wish you were here

If I need to feel better, I’ll just look at this picture:

What a difference 5 months makes, eh?

I haven’t been able to finish anything about my nephews. But I feel good about this.

I wish I could write your words for you
if I could tell you
that your African
and your Irish ancestors
have at least two things in common:
drums
and the stifling air
between no
and allowed
kind of like a boat ride
where the sea rocks like a mother
when she taught us
to stop counting sheep
and start counting waves

and we know
how dust can fail us
we know the certain odor
of skin sores
and
the exact circumfrence
of swollen bellies

we look up at the sky
at the craters of the moon
looking for hope
we should be making
with our hands

and when the sky loves you
she loves you fiercely
her raindrops are our names
her lighting like blood vessels
of stars trying like hell to spark us

and we will sing
and if we can’t sing we will scream
until we become sound
and no-one can deny us

I don’t wanna be afraid for you
but I am
even though your strength
will be the kind of strength
that breaks thought
and bends the laws of ignorance
so that gravity falls for you

so be
be so that
future children
are not afraid of becoming light
or embracing the open arms of the sky

crossing the Atlantic
hasn’t been easy for any of us
it hasn’t been a birth
that hasn’t left a scar somewhere
but the familiar sound
of waves
marking the time of our heartbeats
is a lullaby undenied to us

and I can’t rewrite our history
’cause that would mean
I couldn’t write you a sunset
couldn’t write
your Irish grandfather’s smile
when he finally realized
that love is clear like water
once you can’t deny it
you see
finally
you see

and I want you to write
your fear into love
no
not just rewrite it
but transform that fear
into love
by living

so when they ignore you
smile
and when they try to stand over you
keep smiling
and when they hate you
and call you names
I want you to smile so wide
that you laugh
’cause without that sense of humor
you’ll die
and I can’t tell you why
or how many times
the world will try to tell you
you’re nothing
but remember
you breathe the air of your ancestors
and you see the same blue sky
that they all used to pray to

and I love you
love you so much
that if you need a period
for those question marks
then you ask me
and I will write you an answer

your hands
arr built to hold the world
so take it
take the pictures
of this beautiful place:
in the south
no blacks allowed
in the north
no Irish allowed
and in the west
where your ancestors have brought you
is the beautiful blue sky
waiting for your arms
to hold it

so hold it
hold on to that hope so tightly
that even ignorance
couldn’t take it

and the waves
you can hear them
in a conch shell
in a rhythm
like djembes
and bodhráns

the heartbeats
a familiar ancestral call
a song reminding us we are alive
and we live
and write our own history
as you will
as beautiful as the ocean
reflecting the sky

To say the least, being a perfomance poet in Las Vegas is very frustrating. If a show goes bad, the scene is so small that complaining would just be counter-productive and silly and end up bruising egos instead of having a real dialogue. And even if things go wrong, the state of the scene doesn’t really change.

Needless to say, last night didn’t go well. There were a lot of things at fault with it, but really, it’s too taxing to pick just one. It’s been that kind of week.

However, the best part was seeing some great poetry, even if the crowd was small. I have some new inspiration.

And I got 3 rejection slips from agents this week. I’m not sad about it. I never have been– not because of some depression that I’m not good enough, but that people don’t see that I actually am. It’s a frustrating feeling. But I trudge.

The average feeling for the week: frustration. But that’s only temporary.

The good news: there has been writing done this week. Poetry and fiction. So the week hasn’t been completely for naught. I’m hoping this weekend will bear more productive activity.

One of these days will be a real blog post.

Today I realize why I started going back to the gym last month. I feel heavy and gross now. I also feel heavy and gross because I talked to Andy last night about Sean leaving today. I’ve been dealing with these things by eating like shit, and now I feel like shit. But today I’m getting back to my routine.

And I’m tired. So tired.

A question is asked: does Kanye remind you of Vanessa Beecroft?

My answer: Actually, it reminds me of all the promos of naked girls on bicycles that Queen did for “Bicycle Race” in the ’70′s. I wish I could more easily find the pictures for that, but it’s late and I’ve had a few.

Add to that the fact that Kanye’s wearing that Sgt. Pepper bullshit with the Big Daddy Kane Kool Moe Dee sunglasses?

Freddie’s laughing his ass off. In his urn. (And Kim will get that joke.)

I want to learn how to curl. I really do. It’s kind of a cross between bowling and billards.

I have a really big gig on Thursday night downtown. I mean, like, being promoted on the radio big. Big for Vegas big. After doing the KRS-One gig, I don’t know what would be bigger for someone as small as me. Not that, like, I’m not willing to go bigger. I mean, I’m just saying. Opportunity is kickass.

I’ve been so tired and just not doing well with eating and workouts and I haven’t written. I just haven’t had the energy. But that’s okay. I’ll just get right back up on that horse.

i hate poetry about poetry, poetry that tells me how to respond, poetry that tells how to live my life. opinions. art asks questions. dictators dictate. there is no room for preachers in my head. if sanctimony came on a roll i would wipe my rear end with it.

I need to take a minute. It’s been a week at work, and I’m going to have a busy night tonight. So I just want to make an actual blog post. A music blog post.

I was shocked this week about the passing of J Dilla. For some reason, it’s been on my mind, and in reading this article, I think I know why.

There are some artists in your life that end up being subconsious influences on you– whether it’s commercial graphic design, or visual art that you’ve seen all your life that suddenly becomes the focus of your vision, or a phrase suddenly getting into your head from a book you read 10 years ago. For me, Jay Dee was one of those people, and mainly because of The Pharcyde’s Labcabincalifornia.

I’ll tell you why this album is important to me: it reminds me of my relationship with my parents towards the end of Mom’s life. In the spring of ’96, when I was applying for colleges, my parents and I took a road trip to California to look at Redlands and University of San Diego (yeah, the Pagan was applying– and got accepted to– a Catholic Uni, figure that out), and I had just started listening to that album on the strength of “Drop”, but it was really “Runnin’” that got my attention. Sitting in the back seat of Mom’s monster Pontiac Bonneville with Dad at the wheel, screaming up the 15 from San Diego while Southern California passes by you is one of the most distinct memories I have from that trip. That, and standing on the sidewalk in front of Bekins with my mother, the building I would be living in when she died.

To me, Jay Dee was one of those subconsious influences who really gave me what I needed as an artist– memory. Whether I was seeing it at the time or not, and hindsight is always 20/20, right? And especially as a writer who was very much influenced by hip-hop as a kid and still is very much as an adult. Anytime I hear “The Official” from Champion Sound on the random playlist I stop. Which is odd because the way that I found that song was hearing it randomly between sets at a Flaming Lips/Red Hot Chili Peppers show, doing a search on it as soon as I got home. And now, listening to that song from 2 years ago, I’m reminded of that summer. More memory.

The reason why I’m small music nerd is because I’m a texture whore. And even if a song is panned by everybody and their mom, I’ll still love it because of some kind of sonic tickle in my being. And hip-hop tickles me sonically in a way that reminds me of that Saul Williams-invoked “Drum-woven past.” And Labcabincalifornia provided me with a lot of poetic inspiraton at the end of high school. So I thank J Dilla for that.

A bit to do before Brittany and Scott’s feature and co-hosting the slam tonight. I have to be there in 2 hours from now, and I won’t really have time for a bath that I desperately need. There’s always the weekend.

I haven’t really been to the gym this week. Too many late nights out with the crew– but for a good cause. Sean’s leaving in less than a week and precious time grows little. I am tired and feeling beat up. But other than that, I’m okay. Trying not to think too far ahead.

My soundtrack (at least for the evening hours) today was Boys for Pele.

I threw it in the car before I headed out for the night. I heard it at Cheers. It was in my head.

My brother stopped by this morning to drop off a rose. My lunch was paid for. I had precious time with a great friend before he leaves. I had truly fun times with another friend who can’t find the love in himself.

But you. You were inappropriate today. And that makes me sad. I am listening to one of our songs now.

I remember. I remember when it was easier.

Flying Baby With Arsenal Day. Yeah. Not so into it.

At least this year I won’t be waiting for a phone call that won’t come. That’s a positive.