51

Today the sunlight pushed through the windows,

turning the dust into velvet and gold,
unveiling the hearts of covert heroes,
turning their voices resonant and bold:
New voices were felt from the old bottles,
and old songs were heard in the new pollen;
the bottles turned pipes, and their glass throttles
evoked a soft breeze, tropical and fallen:
But no longer forgotten in the winds,
like a clementine whose flavor lingers
indefinitely, so new taste begins
in memory of its citric fingers:
A poem is sight and flavor made sound,
where fugitive moments are always found.
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Third World Rhymes: II

Note: This is from a few years ago, though I’m not entirely sure when. “Third World Rhymes: I” is on a napkin in my apartment in Somerville, MA. I’ll up it when I find it. More to come!

I’ve spent time with my hands on the fortune

Of others, spending time, chasing trifles

While, all the while truth sang, with distortion

Our lies were in the red, where blood stifles

The outpourings of joy, the mystery

Of life, its topsy-turvy eyefuls

Of feeling and flesh; healing history

And hate fueling progress and opulence

While, all the while there’re deaths from dysentery

While I’d give all I’ve left for somnolence

For the gift of dreaming, I’d give my heart

Gift-wrapped, in fact, in the very violence

That made it stop in time, via the art

That made me, that taught us how to deceive

And how to make poverty seem so smart

That it didn’t oppress us or relieve

The necessity of beauty, of art

Of honesty without truce or reprieve

The only truth grave enough to impart

To impact, to change the chains of foul thoughts,

Evil dreams and self-defeating steel darts

Poisoned at the tip, rotten at the source,

Is the truth of time, the path toward nothing?

This is the only way out of the box

And yet we must stay here and give something,

We must push forward toward what life concocts

Even if that leads us to no known thing

And others pass us by in fleeting flocks

Their magic isn’t real; it’s just a show

You fly, we fly on the winds that like rocks

 

Can smash or crush or ground or shine and glow

Or skip upon waters that help us flow.

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50

I speak most deeply when the sky is black,
when the lightless air constrains the senses,
when the biggest presence is streaked by lack,
when the hand in front hankers for fences:
Where the painter must contend with the dark,
despite memories of the crisp landscape;
where willow trees are shrouded in the park
and pied, fresh petals of flowers escape:
As my vision recedes, my insight hears
more darkly, deeply the joy inside us,
and I cast off my face, throw off my fears,
and I scale the fences that divide us:
Under the gentle moonlight, I'm a ghost,
dodging communion with the haughty host.

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49

We need to take this back to the source dream,
with words and rhymes and the metrical art
before I lose myself in this deep scream
from the darkest/lightest part of my heart:
This beat is self-contained, (and) self-realized,
so please follow as your impulse dictates;
It's like riding a bike: you won't forget
how to riddle a rhyme at gentle rates:
My gait in verse, is like a ferris wheel
going around as it flows up and down,
with respect to each unique point / you feel
nauseous, but overall like you've just flown:
My fl-, fl-, flow is contagious, I hope;
If you catch it, do not worry–it's dope!

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Urban e-Pistols 1: Dear Tiger Woods

“…even adorned by Norwegian women / blond hair and blue eyes, I’m getting back with a vengeance.”

                                                                                  –Malice (from The Clipse), “Momma I’m Sorry”

                                                                                        “Get back to where you once belonged.”
                                                                                                             
-The Beatles, “Get Back”
Dear Tiger Woods,

Malice understands you; I think I do too. You were doing what you were doing to “get back to where you once belonged,” to quote a famous ditty. I understand. I really do. Now, your wife isn’t Norwegian, I don’t think… But I understand. I truly do. You were getting back, my brother. With a vengeance. Against and to whatever images of perfection seized your mind. And now you’re sorry. Right?

Okay. I have a solution, of sorts.

Give $300,000,000 (at least) to Haiti. Period. I’ve read that this is the amount that you’re giving to your Swedish wife–and maybe soon to be ex-wife. But if you really want to get back with a vengeance, you’d give the same amount to Haiti, since the Haitian nation, independent since 1804, has been the bane of much of the white-male pseudo-aristocratic privilege that you’ve managed to simultaneously subvert and uphold.

I mean, to be real with you, Tiger, you might owe it to them. The magnitude of this most unfortunate of events has rightfully moved the post-ironic inanities of your dalliances with “Norwegian” and “morewegian” women out of the media’s spotlight. I hope you take advantage of this “alone time” to–as the great knight once said–“get back to were you once belonged.”

And where did you once belong? Well, I think it’s now safe to say that you once belonged to blackness. For better or for worse. I understand. Or as some rappers might say, I overstand. Blackness, my brother, is all inclusive. Hybrid terms that try to evade how society really sees you–even, yes, the woman who married you–hybrid terms whose names I care not to remember–do not slough the stigma, the projection. Blackness is external. You don’t choose it; It chose you. Just like your wife chose you. And we all saw what happened when you tried to hybridize that situation…

But, again. I understand. So does Obama. What you didn’t understand is that we can be many things in “truth”, but we must also own up to how society sees us, especially those of us who have money, good looks and/or swagger. I understand. To Fuzzy Zoeller you were la bête noire. To your “Norwegian” belle you were la (grande) bête noire. To me you are la belle bête noire. It’s all good. Be who you really are, whatever that may be; but also don’t eschew the negative stereotypes thrown against you. You must parry them. You must confound them. You must redefine them.

And by giving Haiti the exact sum that you break off to your “screen wife” you would be doing a lot to avenge your own indiscretions, and those of many other people colored, or tinged by otherness who try to forget their difference, or obfuscate it via a confused sort of “self-miscellaneization.” Again, Tiger. I understand.

Because Haiti is where we once belonged. Obviously, I don’t mean this literally, Tiger. But Haiti–like the Saramaka in my father’s Suriname–was once free, was an original good port in the ineffably “hybrid” black landscape of the Americas. Toussaint Louverture helped to forge a literal ouverture for an openly self-expressing blackness in the New World–of course, self-expression is culturally inevitable, even in bondage, but a nominally free African American Nation in the New World is tristfully rare. I encourage you, Tiger, to give your black “side” a symbolic ouverture. You’ve payed the “cauc-asian” and repaid it and paid it back, so let’s bring it full circle. Be all you can be. Be all you are.

Haiti was once part, I think, was once the solitary, shining jewel of a “free” Latin America. But then the Negrophobia set in. Consciously or not, the grand próceres of Spanish America worked quickly, assiduously to dis-engem Haiti from even belonging to the ostensibly inclusive brand of American latinitas. By the end of the 1800s, American race was fractured, Tiger, just like yours; there was North (White) America, Latin (White or “Mestizo”) America, and Black (Pan) America. For better or for worse, Black America–of which Haiti (and perhaps the Saramacca) was the capital–was able to permeate all the other spaces of American life, despite its abject exclusion from symbolic capital. You might object, Tiger, asking, “What about Cuba? What about Brazil?” And I say, “What about them?” What about Argentina, Perú, Uruguay, Nicaragua, México, Belize, Honduras, the United States, Canada, Québec, Colombia, Venezuela, Aruba? The list is endless. And most importantly, what about Haiti? Who are in the favelas? Who was on El Mariel? Did any of them look like Lil Jon?

This is why, Tiger, you must give Haiti as much money as you hand over to wifey. $300,000,000. It’s only fair. It’s only vengeance. It’s only putting that loot back where it belonged.

Thank you for your time. I must now get back to reading from a list of 19th-Century Latin American patriots. Everything else I do is extracurricular. I don’t know how to get back to where I belonged, but I do know that in the eyes of most, I’ve always been exactly there.

Sincerely,

WRG

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DEMONSTRATION 4: Sal the Cat (The Definition of Tragicomedy)

Ladies and Gentleman: Miss

Helen Adilia Arceyut-Frixione (http://thehaafofit.com/)

on the vocal.

And

Sal Esposito as the subject: http://www1.whdh.com/news/articles/local/BO133130/

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48

The tie hangs off the computer loosely
as a reminder of work to get done,
but silk and plastic aren't things that choose me
on a daily basis, from sun to sun:
I feel chosen by love, by words, language,
sound, hope, the tastes and textures of living,
and light and leisure, and cheer and anguish,
buying, selling, by taking and giving:
The red tie loops down three times on the gray,
till the skinny red bottom scrapes the wood
though the finish saves it from harm today…
(I never notice these things like I should)
It's like a rose against a dull skyline;
my vision's so keen, all objects can shine.

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47

I'm at a point where it's hard to follow
the lines of leaders, the dreams of others
not mine, and forced down and hard to swallow,
not bad–not me, if I had my druthers:
Two options: break out, or retrace the line–
retrace, not copy; find origin in sound,
and with the echoes I hear, redefine
my ways of surviving; or just rebound:
A line don't curve, but I've got some bend here,
and I'm arching in space from point to point;
traject or reject / project, persevere–
with so many options, I'm out of joint:
And out of line, though I'm not out of line
in thinking, regardless, all will be fine.

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DEMONSTRATION 3: Portugal (Water)

This started out as a sort of tribute to Sun Ra’s Atlantis album, where it’s basically just Sun Ra on clavinet (or “Solar Sound Instrument”) and somebody playing congas. I got the idea to do something Sun Ra-ish due to some crazy, celestial effects that Mikey-Mike had plugged into his ukulele, which made space and time sounds as if infested by magical metallic locusts, or something. Then we ate Portuguese still chicken, which was delicious. So, after eating, I found a harpischord sound on Mikey-Mike’s computer, laid down the simple riff that was in my head, added “drum circle” percussion, and then sprinkled magic ukulele dust over the rest.

And I call it “Portugal.”

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DEMONSTRATION 2: With a Whistle and a Wail…

About walking in the snow with bad gloves…

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