rhythms - twos intertwined with threes.
the legs.
their faces
expressions of challenging conceit.
again!
a second, split.
an image from Memory.
relentless as a seashore
yet not as simple
not nearly as clear
as the duality of sand and sea.
like rain
rather than fog.
11/13/12
10/28/12
Friendly People & Chimney Choir / Cape Cod
Hootenastic harmony extravaganza with Chimney Choir and Friendly People at the Lilypad in Cambridge (12/5) and a weekend runaway in Cape Cod (10/6-10/8).
10/12/12
Fatoumata Diawara (Oct. 2, 2012)
I had the pleasure of seeing Fatoumata Diawara of Mali (via Paris) perform at Johnny D's in Somerville. She and her multi-national band cut through the stuffiness of the venue in just a few songs, turning the crowd of quietly eating "world music" aficionados into a free-for-all dance party. Her uplifting but profound melodies, her smile, her infectious on-stage energy and the genuineness of her pleas for world peace could make the most bitter of enemies lay down their arms. I left dizzy, inspired and with my senses on a rollercoaster I wish wouldn't end. Hopefully these snaps do some justice to the music, spirit and energy of the night (along with the dopeness of Maggie's dance-moves when she was dragged onstage).
3/14/12
A rap
quit being like a bird regurgitating
make like an echo and reverberate in
the best of times i'm a diamond in the sky
in the worst no better than a Coke can
3/9/12
2/23/12
Too Many
Too many dreams will keep you wide awake, but numb. There's a dam stopping the riverrun and I don't know whether or which way the current pushes and pulls. A musician sometimes. A writer who doesn't write. A drifter with cares. A lover who drifts. A thinker who's lost. A pretender and real. I am good at pretending. I am pretending to understand reality.
We learn to walk before we know where.
We learn to talk before we can sing.
We learn to love before we know pain.
We learn to forget like we learn to ignore.
It's a citywide blackout, but at least I can see the stars.
Distant, scattered doubt to remind us who we are.
2/21/12
2/14/12
2/6/12
disappearing
i'm disappearing into infinite gullets
this must happen to somebody
once a day at least
i used to live exclusively off rays of the sun
like some giant tree
swallowed by my own expectations
i'm disappearing into infinite gullets
following afterthought chuckles
and toppled straws
creativity is an ocean in this town
outer space in any other
love is beautiful certainty for now
wait film this for a second
2/1/12
so what
so what
if a fire alarm
interrupts your rite of spring
so what
if an earthquake
makes skyscrapers of feedback
totter
but not fall
not fall
i've spent endless hours
in a single room before
for naught
melody's a stillbirth
noise prevails
why not
(if a fire alarm
interrupts your rite of spring)
re act
(when an earthquake
makes skyscrapers of feedback
totter)
and blast high
blast high
melody's a beautiful moment
noise interrupts
and the moment's gone
suddenly segments of static
each individual electric scream
each second in passing
beautiful
i spent a handful of hours
in a single room
not even paying attention
to what became my life
melody can be a waste
of noise
so what
so act
fall
high
you totter
not blast
it feedbacks
an interruption
gone
Blast!
react
and
prevail
This isn't the sound of something falling apart.
1/25/12
Cordoba
Strong arms shaking
under the pressure
of a confused fresco.
A dome with an identity crisis.
-
Death was her final husband.
A sacrifice made
for eternal Sundays spent in bed.
Where she could
eat letters for breakfast
and choke on chimney smoke for lunch.
Only after life came her first real lay.
Hands more calloused than all this jagged brick.
Now finally she relaxes
in sanctified marble.
Stone that has eaten body
and been bathed in the fresh blood
of some poor farm animal.
It's easy for her to remember
the quiet grey simplicity
of the city she used to stare upon.
Back then.
She would name strangers.
She would walk to the river
and give voices and personalities
to all the playing dogs.
She would go home and swallow letters,
chew words until she spat ink.
-
Now under the comfort
of pillars reaching for heaven.
In the shade of a giant stone umbrella.
She kisses Death's forehead
every night
and wakes up every morning
to his pure, loving smile.
1/23/12
Ad Space
I don't remember
bruises and orange peels,
but I still smell
the blues and
I can't think of
a time I believed
in the sky but I
still feel. I wish
I understood why I
stare at it sometimes
when it's
red and all I want
is blue. I wish I
could understand
what is so beautiful
about the countryside
and why we find
the city so hideous.
Oh, concrete;
I love you.
I want to bask
in gray and sit
on sewer caps
and stare at
the red sky
that I only sort of
remember being
so blue. I don't
understand
why there are
so many colors
in a flood-arch
and why rain
is transparent.
I know this is
Earth and
I know I'm
still spinning
and I know it's
orange, black
and blue
but its a memory
I'll never have
back
to back
like the worn out
books that line
these beautiful
city walls that
wrap around
the equator
and I can skip
through continents
of colors I don't
understand
and I can breathe
air I can't really
taste
and I keep
keep keep keep
on swimming
through
familiar humidity
because knowledge
gets stuck in moisture
and I know it's there
but I don't
really know what
it is.
1/22/12
Sprint Screens
How is it that writers always seem to remember everything about their childhood? I read things like "I was in the 4th grade and I was sitting next to Judy Marlin in Mr. Bridge's class. Mr. Bridge was talking about fractions. It was a Tuesday," and I either call bullshit or become utterly dismayed.
Because my early memories are bigger than brushstrokes. They are an entire bottle of paint, knocked over, its reach shallow and undefined.
A green bicycle, wheels thickened with grime, rolling down a shallow hill--two sneaker-soles scraping against asphalt. My heart dropping to my socks at the mere suggestion of a kiss. Worlds invented in the solitude of Sunday afternoon. A pink apartment building. The time I could see my own sweat dripping from one eyelid to the other. A game of tag gone horribly wrong. First encounters (that, in reality, were not). Last handshakes (that, in reality, may not be). Sports abandoned. Fun redefined.
Or how about that time I was sprinting--it was a bet or something--towards a park bench at night. I reach the bench and see a shadow, just out of reach of a soft yellow streetlight. Thinking back, I have no idea what I thought it could possibly be--a snake perhaps (but in the middle of the city?), a disembodied tentacle?, a void into a dark underworld of rat-like humanoids? Whatever it is--this amalgamation of all things evil--it makes me stagger. I change directions on a dime, wildly overrating my agility and entangling my legs like noodles around a fork. I fall to the ground, lips first.
And that's where the memory-moment ends. Who was watching? Were they laughing at my cowardice or wiping the dirt from my knees? Did I try again? I have every right to know these things. And if not, then--like sounds, sometimes--I may just have to make them up. Seems more rewarding than just saying "I don't remember."
1/21/12
make up
sometimes in bed
i make up sounds.
or not really make up
but reinvent.
cars passing out on the street
become waves on sand.
voices
are a drone of insects.
startled sirens
turn to birds and primates.
wind howling through skyscraper canyons
is only a breeze in the underbrush.
yes, invention may be a byproduct of lack.
but the world is still our world.
we still turn at the same speed.
and someone can still be thinking of you
reinventing sounds unheard.
1/20/12
by now
It's taking a sea of will
to pull me from the shore
It's taking too many knocks
to pull me to the door
This seems wrong
I should have been long gone
by now
Everything he knows of family
he learned at the immigration desk
Turns on workbrights
for evening lights
And bamboo cigarette paper
is here to stay
I'll be right back
with an ashtray
From up here I can see
all the swimming pools
your town has to offer
And untilled ground
like wood panels
1/19/12
Trade ya
I'll give you a sip of laughter, if you'll give me a slice of your ideas. A penny's worth of rhythm for a chance to see what spilled out your mind's lips this morning. Some skepticism for some criticism. Show me something new and I'll do my best to keep up. Move me, and I'll move you back.
Let's see what color the sky turns when seven billion thoughts slap each other in the face.
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