The Outcast Weapon to Why...

I am alone
in the world, with beats and lyrics
created by the universes eye.

She steers voices, as fluently
as the wind, into opposite directions
simultaneously; simulating the scratching,
the whirling of isolationist tunes. The soul's music
head picked instantaneously off the first verse
before stepping into
the soundtrack of the sun

I bathe, in the shine of the afterthought,
during the present. Now is the time;
she breathes lyrics into emcees,
so that I may converse with my soul
walking in the distance

He told me that the gift of living
presented deals only seen through an eye. A trade
to remix reality into a subconscious
with no landscapes,
no alleyways
or undergrounds
we only walk among the stucture
of common conversations
trying to reside in a void - danc(e)
ing the now away

with just a pair of headphones, these voices
are all that I care
to listen to. Call me crazy
or call me gone. The wind crashing
against the iris, where scratched pupils
bleed lines of spiral stares
into eternity, is where I climb.

my mind to find emcees
rhyming equations
to maximize my attention span(s)

widening to conversations
circumvented by neglect.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Point Blank

In my most natural activity, I am fluid.

At this point (post a writing period) I've never felt, physically, so far from human; so close to water, and everything seems so smooth...and right. Could it be wrong, that at these moments, I seem so incoherent and not wholly here? As if,in writing, my emotions, make me feel sub-human; but, these raw emotions, once recognized, have an uncanny ability to arouse a superior, yet humble, belief in self progression.

I wouldn't, yet, call myself an artist, but artists are burdened with a mindset to progress above their self. To want to visualize themselves outside of their skin already knowing what's beneath it; and if this new creation, this, perhaps, new creature, is anything more than just a stable, societal convention. Meaning that to submit to our interest and raw desires is to exist in a completely unpredictable way.

More or less so, this is just a result, or a feeling, post intense writing. In which you're whole being seems like a mass of conglomerated contradictions and a bit ethereal.

Monday, December 21, 2009


I'm deep enough, into music.

Deep enough to here them talking to me with rhythm, and where surface chorus' fade and become just another sky. Needless to say, that through the atmosphere, through the clouds and into the struggles of everyday human beings, I get intense pleasure and satisfaction from the music of black pain; the terrain of hip hop that I traverse via subway trains.

The west side #1 is my vehicle to and from work everyday, and every day, my mental state adopts the genius of a bum. The ability to subconsciously hold conversations with myself. Call me crazy, because that may be just what it is. I may just be crazy enough to actually listen to hip hop lyrics; that's what I'm hooked on. I'm never swimming in a lone moment.

And I refuse, absolutely refuse to do the most talking; after all, I just provide the questions. 96 street is the next stop. Half way there. Still a head full of questions.

Why doesn't anyone listen anymore? Or am I listening too deeply to, perhaps, unintentional double entendre's. Maybe you, Lu, didn't really mean to satirize the standards of "coolness", and I'm just mentally plotting a path of self righteous- illusion; seeing through wishful societal corrections from an emo perspective. And the woman across me second guesses her perception of me as cute for.....crazy. Her curiosity makes me smile.

I wish I didn't have to go to work this morning (so I thought). I hate swapping headphones for the ring of the elevator.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Eye ( I )

There's something to acknowledge about individuality; not the forceful attempt to actualize one's distinction, but to just...exist. As being simply human we posess desires that stem from our own interests through intimate connections with what we love; placed on a balanced scale between carefree living and our purpose (religion is suspended from this topic right now; let it hang).

"To measure my own capacity" - Uchiha Itachi


What does it mean to "measure [your] own capacity"?


Perhaps the idea of measuring capacity focuses on the inner development of a passion; a desire. Perhaps it is a measure continuity; of endurance. Or even perhaps, it's a measure of destiny (for those that believe in that course). Sound human enough? Of course it does.

In an artist's perspective, the measure of capacity is a poem being penned for months. It's a question that asks, "Am I being true to what I write or what I do? And if so, what's next on this path?"

I've felt this question in so many unsayable translations. Sometimes, it's not even a translation; just a feeling one fade away from doubt.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Day 13

her confession is the invitation of sacrifice.
Ice breaker of lust. A must
to have
a need to chill out

I've dripped from a broken heart
slowly descending to breath I've mistaken for the wind
to evaporate and expedite my erasure-
my existence. Tense around the temptation
to answer her need, my conscience
records actions as the stitches - I fear

my afterlife postponed in the midst of appetite

Monday, September 28, 2009

Building the Craft - Day 12.

Note: Pay attention to how your emotions sound on paper, rather than the way your words sound without any portrayal.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Day 11.

My sound tracks a path, needle-made off the record. Player,
pieces are beginning to move
from bass lines of cement- roses no longer growing
from concrete- or 808's
and piano keys assist the lyricism

it's coming.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

I've been slacking...
Need a few to reboot.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Day 10

(inspired by Safia's "Day 29")


what's up man?
you've been sitting on that brain for a while - while
I was writing this -
I kind of thought -
I've missed you

like I-O
that brains owes me a debt - and I'm not accepting your programming
of a thought-synthesized mirror reaking of fabrication-
you smell of yourself running along the memories of pain-
there's love on your shoe

can you hear me?
Can you just look down for a second?!

you wrecked my house before you birthed me-
a gift that I continue to marvel at

the front door slit where my finger submerged
the contours of this beating organ; beating as if your fists
are orchestrating the instru-mental of headaches. Head spinning
break dancing on regretting ever taking back "i love you"
because you once did
but was ever to afraid to admit it

look down
I am here now

can you see how beautiful this tilted roof is?
All it takes is your weight to set it crumbling down-
we'll light torches and become the son of ar(e)-
you ready to join me yet?.. In the fires atop veins
let us see our soul amidst the wreckage
burn ideas of ourselves next to our lungs
and get high on the present
wrapped in pain - you presented it to me with the parting of her

and all I ask is that you share this moment
of unveiling
with me.

look down

- Tommy D

Monday, August 31, 2009

Day 9.

It's called the headphone hideout
when really
I'm just hiding in my head - ringing with the achness of a hang-
over - my love for music is just about

an acapella over a dial tone giving it frequency-
no need for

crash carts
of the unwanted-dead
now alive-full of contempt for

we started (headphones and I)
as earmuffs during depleted batteries-icycles dangling from earlobes
within in which I excavated beats by skipping rocks
that I kicked in isolation...

(when somewhere completely different than what I intended)

Monday, August 24, 2009

Day 8.

I spoke to the President today.

We were having a conversation- in which
he was telling me about dreams from his father -

like a sun, transfixed on its one face-
forced to blink once an image fades from the stare-

the case is...

I've looked up to see flights of birds. Soar
passed a stiched sheet of stars and stripes in undulation. My anatomy
stripped from astronomy of a nay-shunned out of the collective-

my skin is spread across the universe
with America shaved from it like a hair follicle
trying to overcome the identity of race versus nationalism

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Day 7. Stanz-alone

subway after subway with Slaughterhouse filling car capacity-
the seats are taken im my eardrum (such a noisy morning crowd)
making sense of my $2.25 on the 4-track
tonight, I will not
give the mic back t(w)o (check 1)
the conductor constructs duct tape over the sleeping sage
smelling of subway steel

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Day 6. Imagery Exercise

Rain drops
becoming older in its descent
23 years old
living life layer by layer. The wind
is time being skated on by roller blades - X game
artist - finding meaning accelerating down a ramp
hurricane sweat off it's top
pyramid like in structure

I fall in a sea of suns - four
times a year undivided I search for myself
in the winter solstice
far away from

what urges right under this layer
before the first sight off blue blood?

Monday, August 17, 2009

Day 5.

You ever feel like sometimes
you're driven towards a goal so focused
that you feel isolated
from everyone?

a conversation slows in time - two hands
are called focus
unable to define reality since dreams destroy timelines -
oxygen injected intravenously
so your soul could breathe?


it seems I'm not of this world
a hue-man darkened from the dive into the universe.
And this is what I spit to you. You call it rain
when I precede it - growing water into seeds
is why we eat watermelon - dreams favorable to melanin

but the sun is eclipsed today - not yet night
since I am walking slow - not by accident - teaching Neo how to dodge
are why cops use Mustangs - I

must thank you
for reading this
as I am just crossing the street
on my lunch break - and wanted to share
this beat of my muse-ic
with you.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Day 4.

I can still see you
through the oversized hoody
making your black skin even more pervasive

you keep me at a versus state of mind
constantly living city of my own - with no one around
but you and yours
in a circle of trust - ring of hustlers
married to the streets - on fire


you will abuse her


thanking her
in the morning for something
to live for,

yet I still
question if I should love that
or hate you
with the subway heat

Thursday, August 13, 2009


didn't really open and peek into the present
for a microphone
or see an audience of stealthy assassins with killer pens
plastered right before the wall made corners
and spit out their homes
under a flickering light bulb

but I,
wrote in a notebook, while standing,
in the middle of a sidewalk,
next to a homeless man
looking as sane
as he

from your perspective
in second person

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Day 3.

Regrets fill the air at my cubicle - in retrospect
a colleague I once knew, still grows
to enormous to brush off as a mere thought
a spectacle beyond the glow of raised curtains

I'm certain (always in retrospect)
that she was worth more time than the shelf it rested on -
that I
would rather make-shift a telescope
and peer at her iris for a stare to retrograde my transgression

we wrote lessons in the form of stories and poetree
alone - in the solitude of passion
grown in a garden perched on a tree
away from the distraction of cement - I meant
to continue

don't wait for me - my friend

I'll catch up

Day 2.

There's never enough
time- in a day I'm hanging
on the horizon

for dear life
and light - at the end
of a timeline.

Monday, August 10, 2009

It begins

I promised myself today - I
will see myself for who I am - not
who I want to be
not giving up the potential for greatness
bottled up
but the titles of occupations are causing too much distractions - tractors
working in the midst of morning traffic
never a good start

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Lost Glasses

Here's a piece that I wrote in collaboration with another writer name JasLee; another fellow Black Rose. The pieces is called "Lost Glasses".

I like to talk to my self-
image reflects a taller shadow and I call him, "Dad" -
renamed from Adam - loud silhouette and see-through throat
reverberates apple until seeds fall to stomach roots
and I ask
"Why have I fallen from this family tree?"
cursing paradise between baseball tosses
since I've learned to speak your
low pitch - lost
unable to run home without
your memory

In contemplation,
my mind wanders from the
ill-witted jive.
Blindly, I continue with
baby-steps and blurred
Not believing the blows
that remain scarred on my back side,
Never allowing insanity to
overwhelm me.

Hanging over head, there's a village of your past time -
ruins settled on mother's tongue when she speaks your
name. Flashback
rains forward - my head sprouts landscape 1990 apartments
and green hallways strectching for miles and flickering lights -
no bulb above my head, so I keep the sun out-
executing high rises
since we cannot exist in reality - re

define blueprints with solid lines - I'm tired
of trying to connect dashes

tried to put my future self
in a closet next to the wrinkled beige shirt -
where no light could expose
our crossed lines - crossed lives -

but it always gets too hot in there
hiding from an ironed rage
but I just can't
crease my past

it's rigid.

As tears travel over
pleated eyes and
arms exhaust from
being elongated to aid me in
finding my way.
Fingers widen, increasing
the space in between.
It seems that the travels will
never cease to end.

Bending the ends to meet
with no need for U turns like magnets
I'm attracted to past
before the ball was passed to me -
wanting to know what position
when I was still
too young to move - attention un-
centered - couldn't jump ball
to keep our game going...

I lost my focus
trying to look for

Wednesday, April 15, 2009