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New Music: vØHn x Lupe Fiasco - "Hyperdrive"
8 years ago
Wednesday Night Open Mic
The Nuyorican Poets Cafe
Yesterday (Wednesday) I attended one of the biggest venues for poetry/spoken word in NYC - The Nuyorican Poets Cafe (Nuyo) - to attend their Open Mic Slam which occurs every Wednesday minus the first Wednesday of every month. I plan on performing next Wednesday (June 2nd), so I thought I'd go down and scout it out and get a feel for the atmosphere.
Surprisingly (maybe just a little bit) it was a comfortable atmosphere to be in; unlike the Friday Night Slam atmosphere that is just heavy due to the oversized crowd and pre-selected competitors.
The host for Wednesday slams is Jive poetic, who's a dope host and even doper poet, who made the Nuyo extremely comfortable for the poets there, especially the new ones. There were tons of poets who had mix styles and varied topics from hip hop to domestic abuse, being from a foreign country, parenting and finally...."dick balloons" aka condoms. Some poets seemed like they've been up on stage before due to their awesome delivery via flow, gesture...their all around vibe; they seemed comfortable. Then their were others who were brand new, evidently shown when they forgot their lines and desperately struggled to start from the beginning to remember. Even some veterans stumbled a bit. It's always unexpected and frustrating, but we all go through it.
All in all, everyone there was welcoming, as the spirit of the Nuyo always is. Very encouraging group of supporters even against the tough scoring from the judges.
Time to gear up for the stage.
(I should be working on this poem instead of writing this)
Paaayce
Thinking of a Phone Line
I'm a nice guy
with nice ties. Too quick to tie knots
in relation-ships towards a destination seeming like
destiny.
(Imagine if she went by...Destiny)
and how false it would be,
to call her by name
to text her, thinking
I'm communicating with fate,
consummating a communion crazed with coined-tossed characteristics
her words dropping like anvils
deconstructs schisms of the surreal
til everything becomes what they are
and one world exists,
devoid of fantasy
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Take(s) Action
Been sleeping for a while now (on my writing), while falling asleep on schedule every night. It's a problem; a formula is needed.
On the other hand, I've been reading on a consistent basis. Very happy about that. Just started reading Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison...and it's dope (even though I just finished the first chapter). Took me about a whole 2 days to get through his intro and actually UNDERSTAND it. He creates light out of contradiction...being contradictory with a very creative character...see what I'm saying (lol). More to come on this book later...
Currently in the process of recreating habits (reading at home...writing on the move) Good luck to me...
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
I'm Beamin' - Official Video
Dopest ARTIST in the game right now.
I present to you the official video of Lupe Fiasco's "I'm Beamin'". This is the first single off of his upcoming album, Lasers, scheduled to drop later this year. Hope ya'll enjoy this.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
You should be here...
From here on out
my conversations will be tangled
and wet - refusing dryers
for discomfort- til I become
relaxed.
Monday, April 5, 2010
I Just Can't Explain This Shit at All
I will sacrifice myself upon a train of bed bombs,
lie flat
while each tick transforms the formation of my heartbeats
to the pulsating of countdowns. Thinking backwards,
I know this all too well
and most times
I erupt from fear
as if my flesh were an alarm clock -
smelling of chemical concoctions and conditions
cocked like gun shots, shower sprayed explosion.
My body's the exposition of embarrassment
centered positioned off the exquisite,
unbelonging to the collection of these marble
sculptures, and sandstoned statues.
Each stare is reminiscent of Medusa;
and then I kill,
without hesitation-
each neck sliced definitely, sculpted perfectly
in the name of justice
by the waist-side
I do not care for justice.
As it is born, I will die.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Where the Dust Falls
**There was another post (now deleted) before this that began the discussion about the lack of black writers in bookstores. I renege on that earlier statement, and clarify that those black authors do exist, but at the demise of cliche titles that probably don't even sell significantly more than the desired counterparts.**
Art is art. Music, Painting, Literature and/or even Dancing all receive the same praises or lack thereof; which is why I shouldn't be surprised at the lack of "attractive power" that good, creative, black books seemed to possess. I'd expect it with rap music, because, unlike literature, it doesn't take years of formal practice to produce. So why would any music listener feel entitled to listen to music as loose and ill-refined as rap music (nowadays anyway)?
Literature stands apart from such amateurish labeling, but it's subjected to the same pressures of unconscious prohibition. This prohibition stems from the inability of current publishers to relate and/or commiserate with black, contemporary authors.
It's frustrating to walk into a Borders store, go straight to the African American section, and see mostly "street lit" books on the life of thugs, pimps and overwhelmingly so, sex (yes Zane, you). If anything at all, I believe these "street lit" books have their moment of enlightenment and entertainment, but at what expense can this be proven. Do these books sell so well that they MUST be the face of the black, literary world? I strongly doubt that. And it's not hate.
I'm sure Zane has her pleasures. Her gritty details involved in describing contexts that lead to sexual situations, and then those scenarios themselves. However, lets be a little skeptical. Reading Zane is like watching Grey's Anatomy; seeing the same thing over and over, though contextualized differently. Can we get some more knowledge to compete with an, already, overly stereotypical characteristic of minorities?
Monday, March 22, 2010
Diamante
Reality
solid, orderly
biting, exploiting, degressing
stable, penned, painted, sketched
exploring, unlimiting, wondering
loose, digestable
Ideal
Monday, January 4, 2010
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
Bait
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
Capacity?
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
always
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
Day 10
(inspired by Safia's "Day 29")
Thomas,
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
ressurectors
of the unwanted-dead
now alive-full of contempt for
miracles
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
