‘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
Army of Gods
Posted by David Warner | Filed under '09 Spring: Dream of a Ridiculous Man, Poetry, Print, Show Poems
Sit still
Sit still
Sit still
Two words that hit like “kill yourself”
As her toes tapped during math class
She didn’t look like much
Just a shy little girl
clothes too big for her
And a smile too small for her age
But lil did they know…….
The clothes were still too small for her soul
And the smile was the wry smirk of warrior
So she tapped her feet
slow and steady
til the tap tap became a BOOM BAP
and heaven could see the vibrations
Now she’s a goddess
The ground shakes under her
Rattling like the space between lovers
Jittering like the tips of fingers hanging
from hands waiting to touch someone new
Quaking like lost hearts
Rumbling like a war zone
As she floats like an angel deflecting bullets
And saving soldiers
Moving with every boom
like a speaker pulsing with every beat
Like bombs were bursting in her abdomen
And shrapnel was bouncing off her ribcage
Carving her heart into a dagger sharp
enough to cut through diamond mines
she doesn’t dance
she marches
toes pointed like AKs
shouldered by rebel soldiers
never holstered
ready to give everything til she’s empty
and her body lays limp in the hushhhhhhhh
SHHHHH
Shhhhhhhhhhh
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Just a sound to most
But to me a death sentence
As I whispered rhymes
over a dirty mead notebook
with my eyes closed
to a distant toe tap on the other side of the school
No matter what my age is
I was made to blaze stages
11 yrs old and already spitting lasers
I’m the king
There was nothing intimidating about me
6’ limbs hanging from a 5’ torso
all tied together by braces and ugly glasses
but the truth is
those glasses were x-ray binoculars
used to see into the souls of everyone around me
the braces were to hold in my teeth when I spit
cause I always had a voice bigger than my lungs could carry
With a heart bigger than my brain and a mouth that intercepted the words
before the two could communicate
Now I’m a God
And I chuckle at the days when teachers tried to stifle us
Everyday another suggested suicide
Every period another death sentence
Chalk flaking off pointed fingers as they asked us
To fold our wings under our backpacks
Fasten our lips
And walk and talk like everybody else
Squeeze in with the mortals
lol
the two of us
we’re an army of gods unto ourselves
this is our Mt. Olympus
So next time you see a kid tapping his feet
Or scribbling in a notebook
Or doodling on his hands
Or fidgeting with a broken watch
Be quiet and observe
You’re witnessing a god in the making
