Saturday, January 2, 2010

New Memoir Chapter - 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.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

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

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.


. . . 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.

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

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.

Saturday, December 12, 2009


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Thursday, December 10, 2009

lyn(she) -new short story

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
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."

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.

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,


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.


he pulled himself up - but this time he couldn't keep the sick
spewed all over his lover's corpse.
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.
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.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Thursday, October 15, 2009

work=patience=reward=sanity, well kind of

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.