Sestina in Blue

Sestina in Blue

a.k.a. Rainmaker #2

back in the time when there wasn't nothin' but the beat
before shootin' dice, sippin' forties in the street, space
was the final frontier yet to be known. but fear of the black
ness still kept enlightened ones at home. first cracks of rain
and thunder give new birth. wide, and wet, and cold for earth
bound friends. it all depends on if they love it. inhabit the sky
instead of reachin' up above it. redefine the nursery rhyme
s instead of cursing the young minds, there may be enuff time
to strengthen the frail spines, turn those candles into star
s, whose light exceeds the speed and density of mars. the fire
consumed turned mountains into craters by the light of the moon.
master plan of the creator with a little voodoo, call it the blue

s, sad raggy tunes, nothin' to loose, dispossessed from earth
from the very beginning, burnin' trees, smokin' lucys in the sky
since the mortal sinning, they told me a i could be a star
one day link john lennon, or maybe john wayne, just beat
the pain and keep a smile on my face, and keep enough space
between me and the boss's daughter. baby reflectin' the black
ring of the bath water. so now i'm out in to the cold ass rain,
ain't never begged for change, we bust caps in the moon
light, hustlin' thangs, seem like i can never do right. fire
in the trash but no heat. my fingers are stiff and blue
from livin' on the street. but still i conduct the rhyme
circles on the ave, and hope i live a long enuff time

to take the haves and the have nots, and shorten the space
between, and maybe add a little bit of hope into the black
dreams. awakening the magic people, shines and blinds, fire
ry lines, have a good time, secrets of the brown earth
planted deep in the spine, infinite like a strip of the sky,
immediate like a blink of the eye, givin' dap to a star
on the rise, when he stumble folks is lowerin' eyes,  beat
in' on him like a pimp on a corner with a 70's rhyme
all balls but no mind, he think he stay true, but the blue
suede pair of his wing tip shoes will keep him strollin' in time.
got his hones lined up on call, plus his cash flow is rain
in' like seattle in fall. dilated shine like the new moon

shit i had been thru, not new to me but usually the sky
above my head's brighter than sonic boom, a star
ry night that sparkles light from that eternal blue
hopin' you see it too. hollerin' at the wide cold space
keep me shiverin', but my tongue's deliverin' birthrights on black
nights but nobody is listenin', now i see how fast a fire
blast can steal your glistenin'. one day the whole wide earth
gon' know my pain, i'm like a world series game seven called for rain
aint climactic life but no shame, slappin' fives with father tme
cause he never complains. just maintains his cycle like the moon
goin' thru changes, we about the strangest, sharing one heart beat
but streets is gettin' dangerous. make 'em believe that their rhyme

is your rhyme. step in to your own time. greet the morning star
everywhere you are. fires in you, their rain can never consume.
only the bluest eye can penetrate the light of your moon. spirits black
er than deep space nine, we beat the old school minds who never cared.
the earth is our turf so let 'em stare. only the sky above us do we share.

The Year After Infection Film Shoot

Black Love

black love is tough

the whispered voices of your brown brothers urging you on and keeping you sane

black love is the embrace of your mother as she rocks you gently thru the cold wet rain and lets you know its goin’ be alright

black love is a vicious bark turned into a vicious bite

black love is tough

patiently awaiting the day of parole

black love is keeping a candle in the window

the silent prayers of vacant stomachs trusting the lord

turning their dreams into store bought wishes for a brighter tomorrow

and a satisfied today

black love is that forgotten dream steadily floating away

it shadows the hunger and shines down on pride

igniting the spirit and blinding the eyes

black love is the blues and john coltrane

wailing a soulful tune from the depths of his divinity

spinning a web of castrated desire to set his captive spirit free

the heat of a blue flame on a bright red rose

black love is respect for the lives of the old

blaring confidence and silent despair

the black fist on the back of the comb in your hair

black love is painful

black love is real

the coal in the engine

and the spokes on the wheel

the smoke in the sky

and the stiff iron track

the gleam in your eye

and the sweat on your back

black love is alive, passionate, and free

a single tear drop that longs to be a wave in the sea

black love is 1,000 fists raised high in the sky

a unified voice and a unified cry

black love is the kiss that cools the burn on your forehead

when hot comb meets nap

spicy chicken wings that make you jump back

round brown shoulders glistening in the sun

black love is crazy

black love is fun

black love is everything

the dark side of the moon

the interstellar womb

the cocoon of man’s civilization

black love is the spirit of every nation

hand writ sanskrit prayers from ancient kemit

beyond the horizon of the cosmic black sea

the rhythm in you and the rhythm in me

a disregard for the rules, chaotic and free

the beauty in you and the beauty in me

black america is the paradigm twice shifted

black love is the infinite

yes, black love is infinite

No Regrets

No Regrets

i am outside of someone

who loves me. i look

back into her eyes. hear

what rank scents come out

from her voice. hate her

pleasant greetings

cracks in the concrete, for growth. when

my head sits spinning at the warm breath

the sigh of peak, or supple skin

rubbed against me, a magazine, a movie

without smile, or embrace, or fulfillment

it can be fear. (as then, as all her

ambition frightens me) it can be that. or

fear. as when she ran from me into

her service

or fear, the heart

brown and muddied cast into the

earth, lower than even alter boys

thought Diablo would be

or fear. and the other. the maybe. (inside her thoughts,

her rouge toenails, they are fixed images and were never

free.)

growth, expanding as the fern, the stealthy

virus. a teen ball player in mid season.

or the cold snow in its heap.

cold words flowed thru tense deaf ears. growth,

sinewy, twisting, and tight. stretched as the bubble

with its gum. it is an alien hostility

i live outside. an emaciated hobo

you recognize as beat or simple passion

but it has no passion. as the concrete is stiff

it is not given to tenderness

it strikes that thing

outside it. and that thing

cries

Its Good To Travel

It's always good to travel. One thing about acting that I really like is that sometimes you get to be out on the open road among the nooks and the crannies of in-between life, outside of the main cities. The small town tempo with its lazy sunny days and its patient strolling sidewalks, the town's single post office, the fresh-pie diners, and the late night Wal-Mart hangouts, all quaint in their gentle quietude. I live in New York right now, and when there's no apocalyptic hurricanes to worry about, its actually a pretty nice place. But I've always had a thing for smaller cities.

Back in the fall I was able to work on a stage production of "Mice and Men" up in Connecticut near New Milford. The countryside was beautiful. Lush rolling hillsides and small winding roads connected the inter-woven townships of the area. And I have nothing but great things to say about the Sherman Player's Theater Company, they were a class act. Connecticut in the fall is legendary. I'd take the Metro-North Rail on the Harlem-Valley Wingdale line all the way up. It was a nice ride. It gave me time to write on the train, munch a quick snack, or nap just a little, all necessities of travel. 

Myself and one other actor from the play usually crashed at the director's house when it was a long rehearsal week, and for the most part I was up for exploring a bit of the area. I will admit though, I did decline the nature hike through the forest hills, even though I wanted to see the waterfall I had heard about. I've seen and been in too many horror movies to be comfortable being the only black guy on a nature hike like that. Sorry, but I know how that story ends. 

Once the fall colors really set in, the whole area took on a life of it's own. I was glad to spend the time up there. It's too bad that most actors would opt to cut themselves off from an experience like that just because it was a smaller production than, say an Off-Broadway endeavor, or because of the community theater pay. I think these are the kinds of things that give an actor an edge among the competition. There's a richness of life experiences that can't be faked, and especially when it comes to the interview process, it makes a difference. One actor from the show even joked that I should do a cross country experiment of some sort, couch-surfing my way through theater towns coast to coast. That would certainly be an experience to remember. 

Rainmaker

Rainmaker

from this view it seems like the fires may never cease

orange and bright yellow flames

licking and flickering

against a pale grey sky

that’s getting darker

yep

from up here

i can see endless stretches of field

overlapping the sunflower forest

that’ll go too before dawn

the ignited coals of my written

and verbal bonfire of expression

have plenty of fuel to torch an endless supply

of ideas and questions and passions

that’s the easy part

the idealized multidimensional

poet’s eye view

of how the world ought to be

how it will be

soon

but that type of flame only gives off

the black ashen smoke that burns the lungs

like tar from firestone tires

and even now the clouds gather with one another

forming layer upon layer of thick heavy ashen air

the cumulus with the nimbus

letting their powers combine

and where is captain planet anyway

he’s probably too smart to hang around

in this sweltering grey humidity

but as for me

i choose to get my buckets ready

cause when the rains do come

and i’m told they always do

i gotta be ready to fill my well

until then i dance the jig of the shaman

and dream about home

The Year After Infection: Winter segment

Zen and Poetry

out of any two thoughts i have

one is devoted to poetry

but i have yet to learn the importance of a line

no conquer pen

as would mountain

when climb

is not mountain also legs

when write

ink and paper control poem

as much as hand

i want to write another book but i can’t

i can only write poems

and now it seems even those are falling short

of my relentless search for truth

stop searching

but all i can do is write

then write

discipline in spontaneity

and spontaneity in discipline

its like a gentle swaying

an almost ocean like rocking

against the rhythmic crescents of my disjointed thoughts

joined only by the common constant desire to create

no focus

no control

no patience

no trust

do not try to finish poem

hopeless

only try to realize truth

then u see is not poem that is crafted

but only yrslf

creation is the bridge between me and allah

zen say stand by yr thoughts as u would a wide river

proverbs say diligent hand will rule

kant say greatest value in world to man

freedom of choice

so if i widen the bridge between

my valuable thoughts

and my diligent hands

what greater world am i free to create

what greater man can u choose to become

i take my tea the way i take my poetry

first thing in the morning

with two bags of earl grey

that have been soaking since last night

sipped with meticulous patience

its almost strong enough

if you don’t do the things u love

you will easily forget the joy u found in them

takes plenty faith to put down sail

and float to current

that current shall set u free

but taste of freedom is bittersweet

of this i know too well

i’m searching for that raw uncooked truth

so elemental that it has no composition

only decomposed atoms to its fibers

patience

let the poems right themselves

drugs are a natural thing to mistake it for

but i’ve tasted what’s real

no impulse

no thought

no patience

no truth

him that i felt could do for me is trapped inside

somebody that’s slowly killing me

and i didn’t even know he was there until now

abuses my use of time

puts poison into my body

he is choking the life from me as we very speak

this person must die a violent and horrible death

no, u must let him slip from the outstretched grasp

of your scarred and hang nailed fingers

slowly and quietly

and stealthily retreat into the night

no open mind

no open eye

no passion

no peace

in order to become a creator

i must first create myself

Work vs. Life

So, I'm kind of new to the whole blog thing. And I'm not exactly the most tech savy net connoisseur, so do bear with me as my page formats catch up to speed. In short, I'm an actor, an author, a poet, (Northwestern University, Go CATS!) and overall artist just making my path through the entertainment industry. I wanted a blog that would give me an outlet to tell my random industry stories, talk a little philosophy, and share a little poetry along the way. Now, does that sound like something you'd be interested in? 

My approach to acting is probably overall closer to a Lao-Tzu, or Ryokan style of study. On the road of life, treat everyone you meet as a master, and you can learn from all things. This is the way that I approach my training, and it seems to be pretty effective. I call it method living, rather than method acting because its not so much that I'll need to be 'in character' for days on end to get a real pulse on a role. Rather, I need to be in observer mode in order to adequately be the kind of artist I'm reaching to become. Its more of a lifestyle choice. People watching, situational humor, taking mental notes on conversations for later script dialogue, or even having a random conversation with a homeless guy on the long walk home, its all part of the actor's journey. 

"One may move so well that a footprint never shows,

     Speak so well that the tongue never slips,

     Reckon so well that no counter is needed"

                                              --Tao Te Ching

The concept of Creative Quietude, or Wu Wei, or "action without action" is to me the most fundamental of principles when it comes to acting and actual scene study. So much of the prep work is aimed at showing in an external manner that which is churning and longing inside the mind and heart of a character. Its the difference between "acting" an emotion, and "allowing something to happen" in that genuine, honest manner. A good example of this was my very first day on the set of 'The Year After Infection' (coming soon, courtesy of Vertice Films, llc) and the first couple of hours were basically me walking around in the snow, and approaching an abandoned house. My director Tony Greco couldn't believe that we were able to get through the shots so quickly, and I couldn't believe that shots with no dialogue could ever be such a burden on a film crew. Long story short, I had gotten the role after another actor had been released from the project, and apparently they had wasted way too much time on the sequence the first time around. What I needed to be able to accomplish, in essence, was to "do nothing" but to still make it look interesting. Walking up a hill of snow, walking down a hill, I might have even stumbled in the snow at a few points, but we breezed through that part of the day. There was never a moment where I was trying to be interesting in my doing nothing. That part has to happen on its own. Even though there was no dialogue, and not much happening other than walking through the snow, the bottom line is there's still a way to make it interesting. To make it real. Infinitely supple, yet incomparably strong...like a stream of water, or the iconic willow tree. The person who embodies Wu Wei acts without strain, persuades without argument, and is eloquent without flourish. 

The Rebirth of the Cool

The Rebirth Of The Cool

in the beginning god created the funk and the cool

now, the coolness was chaotic and without form

and discord covered the face of the deep

and god said

let there be peace

sparkling like diamond

gentle as the ray of the sun

an interstellar drum

with a cosmic heartbeat

and yes, there was the blues

that blacker than 1,000 midnights blue

eternal blazon of endless nothing

that chasm between reason and dream

the place i call home

and the cool was with me

the cool was in me

the cool was me

the cool knew me

the way i know

my very own name

sweeter than the taste of fresh cut sugar cane

we walked the yellow brick paths

of each and every dimensional plane

i sing a song for the cool

that melodic thumping in my ears drums

that comforts me just before i fall asleep at night

the gentle tap taps on the outskirts of my slumber

that whisper sweet nothings of peace and light

i sing a song for the cool

boogalooing jazz hall droplets of sweat

that glisten on brows of every color men

the mutated mind emissions

of castrated time transmissions

searching for a light wave

a loose-leaf page

and a pen

i sing a song for the cool

a post-modern influx

where faith is a crutch

hobbling thru fears of the day

our passions grow slender

but children remember

life is what unfolds along the way

syncopated sound waves

that sparkle like a moon ray

seeking out river bank reflection

resonant and free

we struggle not to be

sissified by delusive introspection

before there was ever any such thing as a wino or a crack head

we were cool

before there was ever any such thing as homelessness or aids

we were cool

before there was ever any single parent homes or halfway houses

or so-called holy wars

we were cool

me, i sing a song for the cool