Posts Tagged ‘Song’

How Songs Become Old Friends

Posted: December 4, 2009 in Music, Rant, Writing
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Some tracks just resonate with you. These are the ones that get stuck in your head, or you find yourself quoting lyrics from them, or — the most telling tale — you keep playing them over and over again because they move and inspire, as Landmark Education would describe this feeling. That’s why I make “compilations” of tunes every year; even the year I said I was going to stop making compilations, I made a compilation. I just didn’t make physical copies with custom covers and inserts and liner notes, which takes hours and days and months to perfect, in 2008 or — most likely — in 2009. I give them away for free because they’re my way of communicating. It’s a way to say something along the lines of “here’s what I played for myself all of this year; hope you like some of it” in a palpable format.

What’s a real trip is letting this sink in: I have been making these compilations every year for 12+ years now. That is just a count of the official, main compilations; sometimes more than one disc, but always tuned to fit on an audio CD (OK the Old Skool Hip Hop McGee Mix can’t, but there are always exceptions). There are adjunct comps, live mixes, bootlegs, extra cuts that couldn’t quite make it, times I didn’t record while spinning to an international audience on the Mordenkainen’s Parlour stream, and practice stuff — some of which I recorded and some of which I didn’t.

When engaged in the constant act of choosing music you like for 12+ years on a day-by-day basis, you know what you like and what you don’t like. Everybody does that. That is why everybody is a DJ. The crucial difference is that I recorded it. This fact sets me apart from the rest of the amateur record-scratchers and mix-tapers. Why don’t you go pull out one of your old mix tapes or CDs, or an old .m3u playlist and try to understand what you were thinking about when you felt passionate — or bored — enough to actually press the record button and pick some songs in a particular order. Or did you give them all away to potential booty calls?

Songs become old friends when you play them enough. Ensconced between the lyrics and the bassline, the drums and the swells, a personal soundtrack has embedded itself into the fabric of the music. Playing certain tracks is evocative to you in a way that nobody else is going to get just like you. Sharing these particular musical missives with others is, I believe, a fundamental art form. That’s why I do it.

So when I spend hours listening to my compilations, in order or on shuffle play, it has become something akin to going to church. The best way that I can be a Shaman for everyone is to bring something back; that is certain compositions of music, perhaps in a certain order. I love these sermons. Because I recorded them myself of myself in space and time. When I press record, I realize that it is a positive, creative, wonderful thing that I have the cojones to take a deep breath and go live for posterity.

20-20

Posted: December 8, 2008 in Poetry, Rant, Writing
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I.
There was a woman
Who I loved with all my heart.
It’s the only way
I know how
to love.
The problem I have
With falling in love
Is that I just keep falling
And falling on through.
It’s a perpetual autumn;
Storming leaves of memories,
Possibilities,
Skeletal trees.
And turning my collar up
Against the cold of this world.
Holding my hands out
To the warmth of the fire
That we had kindled
To keep the darkness at bay.
Every time these things end
I look up from the glow
Of the smolder, the embers,
For the ignition of a smile,
That familiar, beloved synching
Eyes to eyes:
It’s just understood
We’ll revel in the work
To pile on more fuel
From our common woodpile.
But nobody is there
Across the coals from me;
I’ve fallen through
The bottleneck of the hourglass
Along with all these ashes.

II.
Songs get tied
Like complicated knots
Around my feelings;
They remind me of how
I used to think about forever.
Some are bright blossoms
Stolen from yards
On the way to your window
In the middle of the night
To kneel and present you
With a moonlit bouquet,
My Juliet.
Another is the crosshatching
Of spray painted poetry
Hanging in midair
Amongst the tree branches
Between the shadows
Of the stars that were ours;
Witchcraft and wizardry
For an unrelenting passion.
Tapestries of smoke
And of tie-dyed freedom;
Soft paws of haloed kittens,
The chocolate and the champagne
Of the once in a lifetime.
Threads on a magick loom
Synchronicity unparalleled,
Spiderwebs like a hammock,
An embrace as if I was coming home;
Touch burning like the fire of a faerie,
Or the resurrection of the phoenix,
Tracing sigils in the sky,
Re-ignition of belief
Like a firestarter
Or finding a soulmate.
I am haunted
By the breadth of my music
And the depth of my commitment.
The failure
of my eyesight.

III.
The carnage is absolute;
A battlefield strewn with my corpses,
Beer cans and shrieks and cigarette butts,
The best of intentions and
The stench of taking things for granted.
These raw wounds
I have sustained over my lifetime
Of loving how I should have been loved
Never seem to heal;
They just ooze and pulse
Making heartbeats painful;
A crazy accumulation of luggage
Like owning an airport carousel
Of baggage you can’t strip off.
It just grows with you,
Older and less attractive,
Smelling faintly of urine and gangrene
When you can’t bear
To perform the required surgery.
It hurts too much;
I’ll excise memories I want to keep
Along with the decaying flesh.
Retrospective or post-mortem;
It’s still the death of a relationship
That I thought would live forever
As if I had infinite chances,
Infinite quarters.

IV.
I was pinned to a mortarboard
Like a butterfly from a caterpillar,
When I had to eulogize my friend;
My brother, my partner-in-crime,
Someone who understood
By the merit of not being female
The depth of love and an enduring relationship.
I don’t ever want to do that again.
It is the same with love;
I know I can, and it will be better,
But the pain of losing someone to provoke that work
Is too much to accept;
Besides, who the fuck will do that for me?
The answer is as clear as hindsight:
20-20.
I listened to my voice echo hollow through a church
That he wouldn’t have appreciated
To the people who were left behind,
And became even more haunted.
I did my best to represent,
Tell tales, romanticize, believe
And I went home with ashes in my mouth
To cry, cry out, want to evaporate,
Disappear, erase myself from existing
Because I had lost something precious:
A true friend.
It’s a lot like losing your love
Because you have lost a friend.

V.
The light switch is off.
This is the eye of the storm for me.
Now I deal with the still shatter of leaves,
The cold of being alone,
And shoving my hands into the campfire.
There is no warmth.
This destroys the fabric of memories
That took deep commitment
And sweat equity;
Deeper resources than I had without you.
And I see them all retreat,
As if they never existed;
Vanish into the thin, thin air
That I breathe.
Flatlined.

VI.
To move along,
Because there is nothing to see here;
It’s a pretty penance,
My cross to bear;
One that gets weightier
The more years I carry forward,
This boulder I am pushing uphill.
It’s that lost luggage from the carousel;
It’s those old wounds from the battlefield;
It’s those lyrics of happier times
When I would write, compose, sing
Of how I loved being in love
And how I expected forever
But you only had right now to give.

VII.
Perspective is a function of wisdom,
Which is a byproduct of experience,
That is what happens when you live and die
Through these things.
Perhaps they build character;
Actually, they create defense mechanisms
To try to prevent this from happening again
And again.
Expectations collapse
And you lay bricks and mortar in the fortress
That you think will keep you safe
But not sound;
You all are quite persuasive.
Certainly isolated
In the aftermath
Of bequeathing your everything —
Heart, mind, soul —
To your everything
Around that campfire
And you look up and discover
That she is long gone.

The Further Adventures of Camel Jack

Posted: December 1, 1994 in Poetry
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So the track’s float-flowin’ like the brew from the tap,
street-lethal cracka comin’ straight steppin’ attack.
I’m through messin’ with the system, gonna go my own route,
off-road past the Sphinx, Pyramids and I’m out.
There’s nothin’ but sand dunes as far as I can see;
no water or camel, the crazy diamond’s with me.
The sun’s droppin’ like a stone but still hotter than hell but
[here’s a little story that I’ve gots to tell] -Beastie Boys.
Three days ago, a cantina in Cairo —
I smoked my last hash and I’m runnin’ out of dough,
a man got shot, and he fell in my lap.
Bleedin’ on my jacket, he slipped me a sack.
Three thugs with scimitars come in through the gate.
Dyin’ guy starts firin’ so I made my escape,
so I find myself lost in the alleys and streets;
a turban cold creeps, so I put out his teeth.
Grabbed a tire iron from the back of a truck;
I took a look in the bag: a gem as big as a rock.
Glowing from inside, some ethereal quality —
I closed up my loot because I hear someone follow me.
Spent the night wide awake in the flat of this hooker,
paranoid in the john when the Thugee mistook her
for me in those sheets; she was kind, I was saddened
but I was out of the window to the awning like Aladdin.
They left one chump and the keys in the jeep
so I broke his head open then I sped up the street.
Over my shoulder I saw them Thugee come out,
waving wicked knives and they’re rather put out.
I wrecked the jeep into a fruit cart…
hoodlums on my heels but I’ve got a head start.
Slip throught the marketplace to a sidewalk cafe,
pasta sea swarthy faces, I made my way
to the rear of the joint, looking for the back door.
If I owned a Fedora, I’d feel like Harrison FOrd.
Indiana Jones and the Diamond of Despair.
I’ve got about ten minutes to find a new lair
where I can wait for the heat to die down…
dusk is a must to get out of town.
Two chairs and a table in the darkest corner,
the Gelato Vera of Cairo, all I need is a mocha.
Sweat pouring from my brow as I watch the front
for any sign, any signal or warning of chumps
and then I pause…I feel a knife in my ribs.
“Hand over the parcel and you might just live.
Reach slow — real slow — or in hell you’ll be fryin’”
so I reached in my jack for the sack with the diamond.
I put it out on the table; he stepped from the shade,
sat down in the other chair and polished his blade.
This is straight from the movies is what I thought,
He’s too damn pleased that I went and got caught.
Fat boy opens his mouth like he’s going to speak;
he looks over my shoulder and his knees go weak.
I don’t think, I grab the sack and I’m hittin’ the deck;
a hail of bullets breaks out and hits Homes in the neck.
Cafe screaming, blood’s spilling as the splinters are flying;
I’m crawling for the door — there’s no farm that I’m buying.
I get up and start running with the scared folk,
but there’s a shirtless Thugee waitin’ and the mo-fo is yoked.
I grab a pan in my hand to the side of his skull —
he blinks twice and shook his head — it didn’t faze him at all.
He reached for my arms so I went through his legs man.
I’m smooth, just like the Eggman.
Tall brick alleys with nowhere to go,
but I’ve got the crazy diamond and my life, though.
(to be continued…)

Something I Haven’t Quite Finished Yet

Posted: August 1, 1994 in Poetry
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To the hip-hop rhythm of my break-beat bounce
I sing sun stars surf stoopid something amounts
To a funky fresh freestyle flowing fast and far
from the breakers to the speakers in the trunk of your car.
I get a little sparkle like the wind in my eye
When the sun is shining steady from the stretch of the sky.
Outside doubles dating skating surfing and tanning
Hacky-sacking frisbee throwing bubble blowing — outstanding!
Groove, move and schmoove like a rubberband.
Take a dip in the drink and dry out on the sand…

Son of the Untitled Dickwad Poem

Posted: July 31, 1994 in Poetry
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Love is the drug
that opiates me nowadays
to fend through this morass
of doing what’s to do.

Love and Nicotine,
not pen and paper,
heart and dreams
laid out, a mindsong
to read.

a cling-to-my-sanity Love,
no Woodstock peace and
fuck-your-neighbor crap.
“She’s an Angel
of the first degree…”

And while I grip my head
to quell my own rising laughter
at my inability
to find a self-esteem,

I pray to the mirrors
of other people
who find worth in me.

You Wanna Know What? (One Two, One Two!)

Posted: June 17, 1994 in Poetry
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You wanna know what? You wanna know what?
You look mighty stupid with my foot in your butt.
I cut like X-acto and I’m stronger than stone
and you’re the fucking chicken from Aames Home Loan;
always being rescued, always being bailed out,
but no amount of money gives you my type of clout.
You’re soft like a Kleenex™ on your weakly old track.
Your tongue’s only good for licking my sack.

Give me a beat and a drum and a mike
and I’m guaranteed to break down something you’ll like
because I ain’t a mystery and yes I’ve got the history;
that girl on your arm — she just blew a kiss at me.
What’s on your mind? you wanna battle me, boy?
I’ll wind you up and break you like a Tonka™ toy.
I never know whether to laugh or be sick
when I see you walking ‘round, grabbing your dick,
blowing your nose, soiling your clothes
and paying all those people to come to your shows.
I’ll step to you and put your pea-brain to the test.
I’d like to see you swim wicked witch of the west.
I run the show like I’m Captain Kirk.
On the street I’m known as DJ Lurk.
Rhyming and stealing from all types of scene:
nothing is safe from my sample machine.
Sortof like Aliens got acid for blood,
I got funk in my veins and your name is mud.
Five years from now my shit’s still in
while your CD’s are filling up the bargain bin.
But I let you go, let you run away.
Hide in your home and practice all day.
Come back tomorrow or Saturday,
or do you have to ask if you can come out and play?

I was fucking born with a mike in my hand,
that’s why I’m named Mike, do you understand?
Let me rock the party, just slam the groove,
and we’ll see how many fat asses I can move.
Jumping out their seats and wiggling their hips.
Smiling like Erik Estrada on CHiPs.
Turn it around with a likkle house sound;
all those silly sucker still suits get clowned.
I mosh and I mumble, I drink and I stumble;
turn up the bass ‘till the foundations crumble.
I can rock a party ‘till the break of dawn.
My mind is so sharp it can mow your lawn.
Kick lyrical footballs to pop out your eyeballs;
invite your friends over to put holes in the drywall.
I said I’ve got a serious flair on the mike.
Do you want a lick of my ice cream? Psych!

My rhymes are built to give you something to purr on.
I’ve got tricks up my sleeves when I ain’t got a shirt on
and just when you think I’m all through . . .
I catch another beat and I pound me a Mountain Dew™.
Wired on caffeine, vicious and lean,
an eliminating terminating rapping machine.
I’m a wild man Bigfoot and I’m getting prepared
by kicking back Schaefers™ with Bela Fehér.
I’m a screaming kamikaze on a technopop track;
the needle in the haystack, gett off my bozack.
Give me a break beat, my mike will destroy.
I’m a wannabe member of the Beastie Boys.
Party people in the place, doowhatchyalike.
Funky rhythms, straight talk and such ya like.
So I give it to you straight from the soul . . .
have another beer, then lose control!

Stepping to me, you’d better come correct
because the Mission Hills posse’s always in effect.
When I rap upon the mike you’d better shake a leg;
this jam’s so hot you could fry an egg.
I’m a lyrical spherical diabolical demon.
I’m so glad to be here — I must be dreaming.
Y’all out there having a good time?
Well I’m about to rip out a funky rhyme!
I’m a party playing, roof-raising Point Loma rebel,
and the school administration thinks that I am the Devil.
I never will slow down, I’m back in my home town,
the suburbs to downtown, here comes the lowdown:
a shotgun tongue but I’m always nice.
My back’s always covered by OB Vice.
I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming for you;
make your booty do things you didn’t know it could do.
That’s the idea, guys, get out here and dance.
If you wait too long you’re going to miss your chance.
The walls are built to stand all on their own,
get your dérriere out here and shake your bones.
Yo, the building doesn’t need support
now get busy like my brother MC Alex Kohrt.
I’m a poet of freestyle, my lyrics are worthwhile
I get paid every day making other people smile.
A magician of attrition in the MC arena.
I wanna dye my hair like Jerry Medina.
Who’s in the house? I am, that’s who.
I’m always in the mood for curing your blues.
Pass me the bud and the pipe and I’ll toke it.
Wipe off the blood from the mike and I’ll smoke it.
You know I’m getting lethal, yo, word is born,
and now my boy John Roy will get dumb on his horn.

I don’t get paid much, but I stay in touch:
that color you’re claiming? Your bloodshed’s still red.
It doesn’t take a man to pull a trigger, loc.
It takes an education to use the mike to smoke
silly suckers that walk up on me,
get played razorblade by my tongue, G.
So leave that shit at the door with your worries,
and shake your body on the floor in a hurry.
I got skills, I got bills but you do, too.
So let’s see what type of boogie-business you can do.
Vocal acrobatics coming out my speakers,
speaking to your spine, your shoulders and your sneakers.
Get to know your neighbors, don’t pick and choose.
Be obnoxious like my boy Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
So pump your fist if you like the sound;
I’m a disco inferno, and I’m coming to your town.
i got a polyester shirt and the collar could kill you.
“Good Times” in my eight track, my mind’s gonna thrill you.
Fresh artistic sleight of hand —
you’ve got a real jive show from the one man band.
I’m out of here soon, I’ve got to watch me some cartoons;
I eat my Lucky Charms™ with a ladle or soup spoon
and just when you think I’m comin’ wack . . .
I’m gone with the diamonds like Camel Jack!

Meatgrinder (Version 2)

Posted: March 1, 1994 in Poetry
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I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so you all know;
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko.
You’re always trying to come off like you’re hard, son,
but you start from square one, you’re poor like a bum.
I don’t want to upset you, but I know that I do
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true.
You can’t rhyme, you can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you don’t believe in what you say and it’s not making dents.
I put on my glasses, I studied your track
and I filed it in the dumpster — definition of wack.
You’re so high, G; you’re played out, see?
And you get nowhere fast fueled on your hypocracy.
You think you’d look as good as I do?
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sellout suckers, they lie to themselves every day:
you say you’re from Compton but never been to L.A.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself;
you’re a Balsa wood glider trying to battle the Stealth.
Don’t push it too far, ‘cause you’re out of your league —
you’re a rodent Roger Ramjet and I got your ass treed.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out
because I’ll meatgrind you, pork boy, ‘cause I got the clout.

Now I’ve got your attention, I see your ears are cockin’,
like the Sugar Hill Gang I don’t stop the rockin’ to the
tick tock I don’t pack a glock because my tongue’s a lethal weapon
I can kill when I rock.
But why add another MC to the list of my killings
when I’d rather reform you to the art if you’re willing.
I could loose your caboose from the rest of the pack
or put some sense in your skull with a backhanded smack.
I don’t say I’m from the Ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there;
you’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp;
mack dady loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
You might have fooled yourself that your fans believe you.
Fool yourself again when they wise up and leave you.
When the circus is in town I might go see you clowns
while they’re hammering the lids of their own coffins down.
Pay a lot of money to make people believe,
but that falls flat, New Jack, against the Trick up my sleeve.
A scandal vandal man with my hands — they’re slammin’
and your rinkety-dinkety jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble to the fresh guitar licks,
but your track couldn’t hack it, even with a remix.
You’re jealous of my posse ‘cause they’re people I trust
but your records don’t bust it . . . they only go bust!

I said I’m the meatgrinder, I’ll grind you like meat
I see fear in your eyes because you’re smelling defeat.
Get funky from my feet to the birds and the bees,
from the buildings and trees to the rivers and seas.
Swaying back and forth like a hypnotized cobra,
one snap of my fingers and your dream state’s over.
I never really mind when the weaklings, they dis me.
I never seem to care that your girl wants to kiss me.
But keep it all in check, man, like you know you should —
now go bandage your ego, tramp . . . it’s all good.

I got the hip hop flavor, bouncing around to the beat;
you see I’m never quite finished, grab yourself a seat.
Get a little bit of popcorn get yourself a soda.
You’re a wannabe Jedi, and I’m like Yoda.
If you’re gonna get excited do us all a favor
shut your fuckin’ mouth and fall on your light saber.
Sometimes I think that I am wasting my time,
trying to teach a nincompoop like you how to rhyme.
But I’m a poet and a prankster, the airwaves gangster.
I got the flying vocal guillotine and you can call me master.
Now I’m on line and I’ll get you in trouble.
Like Fred Flintstone you’re always fooled by Barney Rubble.
You’ve got monetary clout and you think you know what to say
but I grind meat like you for a living each day.
Like a chicken you’re plucked and you’re shit out of luck
feeling like three pounds of fat ground chuck.

Of course you’re right and I’m an amature wrong
but I prefer not to fall like a boulder, King Kong.
I’m more like Godzilla with his nuclear breath:
I melt every motherfuck I put to the test.
I couldn’t give a damn about the way you dance;
some aerobics instructor in circus tent pants.
I got the kick drum humming from my MTX eights.
Golden sun is gleaming from my California license plates.
Sitting back sunny from the south, San Diego,
sculpting rhymes from my my mind as if it was Play-Dough.
Then I get the call when my Bat-Phone rings;
the room’s illuminated by the searchlight with wings.
The President’s on the line “the madman’s escaped!
He’s taking people’s money, do whatever it takes!”
So I eat a bowl of Wheaties ‘cause I’m coming to find ya,
‘cause I’m the one and only motherfucking meatgrinder.

Just Havin’ Fun, Y’all

Posted: December 8, 1993 in Poetry
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I
So I’m rolling down the ave in the afternoon,
Nissan truck and I’m stuck on a funky Zapp tune.
Nigh wreck my shit as I’m scoping some leg
and it’s Julie and Mark, they’re cold chillin’ a keg.
I’m never one to pass up on a cup of the brew,
so I called up my crew at a quarter to two.
Pulled up my truck and they jumped in the back;
we dismiss the crack for a fat twenty sack.
Overflowing with joy for a solid day.
Maxing and relaxing like Madonna’s “Holiday”.
I.V.’s all lazy and sleek in the sun –
we’re sick of the schoolwork, Friday’s for fun.
Zen and the Art of Drinking Beer
on the porch of the place right now, right here.
You know I love to be loved by the girl I adore,
even though she’s at Dave’s, buying smokes at the store.

Once in a while I smile, switch my style
and give thanks to my brother at Stanford named Kyle.
Yeah I’m dropping names left and right:
so check this one out, his name is Cormick White.
He strikes fear into the population at large;
some call him cue ball, I call him the Sarge.
In charge of the funky fresh style I present
by kicking the shit out of the bucketheads.
He’s riding shotgun in my funky fat ride
bumpin’ Paul’s Boutique and ranking side to side.
Scott Seder in the back cold packing the nine
to keep silly sucker crews like youse in line.
I’m here with my gear for a ridiculous rap,
we’re steering for beer, now give me the tap.
I put my feet on your counter ‘cause I even sit tall
with my posse of persons – we’re just having fun, y’all.

II
I slosh beer in my cup ‘cause it’s time to get ill
and like Billy Ocean I’ve got a licence to chill.
I like my tunes played loud so we’re raising the roof,
if I was Arsenio Hall I’d get continuous woof.
I’m so large, you might mistake me for chunky,
but I’m naturally funky, drinking Brass Monkey.
I choose a good groove, people start to dance,
I do the Mum-ra, Skeletor, and the Buffalo Stance.
Anything can happen in Isla Vista –
Sianie’s in town, that’s Cormick’s sister.
We’re all drunk as hell but fuck it, bro.
My friends are so fresh, we’re the Muppet Show.
My fiancee’s finer than Michelle Pfieffer,
and hopefully Ian’s got more Jagermeister.
I wobble like a weeble but I never will fall
with my friends and their friends – we’re just having fun, y’all.

III
Here comes the message for our generation:
we have on occasion made separation
between ourselves and some category we decide
that is beneath us because of our pride.
Why are we looking to divide our races,
colors, creeds, religions, and sexes?
It doesn’t make sense to try and shift the blame
by pointing a finger, and calling a name.
I’m willing to take my share on my shoulders.
Prejudice can’t get any fucking older.
Now it’s our problem, tomorrow our kids’,
so stop your whining. I’m sick of this shit.
Mothership connection. U-N-I-T-Y.
A pretty simple concept; I’d like you to try
to be civil to your neighbor, a little respect –
it doesn’t take Erasure to tell you how to act, fool.

IV
I’ve got friends in high places, friends in low places,
girlfriends and boyfriends of all colors of faces.
We’re all at this house party, dancing and shaking;
here comes some hotties, but sorry I’m taken.
Everyone can come and have a good time,
but I’m colorblind when you throw up a sign.
Julie’s going wild and she’s taking her clothes off;
I’ve located the bathroom if my cookies I toss.
I can even rap through a technicolor yawn –
there’s never a point when I’m too far gone.
I drink like a fish and I smoke like a chimney.
I promise good times for everyone with me.
Mark’s got my back as I’m sacking the track,
Dave Parrish in the house and the 8 ball’s back.
We’re bursting at the seams, tight jeans is the call;
mine are cutting off my circulation, but I’m just having fun, y’all.

V
Mike Hedrick’s over there with a glassy-eyed stare;
Valcones is toking in my favorite chair.
Shit. It seems like the world’s here,
but that’s what happens when there’s good free beer.
It’s a get-together, sort of a sociable thing;
people like to talk, laugh, dance, and sing.
I saw my girl Cindy and she’s pouting for sure
because I didn’t include a little cut from The Cure.
Now I’m outside for a breath of fresh air.
I’m so sauced I like Cory’s derriere.
John Monge in effect and he’s doing the deuce;
this party’s like an old pair of socks getting loose.
Balzano in trouble with a lungful of smoke.
Chronic hydroponic and that’s all she wrote.
Pedro’s passed out, y’all, the son of a gun,
but never mind him, we’re just having fun.

VI
The roof is on fire but we don’t care.
We’re spinning through the music with plenty to spare.
No one’s driving home, no one’s calling a taxi.
We’re not going to sleep so don’t even ask me.
Everything’s done with having fun in mind.
You’d better get yours ‘cause I’m sure to get mine.
Curt, Jane, and Jean roll up in the Jeep
and I reassure Jean we didn’t invite the creep.
Wine, whiskey and song, beer, women, and men;
we started a three and it’s half-past ten.
This jam’s still rolling – we haven’t begun
and when the cops show up we’re inviting them in.
I’m dreading my hangover, wait ‘till morning
when I have to get drunk to stop the room spinning.
Come to the party? Give me a call.
It’s like Animal House, and I’m just having fun y’all.

Santa Claus

Posted: November 10, 1993 in Poetry
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Between the Devil and the deep blue sea
there is me and a bottle of Smirnoff™ Vodka
destined to drown me in Davy Jones’ Locker.
The pursuit of happiness, wine, women, and song
goes on like the road that never ends, so long
that it sends itself laughing away ‘till you’re lost
lonely and livid at the stupid kid
that let himself grow up into this;
I learned to eat, sleep, work hard, and miss
being young, strong, and full of inspiration,
dreams, songs, and wise magickal imaginations.
My thoughts were real, my dreams weren’t fantastic.
They were attainable goals – feats of magick.
People had done it and I was going to do it,
going under, ‘round, over, or right through it.
Twenty-two and going under in a different way;
the ocean is grey and the Devil is calling –
bastard chased me through nightmares
every night of my life and the knives
that I cut with shine bright like a promise
that I have chosen unwisely; I’m falling.
Surprising? Dreams don’t come true
and you can trace the cause back to
when you stopped believing in Santa Claus.

Meatgrinder (Version 1)

Posted: November 9, 1993 in Poetry
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I get wicked like the wickedest man alive.
I stick your head in my window, roll it up and I drive
your ass around your own block so y’all know:
I’ll stick your face to the wall like a gecko, huh.
You always try to come off like your hard, son,
but every rhyme that you write’s like your first one.
I never want to upset you, but I know that I do,
because I can’t help but point out what I know is true:
you can’t rhyme, can’t wrestle and it’s nonsense;
you think you’re hitting hard? You’re not making dents.
What the fuck is that? That’s your fucking track?
I’ll put it in my pocket as the definition of wack.
You’re so high, G – you’re played out, see –
I never fret backstabbers like you, ain’t that right, B.
You think that you would look as good as I do? Huh.
I think a Doberman or two would suit you and your crew
of sell-out suckers who are lying through their teeth, not rappin’.
You say you’re from Compton but you grew up in Cleveland.
Listen to Cube and chikkity-check yourself
because my foot in your ass ain’t good for your health.
And I’m just waiting to hear you say that talk is cheap,
‘cause then I feel good about cappin’ your ass, creep.
You don’t want to feel humiliated? Get the fuck out,
because I’m the fucker that your parents warned you about, huh.

I’ll cut off your motherfucking hands if you touch me.
I can’t stand the man who’s gangbanging to fuck me
like I was ever looking to be taken.
Move over bacon, ‘cause you ain’t moneymaking.
You’re not honest with the shit that you talk about.
You walk around in the streets, thinking you got clout,
but you lie, and we all know motherfucker
you call your girlfriend a ho, ignoring her at a show.
I don’t say I’m from the ghetto ‘cause I’m not from there.
You’re formatted for pop and it’s sad that you don’t care.
As long as you’re a gangster, a hustler, a pimp
mack daddy loc biscuit-eating knucklehead shrimp.
I know my boy Brian, and he’s honest as fuck;
you should be on a game show ‘cause you’re pressing your luck.
You should be doing time – there’s no soul in your beats,
you should go into politics because you lie through your teeth.
Now I’m a scandal vandal man with my hands – they’re slamming
and your rinkity-dinkity jam falls short ‘cause you’re shamming.
I might wobble like a weeble with my sleeves full of tricks,
but your track couldn’t hack it even with a remix.
I’m carefree like an angel, not a package of gum, see,
and you can chew on this because I know that you’ll bite me.
It can be tough to get respect from turkeys like you,
but you trudge me, begrudge me because you know I’m true.

Foaming at the Mouth about Myself

Posted: June 25, 1993 in Poetry
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I write poems
that nobody hears [yet]
silent songs
of ink and paper;
meaningful scrawls,
ideas I jot down.
they’re testimonials to me living.
I write these things down
because I don’t have a camera
or anything more high-tech.
I write because
my memory can fail me.
And when I get older,
I will look through these scrapbooks
and make my own pictures
from this black and white.

Simple Things

Posted: May 28, 1993 in Poetry
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so we’re not seeing eye to eye
I think I’ll go splash around in the tide.
you are so beautiful when you’re upset,
it always comes to me as a surprise.

I’ll watch your face turn red and green
and I will listen to what you’re screaming
and when you’re done crying and bitching,
I’ll take you to get ice cream.

such simple things will let you smile.
such simple things will let you smile.

such simple things like poking your stomach
and when I dance and sing you songs.
when you get free coffee at Roma
sometimes you forget what’s wrong.

(chorus)

so quit your sour-face nonsense;
the sunshine rains down like leaves from the trees.
let’s go sit on the grass like mushrooms
and smell the flowers like bees.

(accordian solo)

these silly things just make you madder
when you’re in a crappy mood.
but all it takes is a little persuasion:
you can’t help but lose your blues.

(chorus)

Rain Song

Posted: April 18, 1993 in Poetry
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I
I pray for rain nowadays when I see
Those dark clouds splayed above me, threatening.
I can’t always tell what rain will fall
Or what tears you’re crying to comfort me.
When the sunset’s burning and crowded for space
In the sky with your pain so apparent,
Your heart is tearing apart with these questions,
No answers; let it all fall as rain.

chorus
Go out and bathe and dance in those streetlights,
Let the nighttime come down as ink
With the rain, all your pain, it’s your tears, all your fears
And frustrations – they’ll leave you
Soaked and alone crying out for the joy of the rain.

II
Can you see the sky and how it mirrors your eyes
And your tears as they’re streaming down your face.
Do you think I can stay here and wait?
I’ve got to get up and play, get soaked and catch cold in your rain.

(chorus)

bridge
These heavens will fall like thunder but water
On you, so alone in your misery.
Drenched to the skin look within at your shine
Be an Angel and cry and it clears you inside
Just like the rain.

III
So when this storm has passed and
All the fury of lightning’s been spent,
Your strength may still ache but you’ll dry and be fine
Then maybe you’ll learn how to pray for the rain.

Another Song for a Cure

Posted: March 26, 1993 in Poetry
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when the sun sets and the lights come out
in the beachfront homes I walk alone
to clear my head and cut the sting
of the thoughts the end of the day brings
they swim alongside my walk, my pace
a school of dolphins who splash my face;
I don’t always enjoy what they do to me,
making me think things over carefully –
it is they who really write my poetry.

I never knew how much I cared
for anything – not until I finally dared
to lose it all by telling the truth
seeing what came out when I opened my mouth.
I’m still waiting for the water to clear,
for the echoes to fade so that I can hear
what I’m doing and what I’ve done so far;
with what monsters I must continue to spar,
the attention I give to particulars…

Song for a Bedsheet

Posted: March 24, 1993 in Poetry
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I am really wondering if I’m lying to myself – you see
I’m good at what I do and that’s lying to myself.
Oh I hurt and I’m torn and don’t know what to I can do
I need to talk-to-a-certain-someone and that one is myself

when does it end? all the questions and waiting
for the time to come when it has worked itself out;
I can’t stand the surprises, both the good and the bad.
I think I crave some stability – this now I can do without

…and my heart strains and pulls
– my mind says we’ll be alright
but I find I can’t hold on to it all now, tonight.
am I losing control? do I want to? I might,
my senses shrieking away – my hands clenched too tight.

I think I’m falling and falling –
I haven’t moved; I’m right here.
I remember when I went crazy,
I laugh at when I was clear.

I know I’ll continue at slugging away through the days
staying broke, lost and hopeless, just counting the ways
and the time that I spend, I record it and write
until I can’t stand my pen and I turn off the light.

Yelling and Screaming About How Good I Am in Bed

Posted: March 1, 1993 in Poetry
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I
I am the poet that you long for.
I have powers seething in my pen,
Poems and poems as a storm-whipped sea,
Songs that make you forget to breathe.
This is the something to love, not fall for;
Pedestalled I glitter but don’t grow.
You don’t want to watch, you want to know
How I will surprise you again.

II
I have been elected a poet
While you have been chosen
As something equally important,
Perhaps a poet, too –
It all depends on you.

III
I was once a caterpillar, once a dog;
I was once an ape, then an eagle; once a frog,
But always you could tell by the
Shining eyes that it was me
Figuring out what I was supposed to be.
I’ll change again into something else,
Something new – write a poem or two –
Maybe I will try to be you, but
Remember, I remember who I am now
And who I will always be: myself.

To be a DJ

Posted: February 10, 1993 in Poetry
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the DJ comes with a lot of power: the President,
me (the good one) surprises and pleases
eliciting happy yells smiles and sighs from the crowd;
it is all for me.
I see faces light up as they soak with sweat
dripping shaking moving all around,
recognition of another song loud and in your ears
smashed into your face by 1000 watts;
they’ll dance harder than the last song,
move faster, become natural.

people stop listening and start feeling
the rhythm bumping along, house style, steadying
while the dancers elaborate
or flips to a fill-in breakbeat; the New Jack Swing
where you just try to prevent your butt from moving
or suddenly the song makes you cry
or sweeps you away in an enthusiastic mosh pit
or brightens your your eyes with something
you haven’t heard in a long time.

some DJ’s get stuck in one record groove
but the best surprises always compare and contrast
yet find a common thread that dancers’ bodies understand
but that I’m at a loss to explain.

what to spin next turns into the most important decision in the world
and it will be like this until I have to choose the next.
my head reels from the network of songs to choose from:
this beat would fit, this sentiment would meld,
this intro would trip, this track overwhelm
when you’re dancing, flashing colors of flesh
I’m mixing sweat and body heat
I mix you together – you whirl with my turntables.
eyes fly out of the mass of movement,
catch mine and flash like the strobelight.

I lean over to catch an excited request
to straighten my precious stacks of wax,
screams as someone recognizes what I’m playing:
playing with them
watching their reactions.

my emotions flow through my hands to the vinyl;
you can tell what I feel by how well I play,
drunker on you than on the 40s in my crates.
I turn your music up beyond hearing
and you feel it;
supportive
moving you –
you translate it to your ass your hips your hands.

the more you feel the more you learn.
learning to dance, learning to love someone new,
learn to understand what I’m saying.
I’m backed up by the best talent I can find,
be it the PE, Madonna, Fishbone, Dead or Messiah
I free your mind with my many voices.

and I’m dancing as hard as anyone,
fingers searching through record sleeves
caressing beats to match, speeds to coincide,
boogying between the coffin and the crates.
searching carefully for any sign of discontent
remembering what people want
giving myself up to the group good time.

here, women shimmering with sweat
recognize and close their eyes;
the groove is a lover, a beat
that chases between their thighs, over their stomachs
and up their spines;
unconscious every one is beautiful, so hypnotized.

here, men swirling around throwing arms in the air
touching the ground on time, on time.
intent on dancing, on laughing, on glancing back
at those girls I’ve just described.

every person I can find I train my recorded charisma on
cajoling with individual requests
urging on with the party songs
twirling all of this sound and poetry into a rumpus room
out of love for you.

Imitation of Jazzie B from Soul II Soul

Posted: January 18, 1993 in Poetry
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check this out:
I keep on moving don’t stop the clock
I can’t keep on without the tick-tock so I
I walk on, rock on, keeping my shoes on
I hear you sigh and sing the blues on the corner
by the storefront windows. I stop and I listen.
I remember us doing some kissin’
but I cannot live as I was doing:
chasing you around, forgiving, boo-hooing.
roads are there to walk and choices abound
I know I’ll see you around town because
I still love you just as much as ever
I miss your clear eyes and your stormy weather.
a piano reminds me of a lonely day song
that I played for all the times that I know I’ve been wrong,
but I change my tune to keep you grooving,
and like Soul II Soul I gotta keep on moving.

He Stood Like a Tree

Posted: December 6, 1992 in Poetry
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he stood like a tree
on the edge of a cliff
before the sea
and raised his arms
as if wearing a cloak,
as if they were wings.

his voice flew
to the clouds in the sky
calling them to fly
for him.

the breathing of the wind
hummed in his ears,
the earth fell away;
his body lay twisted
and broken open
where his mind had left
it alone, just a tool
that didn’t work this way.

climbing stairs
of cold dry air
ascending to grasp the halos
of those clouds,
flocking with birds
and smoothing his way
with the power of his thoughts.

no need for the wings
of physical flight;
the rain couldn’t touch him,
the dark couldn’t hold him,
and the songs couldn’t
sing him away.

$ympathy

Posted: November 16, 1992 in Poetry
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so nothing happened between us.
is that what you believe?
is it easy to forget me?
is it easy just to leave?

I don’t want your sympathy.
I don’t know if you lie when you tell me
that you really love me.
what do I believe?
I don’t want your sympathy.
don’t stay if you really don’t want to.
you’ve got to tell me,
what should I believe?

do you think this is fair?
is this what I deserve?
you came crying to me,
and I’m the one who gets hurt.

(chorus)

iIm trying to blame myself.
you give me nothing to trust
while all the dreams of your love
crumble into dust.

(chorus)

Pop Song #1

Posted: November 2, 1992 in Poetry
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if you come to me,
I will be whatever you need.
I will kiss your tears,
I will be your strength,
you just need to call on me.

I can’t tell you
what the answers will be,
but I’ll hold you tight
against all your fears,
you just need to call on me.

Tu Eres Mi Solana

Posted: June 10, 1991 in Poetry
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tu eres mi solana.
tu eres mi bonita calabasa.
tu eres mi solana, y tu solamente tu
eres de mio.

yo necesito su cuerpo en mi cama,
yo quiero todo su voz en mi vida.
yo te amo, te amo, te amo, te amo, te amo.
sin tu, yo voy a matarme.

(chorus)

tu eres el centro de mi corazon.
no es posible a piensa sin tu.
mi vida de nada, pero te gustame.
yo soy un hombre de mucha suerte, porque

(chorus)

tu, mi muchacha de ojos guapos,
tu eres mi razon para estoy viviendo.
mi perrita de los estrellas
yo te amo, por ahora y todavia!

(chorus ad nauseum)

Untitled Poem #10

Posted: June 24, 1987 in Poetry
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Little bird sitting on the windowsill
Why is it that you look so ill?
What is the matter? What is wrong?
You no longer brighten the day with song.
Your eyes are sad, your feathers ruffled
With what unwholesome beast have you scuffled?
Your spirit is broken, like your bent wing
The clear notes of your cry now have a dull ring
Dirt is matted, dust is caked
Blood on your shoulder where you’ve been raked.
With agonized heart, I search the sands
As this little bird’s life bleeds out through my hands.

Nitrous Oxide

Posted: March 23, 1987 in Poetry
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Nitrous Oxide, Nitrous Oxide
N2O, N2O
Great hallucinogenic, great hallucinogenic
Fry brain cells
Fry brain cells

[sung to the tune of “Frere Jacques”]