‘09 Spring Show Footage, Day 2
Posted by Garrett Carey | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Show Poems, Video
Video Playlist
‘09 Spring Show Footage, Day 1
Posted by Garrett Carey | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Show Poems, Video
Video Playlist
iPod
Posted by Garrett Carey | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
by David Warner and Garrett Carey
WE ARE MUSICAL NOTES
shaking beat-down accords on BX corners,
tracing the wavelength of Caribbean heat.
I’m a Pac verse over a Neptune beat,
all the confused righteousness and fire of a young martyr
lain over a sea of spacey purples, glistening silvers, and shiny patton leather reds.
I’m a reggae scat sung way too fast for anyone to understand,
with way too much rhythm to ignore.
I am the drunken squiggling path from the ass to the dancefloor.
I’m Jazzy Jeff and Primo scratching Robert Frost,
til the woods become ‘hoods,
and the road not taken is made of concrete and chalk outlines.
I’m Marvin Gaye, softly singing TS Eliot
over music made for making babies. I’m the space
between every song in your iPod and
a scribbled idea in a notepad,
so put us on a playlist
pop in your headphones and
PRESS PLAY.
Quiet, like disease and morning coffee.
Raindrops jealously echo licked lips
watching from the wet window glass as we
watch each other’s naked writhing bodies–
PAUSE!!! SKIP.
I spit from lips laced with land mines,
launching lethal language left and right like hand signs
from a tongue like a tech 9, t-t-tech 9.
I wreck lines, line after line like coke addicts.
So rapid, so fast its like two lines ago (tech 9, t-t-tech 9)
ugh, automatic.
PAUSE. SKIP.
My systematic schematic
is to break static, and make emphatic wakes
with every step I take. I don’t rap,
but I get slack and phosphatic.
I’m ecstatic to say that my socratic cliches
can relate. I have a habit to create.
The fact is, you don’t have to make sense
to make cents, and I’m just as sick as any
talentless nigga paying rent with wack shit.
PAUSE. FAST FORWARD.
My systematic schematic
is to make static and break emphatic wakes
with every step I take. I don’t rap,
but I get slack and phosphatic.
I’m ecstatic to say that my socratic
cliche’s can relate, I have a habit to create.
PAUSE!!! SKIP.
Speak to me,
four words with life,
live!
Can I sew us into something
changing and inconstant?
The dashing we do changes everything.
PAUSE… REWIND?
Everything changes.
Do we?
Dashing the inconstant
and changing something into us
so I can live a life
with words for me to speak.
STOP!!! Please stop!
Needless to say, we can do this
all day. We are poets.
And if you don’t let us spit
we’d probably explode with witty quips
and gritty drips of what it is.
So do your best
to find at least one poet every day and
PRESS PLAY
Dear Beach
Posted by Chloe Wayne | Filed under '08 Fall: Notes from Underground, Poetry, Print
i went to the beach this morning
packed just my Raybans, this notebook, and two Coronas
went by myself– would have brought some friends,
but didn’t want to be alone.
the shore was blissfully empty
like silkscreen seconds before an Andy Warhol piss job
or a masturbating afternoon sun
enjoying her post-peak release
hours before the moon comes and fucks her into oblivion.
today is Wednesday,
and i’ve come to free myself,
by myself
didn’t bring any friends because
sometimes New York City nightclubs
and crowded dinner tables get lonely.
and i’m tired of looking for myself
in my loved ones
or at the bottom of an empty shotglass
just to find distorted reflections-
you can blame my hazy vision on the alcohol
but i know
that i’ve only ever seen myself clearly
in one person’s eyes
and he doesn’t come around here anymore.
today is clearly not a beach day because i’m the only person here,
i guess Monday boxed everyone into suits and ties
and the workweek isn’t over
but the earth doesn’t dance to the thumping of their calendar
or bop to the ticking of their mass-produced clocks
it’s only Wednesday because they say it is
and i’d rather be deaf with two left feet
even if it means i’m lonely and the other kids won’t play with me—-
today,
i’ve got my own sandbox
reconstruct memories in hand castles
collect sea shells the shape of nostalgia
swim in my father’s tears and wish he believed in the glory of a high tide
uncrumple my mother’s broken down spine
with seaweed that i stretch to the sky
and my first love is two baby crabs upside down
that look like blood red hearts beating side by side
new and uncertain against grains of flesh
cuz our butterflies haven’t migrated away for the winter yet.
i’ve never needed church or religion, and I’m only 19
but these days I find myself – palms pressed,
knees itching to genuflect, and
wondering if God has gills
if he can carry downpours on his shoulders
swallow the sea and never choke on his own sanity-
i’m wishing for a rainbow sign
but the floods only multiply with age and time
someone up there spits on my white flag and mocks my flailing hands
as if to say i should have learned to swim or pray before Judgment Day.
friends are not fish, after all
and love is not a lighthouse…
so when trust becomes a sinking ship,
i go down with it–
hope can only float so long
until the bubbles burst into
angels’ breath and i’ve just got foam and fantasy left.
i’ve learned to count on nothing
but an unyielding past and my mother’s cracked fingers
but today, i have the beach to cradle me-
i sift through her for olive leaves
the waves tumble like sapphire bass beats
the seagulls…they’re just Miles Davis on a bad day
my footprints Sketch Flamenco in the sand
and the sky looks Kind of Blue
infinite like something i’d jump into
i’ve always wanted to get behind the horizon
see if shit is brighter on the other side
wonder what i’d find if the ocean and the sky
could stop lovin’ just long enough for me
to unseal their lips and jump into that space
once benighted by their kiss.
and i know
it’s only been three minutes
and that’s the third time i’ve used love as a metaphor
to describe things that are so – far – away
but i need to believe it exists somewhere -
so dear beach,
here’s my message in a bottle-
i pray that some people can be mermaids
breathe life into the rest of us
whose lungs may crumble under the brutal tentacles of time,
i pray that little girls can find glass slippers and pearls in your arms,
that i can grow old as your sands and still push the tide from my back
and that tomorrow,
someone else will find this.
