late in high school, and my year off......

......were spent keeping soberness at bay
during daylight hours
And trying to drown it at night
Only to wake the next day
And try again.
i'm still not sure
what my grudge was
with sobriety.
but i'm still
pretty sure
it deserved it.

Daggers

As my fingers caressed the small of her back.
I still remember
not just what she said,
but how she said it.

‘Why are you touching me like this?’

She told me from the get go
that she doesn’t use the word ‘love’
I told her it was overrated anyway

Oxycoton and heroin
Taught her feelings,
And I had become another hangover

She consumed me,
Anytime she felt lonely and bored
a common void bonding us together
But only at the edges
we spent our time fighting or fucking
To grab, poke, stab, bite, yell
At something outside ourselves.

Even our cold shoulders
Were loud, defiant
And jagged

But there were quiet moments,
In bed,
With cigarette smoke and sweat
Her tracing my tattoos
over and over.
My lips,
speaking slow
Gently touching
Old bruises,
More ancient than either of us felt

that was when she got
Demanding.
Each word carefully
Sharpened into a
Barbed and accurate dagger

‘Why do you touch me like that?’
Her voice slicing the space between us
Eyes begging for the answer.
I would smile, confused
And say, because these
are beautiful moments

thinking that
Our violence,
For a moment,
Together……
Could be all love is

Reminding her
softly of this emptiness
The way she reminded me
Through daggers of words
That pierced my insecurity

These serene moments are tiny scars
Wondering if I touched her like that…
With delicate daggers on my fingertips
Just to remind each other of the voids
we were seeking to destroy

Salvation Incorporated. - Eric Victorino

total poet crush on this guy right here.......

"I dont think
people who believe in god
are stupid.
plenty of very
intelligent people
have faith.
some of them
have even read the bible.
i've read it.
and i think its a great story
its a fucking best-seller
for Christ's sake."

excerpt from a great fucking book......

"i hope this book enters into the mix, bringing academics, performers, and all who care about a society in a postmodern, postindustrial world together, dropping some knowledge and breaking down some barriers. i hope, too, that it does something to dispel the pernicious notion that rappers are somehow non- or anti-intellectual, or that in describing the crises facing urban American and the world they are somehow glamorizing or advocating the conditions of which they testify. On the academic side, i hope that no one will any longer be able to think of music or poetry in the late twentieth century without assigning rappers a primary place, both out of an awareness of the urgency of their message, as well as on account of the tremendous poetic power and variety of their expression. and for rappers themselves, and everyone in the vast and growing hip-hop nation, i hope this book will help make evident the mulitiple connections between hip-hop's insurrectionary knowledges and the historical and societal forces against which they are posed, and in so doing expand and strengthen the depth of our determination to 'fight the powers that be'."
-Russell A. Potter
Spectacular Vernaculars: Hip Hop and the Politics of Postmodernism

"I love quantum physics so much.... I just think I'd be calmed by the solar flares."

A friend on wanting to see the Northern Lights

Paroled Fable Thieves Intro piece (TJ & Kristen Tomanocy)

We live in this house of language
This cathedral
of oratory masters.
this castle of tradition
dug with fricatives and dipthongs
poured meaning through these sounds in order to cement stories
My bones never mortared themselves
for Aristotle's corinthian mantle foundation
but they hold up the rafters
while hinged lungs from the past sing back and forth
with every door we open and close in the hallway
my tongue drags along the doorknobs
wanting to taste every story with these words
starving for the ferment of cellared ancestry
I taste the spilled blood like iron in the hinges
my shins hold up the dinner table
plattered with a history of every noble hearts evocation
so listen
when you live in a house created by the
howls of human need, extending the limb of language,
a lost tongue in a shadowed cave of a mouth
you feel the echoes of your next door neighbors
So stop sitting down
stand
Raise a primordial scream like a battering ram
because the labored breath of
these creators is rattling through us.
demanding to be heard
We can own this.
Read this.
Channel this.
Lyric this.
Love this.
The words of our people typewrite themselves
through our toes on this hardwood floor.
write this. write this. write this.
Move like you have been given
the chance to construct stolen sonnets,
we are nothing but thieves in this mountain of crumpled pages
oragami masters
adding new folds from our own experiences
delivered through our breath as a gift
to decorate anothers barren dwellings
Because when you inherit this beautiful, ancient
temple of a house
all you can do
is listen to it.

Un-Friended by my grandfather!!!!!

My grandfather, also a writer, sent me this after i posted the link to the first anthology of the Intangibles "Static: and Other Lungless Things" on his facebook page.



Awesome!
if you want to see what i posted on his page to elicit such a response, visit here http://poetcd.com/index.php?item=285

Upcoming shows........

Tuesday, Dec 8th
Binghamton, NY
the Premier of .........






De Saussure’s concept of ‘Parole’ deals with concrete, actual instances of a language and is not concerned with grammar, syntax, and rule. As torchbearers of the oral tradition, we acknowledge the embodiment of the story in its moment, concerned with being over meaning, making each performance unique. Nothing new can be said, but it can be presented in new ways, and is; Every time something is performed.

Closing Paragraph from my undergrad philosophy thesis on archaeological theory....

My only concern as we set out on our path of self-discovery through the past, inching forwards towards a more comprehensive understanding of our beginnings is that we will exhaust our data, our ability to find and excavate new sites before we can reach a honed and accepted method of archaeological discourse. A place where different fields of thought, theories, and data will all work collectively in critically tying together the threads of our past into a tapestry of learning and achievement. We should view Archaeology as archaeology. Borrowing from other fields as seen fit in the course in inquiry, and acknowledging new methods that can be checked and appropriated in a proper place with regards to our biases will enrich all of our endeavors.

Eros and Arson

I watched her gently pull a camel non-filter out of a half empty pack as if she was an archaeologist, uncovering some ancient relic to be viewed by mankind for the first time in millennia.

Delicately placed it between clenched front teeth and grinned as I leaned forward with my lighter.
She leaned back away from the flame, paused, and said with a gleam in her eye,

“lets just burn the whole fucking thing”, one eyebrow slightly raised in a challenging manner

“what,” I said, “this bar?”

She leaned forward again, kissed her cigarette to the flame I held never breaking eye contact, inhaled, took an infinite second to savor it, and shook her head, wild mane of brunette hair sweeping over her shoulders as she exhaled.

“all of it,” she said, “you, me, us, the system, all of it”

I smiled back slightly, quietly wishing it was the bar she wished to engulf in her fire.
The ease with which all of this alcohol would ignite and spread made it an acceptable thought process, something within my realm of possibility.

We were silent for a few thoughtful drags of our cigarettes, my free hand gently massaging her stocking covered thigh, sliding under the hem of her skirt.

I suppose it was too late to turn back.

Yes, we were already prisoners of this world… but here, with only us in this closed bar, we were defying labels, redefining intimacy, love, passion, and comfort without conscious attention to our actions and repercussions.

But I never thought myself capable of destroying these socially cemented notions that chart our course in the world. I only checked them like a jacket at the door when we stole time alone here, never forgetting to collect them again as I left.

Our cigarettes finished, she stood, stepped over and pressed her body into mine, seeing if the friction of our heat could melt us, could spark raging infernos that would reduce society around us to ash,
and her lips gently caressed my neck as she whispered,

“this is whats real, and it can never be burned or destroyed”

And I watched her saunter out the door, back into the world, no baggage of labels to pick up as she set off to set the world ablaze.

understanding perception and beauty and art

http://bitsofwisdom.org/2009/10/21/interesting/perception/

YOU WANT TO GO TO THERE!!!!

another road trip story....... of a different vein

Road trips with Bryan Lee

old short story

just published an old short story, give a read.......
its a hoot!

http://authspot.com/short-stories/why-i-can%E2%80%99t-go-to-canada/

why I write not type

Sometimes sitting down and typing feels alien ot me. The keys are never punched in the right order, constant backspaces and retypes are here that you will never even know about. Instead I will leave all of them in plain sight for you to reall yobsever what I am talking about, although I suppose iwill at least strike through the misplaced words and nonsensicsal retypes that would help to make this a more readable projecet. I even catch myhself automatically backspacing and trtyping before I have a chance to allow them to be solidified inot reality and notn just a momentary blip of my mistake to be covered up and disguised like a blemish on the face of a model minutes before a shoot.

Bar Napkin Scrawl circa 2005 Ricmond, VA

Eternal Recurrence

If you are reading this, upon completion of this thought process do me a favor.... sit still, breathe real slow, and try to imagine yourself not existing. An atheists death i suppose, just picture one minute you thinking and feeling and seeing, and the next just blinked out. How difficult is it to imagine oneself Not Existing. Yourself in the first person sense gone. It seems overwhelming to try and imagine. Sometimes when my mood strikes a particular combination of things (tiredness i believe being one of them), i can feel like i'm standing on the edge of that abyss of existing/not existing. Only for a moment or two, then its gone.

During that moment however, i'm filled with a powerful feeling, one of recognition, a sense of understanding almost. It's as if i have teetered on that ledge before and quickly backtrack my process of living and end up here again. Those of you that know me understand my fascination with Nietzsche. One of his ideas crops up here, that of eternal recurrence. If your life does flash before your eyes, like some people say, i guess that would be it. If you truly do get a flash of life right before your eyes that only lasts a moment of 'real time', it would still feel like your life being lived over again. Every minute of it. Horrible, painful and mundane, fun and excrutiating. Nietzsche says that one should model their life over this idea that you have to relive every second of your existence eternally.

Now some astronomers and the like would say that given enough time and space, everything that could happen, has, and then all thats left (given there is still an infinite amount of time) gets repeated over and over again, a sort of cosmic re-run. What makes us so arrogant as to think that this is the first run through? Is it possible that we have all gone through these motions before? My typing, your reading, just another lap around the same track. Well hopefully, the first and original go round you have read this (or something similar, i won't presuppose the arrogance that my writing is the catlyst for where i am going with this) and changed afew things to make the reliving as enjoyable as possible. However, just in case this is the first go round, you (and I as well) should make a few adjustments to ensure that we can have a more enjoyable eternal recurrance.

And if not, if all of this is nonsense and you find it trite and irritating, just picture not existing. Or come as close as you can. Maybe you'll get that tingling little sensation that you have done this before.

Laughter

I feel that laughter is one of the (if not THE most) essential characteristics of the human condition. If you are not of this belief and feel affronted by the fact that i place laughter this high on my list, then please, carry on about your miserable, dreary life. However, if you are of the regard that there may be some truth to aforementioned statement, then please, join me in this venture into the mysterious origins of the human consciousness and laughter.

Many times within the poetry slam community, i have heard different versions of the 'stay away from funny poems', or 'bring the darkness' (a mantra i have grown to absolutley despise), or just people who do not have one shred of humor or lightheartedness in any of their material. Even a horrible cynical or sarcastic comment counts for me as humor, and is appreciated. Once, I remember in Texas for nationals, a poet (I believe from Texas), did a poem about how he can't laugh anymore (he might have been referring to poetry, i hope actually, as admitting that you can no longer laugh is the most dismal and slow of deaths and also draws a bit of bitter angst towards that person from myself) because of his job dealing with kids who have been abused. One of the poets i was with turned to me after that poem and said that from that point on in the bout, no one would be able to do a funny poem.

I scoffed (well i'm not sure if i scoffed really, but that is how i am going to recount this bit of personal history), and said that was exactly why there needed to be funny poem. To show the absurdity and stupidity of the earlier poem. Those are the kids that need laughter the most. There is no nobler goal than to swallow the pain and senseless violence in the world while returning nothing but a smile and chuckle of laughter to acknowledge the duality of all things in the universe. To only be willing to witness and take part in the travesties of human nature, no matter how golden paved the intentions are, is only a lonesome highway to the depths of a personal hell. So enough of this, and on to the laughter (which is far overdue in this writing exercise i know, but you may skip to the end for one my favorite jokes if you like, i'll wait)!!

Laughter has been called many things, none of which (that my limited experience has brought upon me) seem to be completely false, and also i might add, none of which seem completely true (in the sense of being a primary factor above all others). Some of my favorite explainations were along the lines of pshychology, but in a very amusing manner. The first one i wish to bring up was 'the secret in laughter is a return to nature'. I'm not sure how well founded this is, as mother nature would be a strange model to emulate our silly giggles and grins to (in a cynical or sarcastic sense, well maybe even in an ironic sense i can understand this as the basis for humor), yet it places laughter in a position older than speech and conscious thought, which i like.

A more eloquent and more obviouslly pshychological approach is that laughter is "the result of suddenly released repression, the physical sign of subconscious satisfaction". Another dandy idea, and in many cases would seem to carry a bucketfull of water, but again, it doesnt quite strike my sensibilities (maybe it does yours though? please leave me some comments telling me what you believe about the glorious joy of laughing).

I will keep it simple (if that is even in the realm of possiblility for myself), in that laughter is the soul, running an old tin cup across the iron prison bars of the body, remembering what it was like to be free. It makes us human, allows us to dance on the tips of razor sharp truths, and kiss the blunt end of reality when it delivers sledgehammer blows to the face. So i will leave you with a bad joke that i love (are there really any other kinds of jokes to love really?), and hope if you dont laugh at the joke, you will laugh at the idea that i think it is so grand a one.

Why is it that people never hear rabbits having sex?

cotton balls.

Salinger, Myself, and Writing

If I've never told you, J.D. Salinger is quite possibly my favorite author. Of course most peoples initial reaction is 'oh Catcher In The Rye'. Not my favorite of his works. Personally it doesn't hold the same pinache and gusto contained within Raise High the Roofbeam Carpenters, or my absolute favorite Seymour-An Introduction.

His chaotic parenthetical whimsy of oration (i see this particular writing style as much more relating to actual speech than a stale page) is a thing of splendor. I like to think I myself relate to this style, partially from the uncanny ability to spend endless hours recounting stories that branch out in tangents and become their own roots, whose shoots never quite blossom before new seeds fall and take root on their own (yes, i tend to ramble and lose the main track of my argument or story). They way in which Salinger addresses the reader (like i myself have taken on here), is inspired. He brings up the amusing question of how can an author know who his audience is? The reverse is easy. So to you few readers (as i highly doubt i have some inordinately large reading base like some of the intangibles) I, like Salinger, apologize for this long winded and verbose explanation that a better poet would be able to state quite simply.

What i am trying to get at, is the reason that poetry is difficult for me. It is difficult for the same reason that 3 day trips for fun become a burden. I simply have no idea how to pack. A visual image, a thought, a smell, are things that i cannot simply compose in a line like many of the great poets i know. I have to wander around it, through it, cradle it gently (or roughly, depending on my mood), to relate it to everything i know (or as much as i can possibly stand, which is most likely a little bit more than what you would be able to tolerate yourself as the reader). So Poetry becomes a task of taking off layers and layers to reach some sort of primordial essence that will transcend the brevity of description and magically (in the very best of conditions, which is usually our goal isn't it?) add those layers again once the reader (or listener i suppose) allows themselves to be affected by this prose. This skill i am lacking (as should be apparent by this writing which for better or worse seems to be my natural style). So for those of you readers (if any of you are still there even) who made it through this, i appreciate it, and will be making more of these journeys around the peripherals of my psyche instead of what many would consider prose in order to sort out and alleviate this incessant chattering (whether its aloud, or simply in my head).

My problem with Psuedo-science

It's actually not what you think. My problem is the term itself. Science has gained such a stranglehold on western knowledge in the last 200 years that now any other system of knowledge and belief (especially ones that are considerably older) are deemed childish, fraudulent and laughable. You know those crazy fundamentalist evangelical Christians that preach all madness, that they know the only true way? yea, throw a lab coat and a pocket protector on one, and you got a scientist. They are belligerent and racist. Any indigenous peoples are silly and misinformed about the world they inhabit because they don't have science. Many scientists believe that science is the only lens in which to view the world, its dogmatic, and personally i find it sad.

Last time i checked, astrology did not directly result in the depleting of our ozone layer. Alchemy had no part in the mass industrialization of Europe, leading to the genocide of native peoples and the raping of fertile lands for resources around the globe to feed this monstrous (yet invisible) giant we call science. Why? Well because the priests.... i mean scientists tell us that we need to advance our knowledge so we can understand the world and make it better! What has gotten better in the last 200 years? menial comforts, length of life, health and travel. Yet we've lost our habitat, the natural wonders of our planet, and some of its marvelous creatures as well. But guess what, we STILL all die. Don't worry though, the preachers..... i mean scientists say they can fix that. And if you try and look to stars for answers, they'll laugh until the toxic fumes of their breath blocks out everything glorious around us.

new article i published..... quitting smoking

My newly published article......

Captain Nemo (based off of 20,000 leagues under the sea by Jules Verne)

He rose from a small hatch of iron
to be struck with a fierce saltwater breeze
standing inches above the water line
and scanned the horizon

a lone ship's mast could barely be made out on the horizon
he sneered at the vessel
wanting to laugh contemptuously at the poor ship
and the poor souls within it, held by the mercy of the sea,
trapped by the colors of the flag that swayed atop the little ship

he climbed back into the hatch, sealed the door
and ship began to dive.
to his domain.
a truly existential world of him,
and the seemingly infinite deep.
A playground and research area
free from the oppression of everything human.

A man of no nation, but one with struggle
His past pain guarded with the same steel plates that protect
His crew from the pressures of the ocean

The first post-industrial westerner
to live a completely green existence
he makes your hybrids look like toxic waste dumps
Everything he and his ship needs provided for
by the ocean he hides in.

The maniacal zeal of exploration
And advancement for everything deemed great
For a race he no longer wanted a part of
Yet couldn’t ignore

I understand his contempt
Often wish to disappear under an ocean of solitude
Leave behind the violence and anger
Plaguing our civilizations

This will not help though
And we need all the great minds we can muster
But he already knows that
And he does not want to do an injustice to mankind
And leave his lessons in the depths of his mind and sea

turning away from humanity and man
does not make him separate
does not strip the sinew and fiber of
his soul away leaving a more educated being
and his going under, does not necessitate
rising above man and our shortcomings

his ambition and zeal impress all who have witnessed it
his knowledge and vision scatter any thoughts of insanity
but his fear, and resentment,
his distain and contempt...

that is what will lead him under
and in the end will be his going over

Must See Site!!!!!

quite possible the most genius thing EVER.

i especially like the cain and abel one.........

best sandwich ever!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM KFC knows what it's doing.......

print these stickers, and put them on other peoples books!!!!

i love this

Dia and Corin, this one's for you guys.

hahahahahaa

shamelessly hoping for a repost on Kristens blog.....

Here is why i picked these pics for her potential repost........ no makeup

good comedic quotes........

there are some real gems here

sometimes i really love art

this is friggin awesome

Dia....... especially you will like this
and make sure you scroll across the opening page, its a long mural of this guys work

Basky Vs. Bristol Museum

hahahhahaa

For Omni:

Kurt Vonnegut inspirational posters..........

This is crazy, cool, inspiring, and just beautiful....

gotta love earth......

pit bulls and breedism.......

new article i wrote on pit bulls

too easy

my response the this article about choosing facebook over myspace being equivalent to 'white flight' from the ghetto's and essentially making facebook users racist

my revelations from court.......

after going to court at the end of tour........
here's my synopsis of the american legal system

new poem

check out my poem here....
its about my wonderful bus ride after tour, which was a result of being arrested and having my license confiscated.

celebrating Al Franken; much more than just a democrat senate win

check out my new lil article.....

Yea Al Franken!!

new post.......

if you got a few seconds........ and you do if you are reading this......

go read this and show me some love.... or criticism

http://www.socyberty.com/Gay-&-Lesbians/A-Quick-Word-on-Gay-Marriage-and-the-10-Commandments.834991

UPDATE/support

ok so i have been trying out a site that publishes material for me, and i would like yall to help me out by checking it out.

this is the first snippet i threw together......

http://newsflavor.com/opinions/tarnishing-the-legend-of-mj/

it wont be poetry, or personal things for the most part, itll be my thoughts on social issues surrounding us these days. i may be a windbag in person sometimes, but my writing is pretty short and concise. so take a gander, leave a comment, make me feel like a real author. thanks yall.

shadows

one thing i never accounted for was my shadow. how can this two dimensional patch of shade ever cause me harm? yet here i am, trying desperately to get away from it. I tell myself that it is high noon, and that warmth envelops me, but i can see the suns long rays cast eerie mirrors down upon the places i used to say were most familiar. they have an ominous tone now,and strange elixir of feelings is swirled up within me, trying to discern threat from illusion in my psyche.
i considered sitting in total darkness waiting this spell out, but i was afraid of what the shadows can do when not fettered to their orignal, to their real, counterpart. Who would be the one to say which is real? which is original then? so i stay with the lights on, clutching thoughts way past the logical reasoning portion of the show, and speculate wildly. madly. incessantly. i wait for the shadows to drag me away, but they never flinch from their fun house mimicking.

Part of my conclusion from my undergraduate thesis on archaeological theory...........

As time progresses, and we continue to check and reference established theories with new methods of critique, scientific advances, and more data from other sources, we will see how well theories can stand when put in relation to the world around us. We will always have to go back and check the work done before us because every time we look at it, we gaze from a different viewpoint, and its important to keep looking at a theory because we continue to see it in a new light that will either further support it, or raise questions that need to be addressed.
My only concern as we set out on our path of self-discovery through the past, inching forwards towards a more comprehensive understanding of our beginnings is that we will exhaust our data, our ability to find and excavate new sites before we can reach a honed and accepted method of archaeological discourse. A place where different fields of thought, theories and data will all work collectively in critically tying together the threads of our past into a tapestry of learning and achievement. We should view Archaeology as archaeology. Borrowing from other fields as seen fit in the course in inquiry, and acknowledging new methods that can be checked and appropriated a proper place without bias.

Meeting with Nietzsche

Primordial stone structures rise out of the ground like the most stubborn weeds in a steadily maintained garden. These buildings, not painted like the bright tiger lily’s and daffodils just a couple blocks east, were a reminder of antiquity of man. The stones themselves, rings, visibly announcing their age. I opened a tall arched door of one building and went up the steps to room with the only lit window in the place.

A small lamp burned dimly in the corner of the cramped desk. Hunched over a series of papers his hand feverishly dashed back and forth across parchment, pen swirling in a constant battle with his brains commands, and the fingers responses. As his left swept a heavily inked page over to reveal a new challenge, his right released the pen, tried to stretch out and relax like the dirt encrusted hands of a three card molly dealer on street corner, but was unable to extend very far.
His hands were old and worn. Not in the calloused way, strengthened and protected from years of hard labor. These hands were worn from holding a pen for too long, from the emptiness that hand carried around otherwise, never knowing the feel of another in a mutual interlocked grasp. No jewelry adorned any of fingers above the swollen and gnarled knuckles he fumbled with every day. I’ve heard it said that one can see the soul through the eyes, but his hands were the doorway to his soul.

“did the sight of these buildings when you were little, force your hand to write like this?” I asked him.

“Well it would take a lot of force to have a hand leave a mark on this building, it’s made of heavy stone.” With an incredulous look on his face, he turned back down to the desk and paper, the pen and struggle. His body language gave off the impression of someone annoyed with a disturbance of his solitude. Breaking his focus on the tug of war with the pen was a grave offense, one not to be forgiven easily. I proceeded down stairs and out to the street without another word, and headed east towards the daffodils and tiger lily’s.

This is Coy Dog. he kicks some serious ass.

and the song is from my man Bamboo Mc, his new album Woodgrain is out now!!!!!

stagnation

if i sit down in the morning and write one page of my thesis, i feel accomplished.... and then waste my day with other things. However, this doesnt even happen most days. I can talk about my thesis for hours, including many of the citations and elaborate on theoretical backgrounds without missing a beat. There is something about the act of writing that drags me down though. I've been acting recently like the keys on my laptop will give me a rash if I touch it too long. Even this blog has been dormant, no dumping of psychological shit into an accesible online medium for people. Of course there is a myriad list of excuses i could drudge up and parade around for no purpose other than for an 'ad hoc' justification of my laziness.
So here's to scraping that little bit of mold off the cheese, and then enjoying some crackers and cheddar. You know its fine, but you're still paranoid about not getting all the nasty mold of it, and so it leaves a strange taste in your mouth, even if its only in your head.

let's briefly describe what happened here in the dale a few days ago

MAHYEM.
this is video from one of my good friends, who sat in her living room and caught this during our 'meso-cyclone'. picture this happening everywhere in the area i live. it happened on friday, parts of town are just starting to get their power back (which does not include myself and carmen, we will most likely go another day or two without).

Look! its Jimmytheloch!!!

Lines that lost their Poems (Or that i was too lazy to write)

1. if poetry can be called the map of the mind
then i would like to lay out and geographically define
my valleys and mountains evolution over time

my valleys I've learned well
ancient floodplains of overwhelming emotion
that has sculpted and shaped the landscape of my actions
eternally leaving behind scars
that millions of thoughts from now
will resemble the surface of mars.

2. pulses of laughter are the soul
running an old tin cup
across the iron prison bars of the body
remembering what it was like to be free

3. I used to be able to say that I've never fallen face-first for a woman,
although my elbows and hands were scraped and scarred
from catching myself all the time
and so I thank you
I've never been so happy to lose teeth and bloody my nose

4. I used to go to a coffee shop that force-fed starving artists
the way we force our art into the world
without being asked, and without expecting thanks....
Thank you Ethos Cafe- Richmond, VA

5. Reminiscing in dead languages
lost like a modern day pagan is
praying up to the moon's gleam
just a pale reflection of what it really used to be

6. When i read Nietzsche, 'Holy Shit!'
is what comes to mind
both as an exclamation, and a description
I'm sure he would have it no other way

the first video blog

since i have been posting so many videos, i figure i should just do a video blog.....

awesomness and laziness

i am feeling lazy, hence the video posts recently. so here is a break from poetry....

oh, and as a side note, if i ever got just one wish from a genie, it would be the ability to do this here.............

more amazing poetry

Lauren Whitehead, graduate of U of Michigan at Ann Arbor. A woman i am proud to have shared a stage with, and have spent some quality time with. this is utterly mindblowing. learn something today.............. check this out.

i stopped into burger king today for a whopper junior to hold me over for the afternoon and got confused.

i think this is because burger king is confused. they have free wi-fi now. because i know so many of us would go to BK to eat and just wish that they would have internet access so we could stay all day long, thank got they got on that.

they have happy hour now? for soda?? seriously? thats your marketing ploy... happy hour?

To the big wigs of BK:
you are not a coffee shop. Not a nice hangout spot for the afternoon while we blog all day (as i am doing now from a coffee shop) and leave smelling like deep fried food and grease.
you are not a bar. you do not serve alcohol and therefore cannot make it a "happy" hour.
So please cancel your plans to have acoustic open mic nite, you are a fast food joint. that is it. and that is ok, we will still love you and patron your establishment.

your customers.

spend some time in the other room

this may be one of the nasiest team pieces i've ever seen. ever.

as someone struggling with both academia and my creative outlets, this poem resonates with me in ways that make my skin crawl and get all goosebumpy.

from the poets of WASH U (in St. Louis) at the 2009 CUPSI, i present to you 'the other room'

For those of you that have no idea what im doing after leaving NY to head to the midwest for grad school, i present you with my thesis question(s)/statement. for those that care its from a linguistic anthropology standpoint, basically orienting myself within the interaction between language and culture.

What functions do poetry slams serve in indexing relations to marginalized groups while building a sense of community? In what ways do poets manipulate and utilize different paralinguistic features and performative tools to engage an audience? How do these events serve to educate the public, specifically the younger generation about social issues, interpersonal relations, identity and the nature of poetry itself? These questions will form the basis for gaining an understanding of the cultural phenomenon that is poetry slam, or more descriptively, competitive performance poetry.

god of science

    i brought up a point in my archaeological theory class today that i wish to expand upon. Class discussion focused on who owns the rites to tell the story, and preserve the remains of native american cultures. Many people claim that science, in the name of greater understanding of all humans should be able to catalog and analyze artifacts, human remains, and other assorted features found in the archaeological record. 

     This is contested by many tribes and organizations. Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGRPA) was a major act of federal legislation (passed in 1990) that limits what american (traditionally white) archaeologists have to do with cultural artifacts and human remains. It gives native groups a voice in deciding what gets done with the remnants of their ancestors and their culture. Some natives are not very hospitable to archaeologists and scientists for good reason. The founder of american anthropology Franz Boas,  a pillar of anthropological ideals who fought hard against scientific racism, would go to tribal burial grounds at nite, dig up graves, take the skulls and then sell them illegally to museums and other research institutes in the name of science. This was a major epidemic of western scientists feeling that they owned the rights to anything that would help advance the scientific understanding of people and the world, without caring about the people who it affected. 

     This is where i draw the parallel of science and religion. Western science is the new religion. Its dogma, any other view of the world is misguided and silly. Science can explain things better and more accurately, giving them the authority to usurp other peoples views and belongings because they possess the true methods of understanding the world. When i brought this up, a student tells me that there are religious scientists, so my analogy is false. I bring up the fact that there are Buddhist Christians, and his only response, partially joking, is that maybe buddhism isnt a religion then.

    Scientists are like fundamentalist christians in many regards. They do not challenge the assumptions and the box that their cosmology was created in. They claim greater evidence because you can 'see' and 'test' what they pronounce as fact. It is a different epistemological approach to knowledge, but much of philosophy (especially philosophy of science) shows how unstable many scientific foundations are. A.F. Chalmers is an excellent example of this, his book "What is this thing called Science?" was hugely influential in helping me understand the codified and dogmatic ideologies that permeate what is understood (or misunderstood) as to how science works better than religion.

    Im not knocking science, i use it all the time, am fascinated by it. But i also understand its shortcomings and how it can be used to justify ideological and political ends, like racism. For example, in the 1930's the most predominate school of science in the US was eugenics. No one spoke against it, even though today it is a black mark upon the history of science. Forced lobotomies, sterilization, and other atrocities were committed here for the sake of keeping 'morons' or genetically inferior people from reproducing. This also included unacceptable moral behavior!!!! my great grandmother on my fathers side got married when she got pregnant with her third kid, not because she wanted a husband, but because a single women with more than two kids was morally deviant, and would be institutionalized so she couldnt pass on these assumed genetic behavioral traits!!!!! This was the same science that Hitler directly used to support his Aryan movement in the mid 30's and 40's.

    Any system of knowledge has flaws. any system of knowledge tries to exert authority over world views in order to maintain is status as being 'truth'. This causes even the most noble of intentions to have ghastly and dark applications in the name of what is good. Science is no better than religion, its just another mask to be worn for justification of the status quo.

haiku

A smile all day

electronic residue

from your AM call

words are easily

the only thing i think about

when i am awake

the difference between

postmodernists and myself

is that i exist

things i learned on tour............

some new insights after tour.......... a la Omni (updates coming)

1. Jail, just as shitty as you can imagine

2. Jail food, waaaaay worse than you can imagine

3. geoffery dahmers mother is a saint

dahmer's mother

4. brittany spears is a damn good mother too

Brittany as a mom

5. Bamboo, Zev, and B-Nice can work a fucking hip hop show

6. It's good to have a kick ass tattoo artist who will post bail for you

7. Joseph LMS will be one of the godparents for my first child

8. Everything is better when Carmen is around

9. Naomi can do a fantastic Bukowski impression

10. The intangibles know how to fucking party (well, i knew this, but i needed to reiterate)