Klein

Can an artist patent infinite space?

Disembodied brains,

impregnated by paint.

Here to offer a window

into the boundlessness of form.

A sullied tool blooms into raw inspiration.

Absorbing the void,

coral casts a spattering a spores.

Folds and fissures bring us freedom.

IKB

Jackson

As I allow Pollock to splatter across my senses,

Low rumbles are followed by a cacophony of lies.

The light dances off pasty white globules,

and for a monochromatic moment,

I pause.

Before diving deeply into the pastels of sunset.

There just a touch of cobalt.

Suddenly forest greens breathe with the sharpness of pine,

awakening my senses,

as I listen to the casual commands of apathetic authorities.

Now bursts of yellow force me to....

blink blink their brightness away,

as suns are born.

Ruddy orange leaves the palate of my eyes,

dry and parched.

Interrupted by the desperate plea of,

"We must be quiet and dignified."

I the drift into the darkness.

The curving criss-crossing paths,

like shadowed alley ways,

leading me down a maze,

of young beat boxers dressed in sweater vests,

Mary janes follow,

tights worn knee high.

Just a drizzling of french vanilla,

and the chaos is complete.

Ill at Caspa

Trapped in an unfamiliar silence,

result of my own mistakes.

Lights glow as the tracks throb harder,

I can't keep up the pace.

Accustomed to the pounding in my head,

distortion meets confusion.
Lethargy rules my limbs and I assume my post.

Wallflower on unfertile grounds beneath Clark's concrete.

Hearty slices of dubstep topped with a generous side of calypso.

Intermittent pulses capturing bodies in unlikely poses.

Beside a woman scorned,

now more beautiful despite her thorns.

A body riddled with tats screaming defiance,

yet her body notes her reliance on the cliches of our time.

No time to spare I take in padded walls,

grateful for their ambient orange glow.

Below tiny lightning bugs lie frozen where their shells were cast,

wingless and abandoned,

While others dance on tongues of rolling souls.

Its a mating dance for some,

Ears perk to the sound of sodomy,

wondering about the sound of Azlan resting on my thighs.

An opportunity to listen to watch,

as i painfully swallow my inability to share.

A touch of cold.

An intellectual crush marred by static.

Chopin's melodies dance.
Shit gets gnarly I'm informed. Heavy tones follow.

Talk of climbing mountains,

over the sound of Serengeti plains.

Language Lust

Image via Wikipedia

This is the beginning. A very good place to start. I've been telling myself, daily, that I must learn to write.

"Every Artist was first an amateur"- Ralph Waldo Emerson...so here goes.

Today I became addicted to spoken word.

16 years old in the heart of New Orleans, just six months after Katrina, I had the opportunity to bear witness to someone baring her heart, soul, triumphs, and tribulations to a small room of strangers. We had stumbled upon a small bar off the beaten path. Away from the crowded clubs with 2o dollar drinks we found a space transformed not by laser lights and a thumping bass, but by the rhythm of a single woman's voice. I found her command of language tantalizing, her insight into the struggle of daily grind enlightening, and most of all her performance was captivating.

Now, nearing 22 I've been looking for a medium to tell the stories that I feel must be told. By trade I'm an educator, but no one likes to be lectured but those who already know. How do we get people to listen, not just with their heads but with their hearts. I can write essay after essay on the "The Domestication of Femininity and the Rise of the Middle Class," but who would read it? Here I am 5am on a Friday night...er Saturday morning not reading essays, but unable to sleep because I'm chewing through video after video of spoken word. Maybe this is it.

I'm excited to go see Organic Flow and Saul Williams, spoken word extraordinaire on Saturday March 27, because its going to be insane, empowering, and proceeds go to Rock for Kids. This badass show, "A Night of Sight and Sound" is being put on by Lethal Poetry and their goal is to bring non-profits, for-profits, and artists together. I hatched a nearly identical plan when my friend told me to quit my job and start a nonprofit (which I proceeded to do thanks jake!). I'm working on an initiative to create a social business, a microfinance music mashup and it seems my people need to talk to their people.