For Lonely Poets who have Considered Suicide When the Truth Wasn’t Enuff

1.

my inner self feeds on the shadows of my 

subconscious, a feast that my super

ego can utilize to dine with the divine

but the id in me still hungers

my life, like others has been circumcised by stars

no, not those shining beacons of wonder and delight

westward leading, still proceeding toward an 

emaciated ideal glowing brightly in the east

the levitating bar

the internal glass ceiling

as a man i think myself 

to be master of the universe

as a poet i know i am

but what would your happiness be had you no public for which to shine

some cat named nietzsche said that 

like a hundred years ago

over in europe too

wonder how his 

lines can hit me

with so much 

truth 

2.

day follows day and its contents are added

the new contents themselves are not true

they simply come and are

truth is what we say about them

said william james

but the philosophers are dealing in shades

we who live and breathe know truth

with brutal intimacy 

truth, the hand that slowly twists

the jagged dagger into the muscle bound back of atlas

droppin’ 30 pieces of poppy seeds  on the way home

(a retrospective substance)

the noble nature of the great titan 

is steady silence 

eyes saddened and alone

veins pulsing and taut

condemned to gaze upon 

the harsh realities of the world 

from the outside in 

3.

the vampire doesn’t have to say

the light will kill him

he is already a creature of the night

it is the call of the wild black yonder that now beckons me

the shadow that my soul makes when it has fallen to earth 

the part of me illuminated into darkness

an unstill life silhouette of thus and thus

every time i gaze into this non-stop mental mirror

from behind a set of cool dark self mutilated eyes

reflections of my mental state are all that i can see

and yet the cracked lenses are uneven

the sharded pieces scratch and scrape the 

thick greasy membranes of my cerebral vortex

get stuck in crevices

plant seeds deeply

its gotta hurt

there’s just no other way

4.

the days of my childhood have long since ended/ ended but not forgotten/ i done moved on/ from rhythmical riffs of emotion and design/ to mutated distortions of thought 

and funk/ george calls it da cosmic slop/ a multilayered embryo of impulse and destroyed desire/ forced into flight before the hatching/ and even if these wings don’t never sprout

it ain’t gonna keep me from flying/ cause me and brother wind are like a pair of siamese twins/ separated at the medulla oblong-iforgotta lock the gate on the backyard of my thought patterns/ the unchained melodies have escaped me and continue to run free at 

this very moment/ they are breeding with stray mixed bred free verse mutts/ the off sprung mongrel aesthetics that will one day find their home in my pad need not fear/ for they can take nothing from me that i would not part withal/ except my pen sir/ except my pen 

5.

they raised the price on dreams again

now one must choke and bleed and vomit forth excellence

now one must exceed the boundaries of the skin 

just to dance the 2 step

but i gotta tap out savior glover beats 

across the hardwood floors of the milky way

and when i look toward the heavens 

in search of my constellation

my starry guide

i can’t make out the celestial bodies 

from those handcrafted flying machines 

that now plague our once friendly skies 

i never had that problem back home

and i don’t wish to defy gravity

i want to become one with it

only then will i truly be able to soar

6.

i accept my fate and await what may come 

joyfully 

like the gentle brown bear 

who snuggles in to his cave for the winter

knowing that spring will come 

whether he lives to see it or not 

it does come

7.

and when all else fails let the words be a prayer

a holy scripture offered up as sacrament 

unleavened

it is the spirit of my spirit that makes it rise 

never me, never me

8.

i must become like the shapeless smoke rising from a

single spark of incensed stick: nothing but motion, 

impulse, funk, with nothing left to do but spread

no greater power or higher calling or more urgent

matter than to reflect the light until dawn, with hopes

that by morning the people will have found their sunglasses

again

Meditation No. 2

i start

by noticing the stillness

of my body finally at rest

and i breathe

deeply

i try to keep

my thoughts gently flowing

like a calm and steady stream

instead they are like waves

crashing into one another

each swelling crest eventually

curling over and falling apart

into a thinly scattered layer

of serf and foam

there is a central current

from which these waves are born

i have not found it yet

i continue to breathe

deeply

i can not feel my fingers anymore

before me lies complete

and utter nothingness

void of any describable

physical quality

it sort of reminds me of the construct program

in that movie with lawrence and keanu

i am afraid

for i am truly alone

and yet i know this is the way it has to be

because this is the way it is

although no longer certain

if i am still deeply breathing

i begin to feel magnetized

to separate points

on either side of me

and now i am

stretching, twisting, bending

in opposite directions

that don’t necessarily

oppose one another

i do not resist

from some point behind me

i take notice of

or rather am noticed by

a great energy force

something i can not

see or touch or hear

and yet i can not

escape its presence

from some point behind me

a voice more sensed than heard

more felt than understood

enters my space

and all at once

my entire universe

is filled with song

just when i recognize this voice

as being neither internal

nor completely external

to my being

i receive words

to represent thoughts

yet i know they are

a poor imitation

i need to speak with you

the words express

and yet i know

i am the one

who needs it most

but where can i find you

the question

barely takes form in my head

before the answer sounds out

an echo in my mind

even as the words are uttered

in all things

and immediately

i think of at least

57 other questions

i want to ask

instead i find myself

slowly paying heed

to my breathing

the floodgates

of my consciousness

are opened once more

in an outburst

my thoughts

return to me

and i notice

that my foot

has fallen

asleep

A Class Act

I was flipping around youtube the other night (something I try to do as infrequently as possible, but sometimes, boredom wins out) and I came across the scene from Happy Gilmore where Bob Barker lays into Sandler on the golf greens. Truly classic comedy, and I would have to say, one of Adam Sandler's finer moments. But the true humor of the scene to me would be the irony of Barker himself. Not so much his age, but the man, the myth, the legend.

I met Bob Barker back in '05 or so. I was working at CBS as a paige. And one of the shows I got to work on was The Price is Right. So I was one of the guys in the red sports coats, and the job was pretty much to herd the crowd in to lines like an amusement park, and then get them all worked up to be in the audience of the show. Kind of a menial job, but I put my enthusiasm into it, and I'd like to think I was able to brighten up the experience for a couple of tourists from whatever fly over states they had travelled from. I mean hey, no reason to ruin someone's view of Hollywood if they still believe in all that tinsel town mess. But you and I know better.

So when I did finally get to shake Bob Barker's hand after one of the tapings, it was nothing short of amazing. The man is a paragon of classy. Everything from the crisp pin striped suits, to the trade mark long stem microphone, to the Johnny Carson ease of his humor (and of course that million dollar smile) simply exuded entertainment excellence. I'll never forget how easily he kept the entire crowd revved up, even while the show was in holding for lighting adjustments or whatever other million things can go wrong on a set. And yes I was more than a little dismayed to come across the article where the CBS people didn't even invite him back for the 40th anniversary special, but even then, he handled it with class and utmost dignity.

This is a man who deserves the utmost adoration that Hollywood can offer. The fact that network executives have by and large treated him as just another 'Joe says everything that needs to be said about the industry. But I just wanted to say a word or two about the man, and the level of classy sophistication that I saw in him. If he could withstand the trials of Hollywood and still come out that classy, then I should never have anything to complain about. When things get rough, and I get frustrated with an agent, or getting screwed out of payment on a movie, I think about Mr. Barker. I think about the legacy that he contributed to television. And I think about the fact that at least publicly, he never complained.

My World Poem

My World

midnight in t-town

and i’m clinging onto

a serene slumber

i

the dreamer

travel to an ideal land

troubled by a nation that only grows weaker

i conjure up a foreign world

and take notes for future plans

the natural poet that i am

causes my pen to never cease

and like a thelonius monk

in a mysterioso land

i travel in peace

spotted a place where everyone

practiced what they preached

and each sermon had a quote

from the bible of brotherhood

kind version of course

and even though nobody there knew my name

i still felt like cheering all the same

as i watched a land emerge

where the only status quo was acceptance

and the small percentage sharing my minor hue

although relatively few

were no longer seen as a threat of civil disobedience

finally a home where the buffalo soliders could freely rome

the mud stained plains of the wild wild test of time

that history lessons place on young children’s minds

minds left tainted by false pictures of the past

strategically omitting certain lessons from class

lessons of roots

that connect the vines of yesteryear

with the fruit of tomorrow

and like an ali-fraiser rumble in the cerebellum

these wide-eyed pupils are bobbin and weavin

and not even believin endless harangue

of professor david duke

so they ignore the pain

and eagerly await the anti self hate study groups

crammin’ to pass this week’s love lesson:

care for your neighbor as yourself

guaranteed blessin

and teachers find themselves possessin’

the time to teach what’s really important

since here they are the highest paid profession

the world no longer blind to the fact

sees that no sum of money could pay a teacher back

for educating our future

bridging our past

and stabilizing all the in between

nevertheless they do accept an increase in the green

and then i ran into a man overjoyed at the sight

of no longer embodying a national plight

no blazing fire

or racial muck and mire

followed his trail to every job interview

like langston he too sang america

but the darker brothers who made it thru

were no longer plagued by the chanting drums

beaten by new workplace chums

“oh, he’s so articulate

he’s not like the others

he just speaks so well”

meanwhile youth who dwell

on the underprivileged side of the tracks

no longer face the strife of a hard knock life

trapped in the high stakes game shows

of cultural jeopardy

win loose or proselytize

and wheel of immorality

where the only way to win these games is to not play

and that was never an option

and then i noticed that eracism

was more than a t-shirt

here it was a way of life

for the offspring of baby boomin’ idealists

whose impact on the world made a difference after all

sparked a drive for peace in all

and started a coalition truly rainbow

in thought as well as living color

hand in hand they marched

thru poverty and thru greed

thru jealousy and thru ignorance

and all the fires of dissention

that place man against man

and from the dying embers

rose the sweet vibrant smoke of serenity

stretching out to all corners of the land

creating a universal love more supreme

than coltrane could ever dream

and then

and

then

i woke up

smiling

at what might

one day be

reality

A Jazz Poem

What Makes A Woman More Than Just A Woman

what makes woman more than just a woman

is it the way her shadowed silhouette remains

etched in my mind after just one dance

the outline of gently parted lips

inviting me in with just a touch of demand

and right before our lips meet

i can just make out the lines that flow

down a soft smooth arm

bending to my will

while obeying hers

what makes a woman more than just a woman

is it the way her smile can light up every part of my soul

or the way her laugh can warm me

from my dreads down to my toes

is it the way her hair feels on my shoulder

as she is lulled sleep by my rising falling chest

or the way her heartbeat can find my rhythm

beat as one

and never loose a step

what makes a woman more than just a woman

is it the soft touch of her lips on the back of my neck

that feeling i thought could only be made

by a swaying palm tree

beneath a setting sun

that touch that makes my liver quiver

without one sip of spiced rum

intoxicating love

that spins me

bends me

and brings me back to earth

awakening to those soft warm arms

i feel the thinness of her skirt

the warmth of her body as she gets undressed

the curve of a thigh that demands to be caressed

smell that

that’s the scent of a field of roses

budding to greet the rising sum

wild flower and jasmine take human form

as my scorn is driven away by yet another

and yet i am smothered

by the aroma of one more shot at divine connection

our shared stolen moments of surreal expression

lead me to believe that she must be an angel from heaven

or else the devil in disguise

or maybe she’s the devil not in disguise

or maybe she’s an angel disguised as the devil

tempting me

taunting me

and showing me her way

what makes a woman more that just a woman

when i may never know which one of those she really is

and i don’t even care

what makes a woman more than just a woman

when i can taste the beauty of my future on her fingertips

what makes a woman more than just a woman

when i can say she’s mine

Network with Everybody

So today I did some extra work out in Brooklyn for a film called "The Lost Book of Rap". It was an audition that I didn't book, and I really didn't expect to hear from them. I don't usually go for extra work, especially when I know I won't be able to wiggle my way into a couple of speaking lines. But this movie sounded cool. So when I got the email first thing in the morning to show up at the shoot by noon I figured, that's a little unprofessional, but what the hey.

The experience turned out to be a great one. The movie featured some classic hip-hop artists that me and pretty much everyone else I know grew up on. I met Melle-Mel, Grandmaster Caz, and like half of the Sugar Hill Gang. The moral of the story was, you really never know what's going to come out of a film shoot until you show up and meet the people. I didn't know if it was really going to be worth my afternoon, but I ended up networking with a lot of actors, handing out a bunch of business cards, seeing a really awesome church choir, and meeting some of the most iconic hip-hop artists ever. Triple awesome. The mantra rings true, you really can't judge a book by its cover, or in this case, a movie by its backstage ad. If there's one thing I've learned about acting in New York, its that you never know who's sitting next to you. It could be a nobody, it could be the billionaire heiress of In and Out Burger. You never know. So network with everybody. The least you'll come out with is an entertaining story.