine, and you want to borrow one, or both, i find it completely annoying. further more- i'm gonna start kicking motha fuckas in the ass if they even ask. get yr own steez, and media would help fucker!

this may be happening to you, so here is how you know.

the following conversation is fictional.

- editors.

hey man, how's it going?

fine. what up?

you watching the game?

yeah.

i'm a stop through?

can you pick me up a couple of vitamin waters? formula 50.

oh, i ain't going that way, but i will see you in a few.

(minutes later, then two hours later.)

what up, who won?

cavs.

that's what's up. you got any beer?

yeah, some pabst in the fridge. did you bring the vitamin waters?

i told you i wasn't going that way. you want a beer?

or.

(its hazy from the cigs and mary jane. time: 2 am)

what's this?

oh, that's this new mag i'm checking out, got it from bank news.

word. man you being having the joints.

(flipping through mag)

man, this magazine is amazing. how much was it? oh. yeah its right here.

you spent 20 bucks on a mag? what the fuck dude?

i love my media man. sometimes you buy shit so when you broke, you will have something to do. i buy media so when i can't go out cuz i'm busted i can read my 20 dollar magazine.

you feel me?

yeah, but that's crazy.

(a few minutes later.)

man, i'm beat. i'ma get out of here. you mind if i borrow this mag?

yeah, but what happen to the last one? (insert wimp sticker here.)

oh, i still got it.

mothafuckas.

flicks

2009-05-05T02:24:00.002-04:00

neighbors kids.

mirror

2009-05-03T23:47:00.006-04:00

this picture was the keeper. it was as if i had not been in front of a mirror before- had not noticed the buddha belly. not really.

sure i knew that i was smoking and sitting at my typewriter with a samwich. so a lady i know challenged me to eat vegetarian

for a month. i was salty about it, just cuz me like the bacon, but the gut, although perfectly round, and hard like a six pack, more like a 18pack actually- is a nice prop i cannot stand it anymore. its lifestyle change time.

and it sucks.

no more poet claus!

i'd rather make a tape.

prince and tavis

2009-04-28T06:27:00.002-04:00

last night, while dozing off a good friend sent me a text - "prince is on pbs."

at first i was like -"so!" and then it hit me. PRINCE IS ON PUBLIC TELEVISION!

OH SHIT.

i found the channel through the direct TV maze and caught about 20mins of conversation- prince

and tavis smiley. it dawned on me that i have never seen prince talk, and since i have never been a fan of tavis- i had no idea this guy was the best interviewer ever. waves of connection trickled through me. it was as if everything they touched on was speaking directly to me.

seriously, never been so moved to action by 20mins of interview. and while prince said some things i don't really agree with, i agreed with where they were coming from. they talked about two of my favorite historical figures - jack johnson, and dick gregory. two men who defied classification in such a forceful way that they made revolution in everything they did.

when it was all over i couldn't help but feel like i never really loved myself like these men. and if i was to continue to grow- it would be nearly impossible to do any growing at this point without examining my image of self. my love of self.

and just think, it all began with a text.

even an asshole can smell the flowers

2009-04-28T06:23:00.001-04:00

oh, my ... god

2009-04-21T12:38:00.004-04:00

city walking. thursday. before black poetic rehearsal. took some flicks of the abandoned house next to mine, and proceeded downtown via bus. met up with this man, who was collecting change near tower city. he told me he had just been laid off, and that he wrote songs, but "its hard to write songs when you are hungry".

that stuck with me -

its hard to write songs when you are hungry. time. the ultimate commodity. valued all the more, as we become a faster society. as we fail to combine our ambition with what we need to be sane.

sanity. the subjective deal breaker-

says, we will not be insane. you are stronger than that. and strength, the most unfortunate possession. it has no place really. we just wish to project it as a place to be. as a trait that is atop the list. but it fails you, just like pride.

a candle flicker

2009-04-21T12:34:00.002-04:00

the monsters attack us when we are at our most disconnected. pride sucks.

and we fall heavy tongued, loosing our center

2009-04-16T05:39:00.003-04:00

i have lost the ability to talk.

yes.

i just simply feel like i've been saying the same things, and getting the same answers. the stimulus from discussion has always been lacking. its hard to get into a discussion of form conventions in comic books, or some obscure Redd Foxx joke in bars. and when i do go there it becomes a rant, and i feel like i'm entertaining people instead of having a dialogue.

(get out the tissue.)

but seriously, the art clowning days are just too fucking fake. i do not feel a real sense of community. we are all stuck in our own heads. or we are blowing smoke, discussing projects we are never going to finish, or whining about the latest perceived slight. just fucking weak minded, and petty. so i have stopped talking. most of my friends have not even noticed. some have, and wonder why. i feel slightly guilty cuz i do not have a concrete answer, and how asshole-ee would you be if you were just like, "hey i'm waiting for something." some magic to break off into my ass. and its not like i'm not busy and productive. i am. most of my adult life has been just that. and there some cool collaborations on the h

orizon. but i feel foolish, and lonely. the greatest joy as an artist is the process, but there is no critical outlet to discuss process. and results are not looked at and discussed either. its as if we spend most of our time not being amazed by how much beauty exists, and how wonderful it is to be alive now.

that wonder that children have. i want that. i want to marvel, and be amazed by what my people say and do and are. but fear obscures our achievements, fear pollutes our discussions. we become monologues without speaking. we become jaded along our day to day. Jouvert, a five yr old sweetheart that i've watched grow up (my friend Amy's kid) says on the tape i'm making -

"your turn, your turn. your turn, your turn."

there it is. the babies know, and we fall heavy tongued, loosing our center.

i won't let you down Jouvert, Uncle Feeqy won't let you down.

hmmmmmmmmmm

2009-04-14T03:27:00.002-04:00

so.

yep.

like she said.

ah.

for real?

yep.

word.

how did he take it?

like he said.

damn.

u-huh.

so papa clarence had this cd the last time i was spinning. he was like trust me, its that shit. so i pop it on, and its Prince on a trip fantastic(not the name of the song). i cut it off and say,

" ain't nobody tryin' to hear this right now" he puts out the boo boo lip. we laugh, and the night fades to memory. the very next day i read poems at the Karamu House, and it dawns on me the flippy jest is the exact place the the world is in. NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR THAT SHIT.

AND THE needle skips.

skip.

something to loop

2009-04-02T02:04:00.003-04:00

"to wound the autumnal city . . .

so rare in this age, no wind."

- Samuel R. Delany

there is something to the night in beat down cities. the desolate creep along its main drags, i lowlife-ness to the clusters of night people- all of us looking for something, many of us finding nothing.

i found this- gray sedan, late model - maybe a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the fronts of the modern, slumping front nose, sleek in the target way. heavy design, iffy quality.

she gets out, her jacket not nearly warm enough, his face obscured by the tint. she walks, every several steps a look back. its as if she is still not sure the transaction happened, perhaps she dreamt it all after a late night drag-out with the man. he was there once, and now the remnants of him coming and going live amongst her. possessions from a war she did not declare. she wished to love him. she wished it to be as she always imagined love as a child. you meet a man, he is good, some bad- you love him in-spite of himself, and he manages to love you just enough, and you live. you live, and you take his frustration along the sides of your face, his constant picking. that mouth that once whisper along the nape of your neck -"i love you" - late night, out of the blue, picked from a deep sleep.

i watch her walk. i imbue the walk with story, i lick the night for stories.

this is not her, she went to a party some years ago, she tried the heavy bathroom drugs. she was a booze hound as a teen, a little pot, some pills. she took the play along the mirror, and it changed her gaze. IT. this monkey was euphoria, and it claimed the in between times, touched at the fabric of a coping. held on.

it was a grey sudan, late model- a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the tint was a perfect obscuring. yeah- his face melded into a thousand johns. she clutched her 20 in the clammy fist, looking back, as she wiped her junky nose with the spring jacket sleeve.

**************************************************************

i come back into my home, it is warm. the trickle of the tank filter flutters ambient. my babies are floating in pairs, the plant vibrate as if shown in spotlight. i shudder to think of what these nights bring for others. for me, it is the chance to witness, and come home again. pull my blue felt blanket to my nose, write this

looking back.

manuvishu video

2009-03-30T11:08:00.002-04:00

Shirley Ceasar and the Gospel, Rock Produced

2009-03-30T02:03:00.004-04:00

so after a really cool weekend with the vegan, and a number of my friends, associates and kids of all sorts(bela dubby)- i sat down in my easy chair to watch the Cavs. they won, and the day was going pretty much according to plan. cat-naps, mixed in with basketball and reading. i get a text message from my old buddy Mike Pultz (pictured here with guitar) and he asks do you want to see Shirley Ceasar at the Allen Theatre? now alittle backstory - first off, as a child i was a baptist minister. yes. ok stop laughing. from age 13 - 16 i was an actual minister. i gave sermons, spoke at communions, revivals. i baptised a few babies, and did the whole thing.

i was good at it, my parents made some money off it. i was a performing monkey- ladies fell out with the holy ghost, people got saved off shit i said. it was a trip, and the years after were just as strange for by the time i was in college, i was muslim, and here i stand at 34 yrs old believing in a higher force, but besides that nothing organized. i've come to realize that most of it is the hype that more hype produced. but hey im a big fan of singing, and nobody can rock a house like a gospel singer. no one. so i said yes, and since pultz and i have a similar sense of humor and taste in matters of aesthetic it seemed like a fun idea.

just so you can understand, here's a pic of Pastor Ceasar.

we get there about 45 mins in, and it jumping. black people(37 white folks too, i counted them.)

of all walks of life done up in they Sunday greatest, looking fine and praising the lord. the house is rocking, and we look like we belong, kind of anyway. we hipster chic, ready to jam. the room sways, and booms like an old barn. there is spirit in the air- a sense of joy, and trembling. the opening acts are cool, they can sang, the bands are sharp, but nothing compares to the command the Shirley displays. it was like watching a sanctified James Brown. she had us in the palm of her tiny hand. amazing, and even though her voice is not what it was when she sang in The Caravans, she has the "it". that thing we marvel in when we witness greatness. of course i ran into people i knew. during a cig break, i saw my brother Lawrence's wife Bridget, and i'm like of course! my brother would marry a white lady with more soul than any of the ladies i saw! she looked like she could be on stage with Shirley- they kinda carry themselves the same way.

a sidenote of sorts, Leon Bibb(Channel 5 News) was the MC, and the first time i won a Poets and Writers award for a book- he read my poem during the ceremony! Bibb read it with way too much vibrato in his throat, but whatever. when i tried to shake his hand after the award presentation, he walked away saying, "alright YOUNG MAN! ALRIGHT NOW". just like that- the quiet alright, followed by the booming diss. hilarious.

i really missed Pultz. i guess all the struggle making BLKtygr work out took its toll so we rarely see each other after almost 4 yrs of everyday. but we fell in like we never missed a beat. fell in and had that duo magic. too many memories for a man as young as me. the ghosts haunt me. i call their names sometimes in the fright of sleep- wait for them to hail me back. they do sometimes, but the regrets come more often than hellos. i wish for silence in my head, a tear is falling now, so i guess this post has done its job.

night.

photoGs

2009-03-30T01:52:00.008-04:00

aLIVE, Jeff Dixxx, DelO FI

michael ocampo

jose luna

ghost image of js makkos

Bumpy Johnson video - BLK.fiction LP

2009-03-26T01:50:00.003-04:00

Tape DELAY, DELAY, DEALY *(lol. delo fi for the title for this post)

2009 has started with a bang. so news and notes will be forthcoming. i was spending all day yesterday filing out grant papers, and stressing over paperwork. trying to juggle the little cash flow, with the potential of a few years hardwork. ever since i was a young boy i wanted to be an artist. now after all these years, it still feels new, and fun. the challenge to improve always at the forfront of my mind. it seems cliche, but its so true- you have to think about how you grow, or its just the same shit. i dont ever want to be to th

e point where i cannot learn anything because we all know what happens when that mindset drapes over the creative windows.

above is the cover for the BLK.fiction record. i've been going back and forth about the cover, but this is it. no words, just image, and liner notes on back sleeve. thoughts? i think its funny, and sweet and creepy. and it fits the feel of the record, but we have been so wrong before.

the main release for CLEVELAND TAPES is LaToya Kent's SWEET OIL. a thirty minute soul/electro/beatific angel record. she sounds absolutely wonderful. i'm proud of the weighty lyrics and music. its the best beats i've ever made.

i think its important that we put forth images of us as thinking, soulful folk. and that she puts across a real woman vibe, cuz that's what she is. none of that poor baby patriarchal sex kitten shit, but a woman with layers, and thoughts and triumphs and mistakes, and confidence, and self doubt. the everything that makes us love women. i feel like for the first time i have women around me as family, friends, and lover(l.dook) that are trying to be full- having real lives. AMAZING. maybe they were always there, but i was too sick, and silly to see them. yeah, that feels more true.

my heart is heavy with the knowledge of my manhood, and all its fails to be. i want to be better. no DELAY, just TAPE HISS.

i will leak toy's cover soon. and a couple of her videos.

labor song loop

2009-03-19T06:28:00.002-04:00

the above loop is-

part of a series of 3 moving paintings i'm working on for the fact.co.london ArtMakers Fest in June. the actress in the video is my mother. she is such a ham! lol. so the idea is the paintings will be view on 24 inch flatscreens with original music soundtracks that you have the option to listen to, but they cannot be viewed/listened to at the same time. i think that impacts the viewing some with a few arbitrary rules. i participated at this fest in 2001, and i had to fly there right before 9/11. my film, "and he came before sweet Jesus" totally panned so i'm surprised they asked me back. word to the wise - you cannot make a good film by yourself, and have amateur actors too. you have to pick, one or the other cuz if you have to do all the technical jobs, you can direct the actors very well. hence the no amateur rule.

minute minutia + why can't i pick fucker!

2009-03-19T04:27:00.003-04:00

i've been busy the last few days. busy is not something that i actually despise per se, but this kind of busy is based on the needs of more than I. a difficult concept for the individual. when i was a boy, there was an intense lonely, not like i was left in some trailer park for dead, but just a certain aloneness that i remember was very potent. it remains my strongest memory of my childhood. hours and hours of playing alone.

hours of literally not being interacted with. free to not engage in reality, my imaginary life was rich with characters, and animated toys, stuffed animals, action figures etc.

it wasn't until my mother got hitched again did i realize what i had actually been given. that time alone had fostered an ability to focus intensely for long periods of time on my own agenda. there was no one to share toys, or space with- by the time my siblings were born- i was a very private person. i felt that if you could not gleam what i was up to, then you were probably stupid, and did not deserve my time. i still feel that. but i'm trying to do better.

what the fuck am i trying to say? focus, damn you. the flood of what i wish to say versus the skill to say it.

so i'm trying this new you tube feature on my sidebar. if you refresh the page a few times, it will show featured videos from my you tube channel. i cant figure out why you tube insists on looping between its own picked content and my channel- something is fucked in the coding of the application, but alas.

L dookie let me use her exercise bike, so i could petal why watching basketball. i rode it last night, excellent - i couldn't even tell i was actually exercising. watch basketball while riding stationary- it just may work.

VERS LIBRE

2009-03-16T01:46:00.003-04:00

*EVEN IF

you know the subject, a writer must provide herself/himself the room to not know, to discover upon careful consideration the "thing" haunting them. it is then, when combined with the individual heart, or mind song that the living poem is created. everything else is abstraction, and however well considered will not speak to the soul of the reader/listener - and therefore will burn away from page and memory after(upon) the initial sharing.

you will read it aloud. and it will vanish. the audience may remember how well(or not) it was performed. the audience may even remember lines, or memorable phrases. but it will not last in time. it will cease to exist until performed again.

QOUTE -

criticism is not a circumscription of a set of prohibitions. it provides a fixed point/s of departure. it may startle a dull reader into alertness.

lets deal with the notion of the "dull" reader-

while Ezra Pound wrote the above in 1911 - the qoute is more relevant now than ever. the advancement of technology has placed close reading at a premium.

(just so that you are aware, the strategy call "close reading" was used by a racist and sexist academy to keep people of color, and women out.)

we are not discussing in this essay the historic New Critics, but the absolute nature of a strict "dialogue" with a text. reading cover to cover. leaving your subjective interpretation at home with Granny's Bible, and gleaning all that you need to critique/understand a piece of writing to the actual words written. no metaphor, no allusion brought in by you- the reader.

(we could go on, but i trust you to make bridges where i cannot dear reader! dialogue!)

since schools are vastly underfunded, understaffed etc. - the miles of intellectual fabric- the stuff that made American Modernism such a force of nature was the strength/existence of the public intellectual. the schools of (wo)men who worked with their hands being closet bibliophiles. entertainment was reading. the world wanted to be modern, and so ideas were Manna. it was that love of reading that made its way down the rabbitthole of the generati so to speak. the list, although Canonical for the most part is a world treasure, and spans the last century. when you toss in a world perspective of this list it begins to overwhelm you(today's seeker) in regards to what/who you should read.

*(bonus question - worth 50 meta-points)

who do you read first? Beckett, Borges, Joyce, or Pound? wait? Cervantes?

many hold the false notion that one must read everything "important". this is a dangerous conceit, and although there is some merit in the sentiment it is sentiment, and sets up a faux barrier for most readers, and allows for old academic definitions to play.

what happens then is -

generations of new writers(keyword NEW) come, but the new reader dwindles leaving fewer folks to sustain the new writer, who becomes jaded by the lack of readership, which breeds a lack of publishing opportunities. which keeps "old" voices in power.

BOOM.

it always comes back to power, but that is another essay, a fight for another sun.

in the limited public imagination and destroys any potential for a new list represented by the diversity of this, a new century. of course this is the simplified argument/timeline, of course there are other concerns, but the fact of the matter is-

the less readers, the less good writers

the less good writers, the less good writing

the less good writing, the less good and interested readers

the less readers, the less publications that publish new writing.

the less publications, a lessor public voice.

a lessor public voice, a democracy, a republic shifts

the shift brings world contempt.

greed, faux Presidents . . .

what must a new writer do?

*(bonus question answer)

depends on if you wish to have a history lesson as well.

if you reading strictly for pleasure- the choice is yours.

if you are reading in a linear fashion, i.e. historically driven - Pound, for Dear silly Ezra discover, and supported at least 15 writers on "THE CANONICAL LIST".

15!

and you can't even support one.

shame, shame.

UPCOMING SHOWS

2009-03-16T00:03:00.003-04:00

CLEVELAND MUSEUM of ART

Presents

BLACK POETIC - Return of the Queen

Friday, March 20th

7pm

CMA Classroom Auditorium

11150 East Blvd.

FREE SHOW

Since 1994, BLACK POETIC has been at the cutting edge of performance poetry and avant theater- CMA continues a long tradition of "FREE 4 ALL" community readings that are fre to the public, and present the notion that community and art need no

t be for the well off. BLACK POETIC Founding Member Ebani Edwards will be the featured performer for the evening and will present a section of her incredible one woman show - THE BODY.

the danger of love: or something else is it?

2009-03-12T18:11:00.003-04:00

forget what you want your life to be.

she said.

he answered,

why, if you don't dream it will never happen.

but dreams are not doing. its just theory. its always theory with you.

she said.

and mumbled,

that's what we are here for. to strive, to want more.

more than you already have? why is it that men want more than they already have? can you explain what your mother did to you to make you covet?

she looked at her shoes. her face flushing.

its not that i want more than i have. its . . . don't you ever feel like you missing out on something special?

he asked, and tried to grab her hand.

babe, you are always looking, thinking you are missing out on something. and you are missing out. you just don't see it.

she pulled away, she did not want him to see her face.

what am i missing out on? you tell me, since you have all the answers!

his anger made his face turn ugly.

she turns toward him, shaking her head,

you are missing out on me. on us.

The Further Adventures of Gentleman Richards- sequel to HUEbris

2009-03-12T09:34:00.004-04:00

Christoph L. Richards

so a few years ago i wrote a small novella called HUEbris. it began as an idea to do a fictional character about Lawrence Daniel Caswell- and ended up being nothing that resembled him

(even though we told people it did to sell books! hee.)

it was kind a popular, and bunch of folk read it and actually told me they had. that never happens, so it was cool. and i loved the idea of a book that makes fun of the author by having the character critique the goings on. plus we had guest appearances by dead and famous figures- who would talk shit too.

here is chapter one of the sequel -

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF GENTLEMAN RICHARDS

feedback is cool- this is a first draft, and since im still working on it,

to quote ERYKAH BADU - I'm sensitive about my shit.

hee.

haw.

p.s. - if you have read HUEbris- this is a drawing of the Ball event toward the beginning.

suffer the vanguard youth

2009-03-10T01:34:00.003-04:00

after Vernacular practice, i sat back and listened to a few records, hoping to catch a sample or four- thinking about all the wonderful musicians that have made records, thinking of a jazz cats nightlife- of the mystical voyage of Archie Shepp's record- SONGS FOR MY PEOPLE. all of that made me want to listen to Madlib.

a true genius when it comes to the beats, Madlib lives for the dig, the search- but more than that it seems from afar that fear, or rejection never factors in. he knows that an artist is judged by the body of work, not the one off. this is a philosophy that is not celebrated in the instant world we live in.

STORY:

a little boy is playing with a balloon, it lasts all afternoon, and the boy never contemplates that it might burst. he is enraptured by the balloon, the float, and come down, the fragility of air. it is magic, and he wields its journey. the balloon bursts. the boy cries. his mother picks up the deflated body of the balloon, puts one end on her index finger, pull back on the tatter end.

she shoots, the boy laughs, and tries to do it. he cannot at first, but as his tears dry in the late afternoon glow, he gets it. tragedy is averted, definitions are re-worked.

********************************************

Madlib reworks definitions. he is of a generation that was birthed under the boom bap. what makes him special though is his understanding of history and folklore. history is a mighty palate. those who ignore it suffer the vanguard youth. make war out of flowers, deny progress for fear. they are relicts of a far gone animalism. they are my enemy.

and the needle hits the record.

take a bow lesbians, a standing O is coming.

2009-03-09T04:56:00.005-04:00

its over, six years of groundbreaking soap opera - does the bow out.

Fin.

there is a lot that will be said, written, and argued about L Word.

most of it will be praise, some of it will be criticism. a few will be questions. while i'm not really interested in the aftermath i feel its my duty to put my toe in the water, and swirl a bit.

six years, and i've been watching from the beginning. it began as a way to bond with a girlfriend. the same happened with Sex in the City. a woman i was sleeping with asked me to watch it, i did and fell in. and you know what in-spite of myself i did not fight the love affair. either time. good TV is good TV. and im a fan of good TV. when it began, of course the main thrust of the buzz was its historic nature- the first television program about lesbians, made by lesbians. the actresses are not lesbians, they dont need to be. if you are making a series about black inner city youth the actors must be black, but they do not have to be from the inner city.

the line the show toed is what made it so intriguing, simply because there was no way to tell. unless you are told. you can speculate about a human being's sexuality all you want, but you don't know unless they tell you, or you have sex with them. period. the show dealt with all things lesbian, and gay and transgendered. its strength was in the portrayal, in the grace in which it dealt with hetro issues. the questions the show raised about fidelity, and lust. family and love. law and justice. INJUSTICE.

the women were hot. are lesbians hot? some are, some are not. but this show had powerful, beautiful women with means as its palate. some folks felt it was unrealistic. lesbians are not like this in the real world. the show's creator is a lesbian. she had to get the material from somewhere. i wrote last week that i watched the show because of Jennifer Beals. truth is it was her for the first one, and after that, it was the writing. oh the writing! its rare for modern art to know what it is. be what it is, and be fine with that. the show was a soap opera, but it knew this, and tried to make the soap a sonnet. and for six seasons it largely succeeded.

the series finale was tonight. i watched, wondering how they were going to wrap up something so sublime?

damn JENNY!

how would they end such an intricate tale? then i realized the point was not how the drama would end. it would end servicing the season. it would end with possibilities. for those of you who never watched the show, this post will me nothing, but for those of you that have seen it

- JENNY!

jesus, there is one character who always made me cringe, but at the same time want her. i despised her and i pulled for her. she was a mess, but given a chance i would like to be her.

(strange but hey.)

Mia Kirshner put on a remarkable series long performance that should go down as one of the best single performances in tv history. when we meet her, she is a confused young writer, trying to forget a history of neglect and molestation while in a hetro relationship with a decent man.

after six seasons we find her, most assuredly gay, rich, successful - with a diabolic, and self righteous streak of pure evil. she is the devil and we love her for it. no one wants to be the enemy. we loathe and are excited by the prospect of ID. we lust after the bravado it takes to hurt people, but we are confused by the juxtaposition of it all.

this post reminds me of being in the 5th grade, and being suspended from school for punching the gym teacher(seriously, and i knocked his old ass down too) and being made to watch my mother's soap operas with her. her favs at the time. the ABC midday dramas - ALL MY CHILDREN, and ONE LIFE TO LIVE. the joy on her face as she played the plots through her mind finding cracks in the mystery, the closeness i felt to be in the know.

yeah. i guess i'm in the know. and i thank you for that.

cheers.

lets riff . . .

2009-03-08T06:29:00.003-04:00

so in my last post i made fun of Sting, so i figured

i should continue the strand, and talk about my favorite Sci Fi movie- that has Sting- DUNE.

okay, stop laughing. for those in the know, DUNE is one of the most sublime meditations on power ever written(of course i read the book dummies!) and the movie is a classic. i remember the first time i saw the book- i was about 9 yrs old and i was finger a stack of library books my stepfather had. he was in the army so anytime he went to the field for training he would have my mom pick up a stack of books from a list he kept in his wallet. he was always jotting down little line and lists in a small steno notebook he kept in his stinky brown wallet. i was enthralled by the cover, and the title had me going. i thought i could read it, by that time i was not afraid of adult books - just sound it out baby- it was like a mantra to me. sometimes when i close my eyes after all these years i think i hear her saying it.

my parents were readers, most people who believe in stinky icky are- ok- this is no longer the case, but at one point in our culture it was true. i never understood the simple-mindedness of the politicians and lawmakers showed with the criminalization of the plant. Sting, though not a trained actor, was marvelous in the movie.

his character, FEYD has to go down as one of the most physical bad guys to ever grace the golden screen.

"i'll fight him. i'll kill him"

he also had the same sexy/creepy vibe to his character as Rutger Hauer show us to marvelous effect in BLADE RUNNER.

i really want a pair of underpants like the ones above. i think it would give me a totally different appreciation for functional briefs- although i hate tighty whiteys! boxer briefs, now that a different story. while i was djing tonight, i realized that BLADE RUNNER held some truth to it. just think of the concept of the artificial elements in a cyborg- and you will then realize why Replicants exist in real life.

teddy vs. serge - a conversation

2009-03-06T13:51:00.004-05:00

i refuse to believe that anyone reading this will not know who Teddy Pendergrass is. its possible you will not know Serge Gainsbourg- although any hipster worth her/his weight in beer will claim to know. the funny thing is i knew nothing of Serge until Lawrence played me some of Historie de Melody Nelson (google it). but i loved teddy. a folk hero to me, powerful, sexy and a damn right killer of gamble and huff written songs.

so here is an imaginary conversation with these two polar opposites.

-----------------------------------------------

TEDDY:

i love your whisper. are all french men so stylish?

SERGE:

we are lovers and cowards. it is what gives us style. and wine. and french bootie!

TEDDY:

when i was in Paris in '77, we stayed at the Beat Hotel- what a historic place.

(singing voice deep and husky)

can you woo - woo -woo! ahhhh, woo-woo-wooooooooooo.

SERGE:

beautiful. i always wanted to sing like that. Jane would totally love to have your member in her lush mouth. magic.

TEDDY:

i love white women! can she take it?

SERGE:

what do you mean? she is my wife! of course she can coddle your african-ness.

TEDDY:

didn't you write the song Roxanne for that english bloke Stingy?

SERGE:

oh, you mean De Police? the blonde nazi fella? NO, i would never write something as trite as that song.

TEDDY:

AND I would never keep a woman from her work! what a groove though. what does he say?

ROXANNE YOU DON'T HAVE TO IRON THAT DRESS TONIGHT. PUT ON THE NIGHTLIGHT! PUT ON THE NIGHTLIGHT!

SERGE:

YES. something like that. he has tantric abilities you know.

TEDDY:

what?

SERGE:

he can fuck without coming, but he spiritually comes.

TEDDY:

sounds like a mime job to me.

r. kelly's first young girl and vampires (hmmm)

2009-03-04T02:50:00.000-05:00

after a night of heavy drinking with aLIVE(aaron)- i made a

beat, fed the turtles, and proceeded to watch a really bad vampire

movie- queen of the damned starring Aaliyah. funny thing about this very talented woman is i totally remember being about 19, and visiting my mothers house, where i spent the afternoon watching music videos with my sister Ashley. it was during this haze of black pop gum/nilly musaks that i first witnessed the only 14, or 15 yr old Aaliyah perform in her video for the R Kelly produced song "back and forth". monopoly money to anyone who remembers this song! it had a nice backbeat groove, and the rapist known for being TRAPPED IN A CLOSET looked down right creepy.

my sis told me that they were married too. i never have been able to find out if this was urban myth, or a fucking chi-town fact.(kelly is from Chicago. im so witty!) so watching this movie brought a flood of

funny memories back,

and actually had me feeling a little weepy after. not because the movie was just that moving. it was not, but that time was exciting. it was my first year of college, and the freedom that i had coveted growing up was paying dividends. i was reading my poems, touring, and working on stories. meeting amazing people from across the globe. it was during this time that nearly everything was full of promise, and curiosity was my friend, my confidant.

while my ladyfriend loves horror movies of all ilk, i am not a huge fan. i scare too easy, and dont particularly like gore. she seems to not be bothered. but occasional i find myself watching a horror movie while i'm alone as a way to connect to her. i wonder if any of you do this with lovers. i wont go down that road, but feel free to comment if you feel it. Aaliyah was a beautiful young woman, who was in the middle of grand opening of sorts. it seemed that the star was the limit for this amazing talent, and as it tends to happen with young "stars", her handlers taste was being measured by her own interests.

queen of the damned does not compare to any good horror movies of course. and as vampire movies go i would imagine that i falls way short if a list was to be made. GANJA and HESS would have to be in the top ten. if it wasn't - it would surely be some type of filmic racism! emperors be damned. why the connection in popular culture with bad rock music, goth and vampires. i'm sure that the people who actually adhere to the goth "way of life" have better taste in music than some hollywoodummi exec. (?)

it seemsthe only way a democracy ruled by CAPITALISM able to stay afloat is to push a very bland palate when it comes to art. a quick dig, not even research level would unearth way more fulfilling ish. GENRE does not mean DUMB. say it with me, write it on your jobs bathroom walls. we will not fall into the night,

for FEAR IS THE MIND KILLER.

and cheese puff artists kill the soul.

sue me.

p.s.- now i'm gonna go to L dookie's blog and she gonna be waxing poetic about the male lead, Stuart f*****ing Townsend.

white people.

haw.

james and maya

2009-03-02T23:47:00.000-05:00

one of the most fascinating things about art and culture, is how a love affair with one artist can lead to unexpected love affairs with artist not even connected to the first lead. the first writer that excited me as a young man was james baldwin. the first book of his i read was ANOTHER COUNTRY- a story about a jazz musician who is cracking from the pressure of 60's NYC, the racism that is so invisible it seethes through the undergarments of the city's progressive facade.

it was a stirring book, with layers upon layers of characters, plots and indelible language. after ANOTHER COUNTRY, i went on to read all his books. each one is rich and telling in its own way.

during this time,

my good friend lawrence introduced me to the world of film, and a magical, and under-utilized organization called CLEVELAND CINEMATHEQUE. it was there that i saw everything from early genre movies, foreign films, onto DOGMA 95 generated visual sculpture. it was there that i found out about Maya Deren. she was a documentary filmmaker with an incredible vision. i love her stuff. feel free to check both of these artists out.

okay. 1987

2009-03-02T03:16:00.000-05:00

1987.

i was twelve, and spending sometime with my step father's best friend Butler. (that was the guys fucking name so shut it.) he was the hero guy all young men have- cooler than dad, but still not too scary. what i realize now is the guy was a complete coke-head, and was high all the time to think on after all these years. i remember one particular conversation over the film FLASHDANCE, starring the 80's icon- Jennifer Beals. he told me that a woman like her would never exist in real life, because a mixed race women could just pass for white, and would never have to struggle for dough. now as a kid i had a little sass, and told him that he probably had not seen the movie, based on his take on the plot, and its realness.

for one thing,

she was financially strapped by any means. she was a union card carrying welder first off, and secondly she worked as a dancer at a nightclub that closely resembled the art version of a strip house. (she never actually take any clothes off on stage though) so she was making a check from that.

point two,

white people are poor sometimes. actually, most times! so the whole struggle thing, realistic.

third, and most important point- its a movie.

why this particular moment with dear old dummi butler stands out, i'm not quite sure. perhaps it was the first time i realized that none of the men i knew as a kid were very bright, nor were they even remotely clever. i dont really know what his problem with jennifer was, he alway had white girlfriends, and seemed fairly progressive when it concerned race. women like beal's character exist in real life though, i was married to one. a woman who was layered, bi racial, and a dancer. she was not a welder though, i think she may of been afraid of fire actually.

for the past 6 years ive been following the showtime original show L WORD- its the final season now, and i fucking love the premise, and story arch. i think i may be slightly in love with

Ms. Beals! damn L dookie wont watch with me though. she a snob, and believe the lesbians on the show to be totally fake. wait, she never actually said that, but its my blog, and i can say what i want. she has a huge fucking crush on Danny Masterson for 70's show, and has a pic of him on her blog. damn her and her need for white men with afros.

fox

2009-03-02T01:07:00.000-05:00

megan fox.

now. damn, why did they do it? why would they destroy the seriousness of a beautiful nerd-classic like TRANSFORMERS with this hotties presence?

once i saw her, i wanted her to be on screen the rest of the way. damn the cheesywiz cgi, damn the fucking lack of character depth. what was even more annoying about this movie, which i stumbled onto on cable was the fact that important characters were missing! where were all the autobots? i found this pic of her, how in the hell am i suppose to believe she has the time to read the books behind her, much less the inclination.

im going to admit something that most of us readers never admit- if i looked like her i wouldn't read. i would be busy being fabulous!

i only read cuz im homely. seriously! lets admit that given a choice, most readers would choose dashing good looks over curiosity, and vocabulary any day!

considerations for a new arrival

2009-03-01T06:10:00.000-05:00

so.

im going to actually try and make this a regular thing, this blog. and since my computer is back, (thanks ocampo) i can actually try and put a dent in it.

so i spent the day revisiting mile love affair with miles davis, i watched a pretty documentary about him on OVATION TV. what a great channel, and then i listen to sketches of spain, in a silent way, tutu, bitches brew- made a remix of a herbie hancock song . . .etc.

there is something quite amazing about him when you sit and think about it. just about everyone of my favorite jazz players spent time in his band. he was amazing at finding young talent, let them be young, but driving the whole thing. there is a moment on bitches brew where you know that this push, the search the music represents is the mirror of the youthfulness of his sidemen.

there may not be a modern day equivalent to this uncanny knack of his.

his jack johnson record is one of my prized possessions- i went to look for it around 2am, and couldn't locate it anywhere. i wonder what happen to it. i have a problem with home security, and my friends/associates sometimes "borrow" items along the media variety.

the fuckers!

i never understood why people who like to have media, dont seem to buy any. if you liked tuna, you buy tuna. if you like shoes, you try and buy lots of shoes- but if you like magazines, you steal your friends?

j-to-the-esus!

i will probably end up killing somebody.

along the dozens

2008-11-12T17:08:00.000-05:00

so its a week since Obama has been elected, and while i have not processed what it means fully, i find myself drifting in nostalgia's haze, and just daydreaming about my family, the places i've been to, the people i have met along the journey.

i wish my grandfather was here, i would ask him what he thought, ask him what to do next. get some advice about it all.

vids

2008-10-20T14:34:00.000-04:00

in addition to writing about music, media, and other such minutia- i plan to post videos related to projects im working on.

here are a few.

there are also a few up on my main website: www.rawashington.com

unfortunately you cannot embed them on these blogger sites, but here is a link.

vapors of them

suicide, an ode to billy burroughs

in other news,

memoirs

2008-10-20T13:36:00.000-04:00

THUNDERCATS HO!

2008-10-15T15:45:00.000-04:00

SO.

this is my new blog, and since im horrible at actually updating things, this will probably fail miserably. anyhoo- my ladyfriend suggested i start a blog, and since she is bossy i did.

NEWS:

setting up an internet radio station, since my personal art website sucks, and well i n

eed something to do. more updates to come, it will be call CLEVELAND TAPES! like the title or no?

and now on to THUNDERCATS HO.

do you remember the cartoon. a couple of noble battle cats leave their planet to defend the universe after their planet is blown to bits. but its also the nickname for two of

my friends

if you see these two, run. they are more than trouble.

MONOPOLY MONEY for those who know which one is LION'L FROM THUNDERCATS?

So the other day i was hunting for records, and i went to a local stand in, RECORD REVOLUTION in Coventry down the street from the infamous GROG SHOP. and after i found a few Gems, which i will

discuss at a later date i saw a copy of MAGGOT BRAIN in the glass case going for

? $175.

now, the record is well known for the title track, with the great Eddie Hazel

on guitar. its is surely one of the sickest guitar solos, and songs ever.

but here is the thing, record sold like crazy, and its not a mint copy, not even close. i found a copy in the same exact condition for $3 bucks at a yard

sale. there are so many copies floating around, that to charge $175 is robbery, and shows that the employee that priced it is an idiot at best.

lets do a poll: does anyone have a MINT COPY OF MAGGOT BRAIN?