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