jueves, 6 de octubre de 2016

SAUL WILLIAMS [19.213]


Saul Williams

Saul Stacey Williams (29 de febrero de 1972, Newburgh, Nueva York) es un escritor estadounidense, poeta, actor y músico conocido por mezclar la poesía y el Hip-Hop.

Discografía

Álbums/EP

Penny For A Thought/Purple Pigeons (2000)
Amethyst Rock Star (2001)
Not In My Name (2003)
Saul Williams (2004)
The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of NiggyTardust! (2007)
NGH WHT - The Dead Emcee Scrolls with The Arditti Quartet (2009)
Volcanic Sunlight (2011)
MartyrLoserKing (2015)
Colaboraciones y recopilatorios[editar]
"Twice the First Time" en Eargasms - Crucialpoetics Vol. 1 (1997)
"Elohim (1972)" en Black Whole Styles (1998).
"Ohm" en Lyricist Lounge, Volume One (1999).
"Coded Language" en Coded Language de DJ Krust (1999).
"Release" con Lyrics Born y Zack De La Rocha en Blazing Arrow de Blackalicious (2002).
"Time (Jungle) (Temple Of Soul Mix)" en Nublu Sessions, mezclado por Wax Poetic (2003).
"Sent from Sandy Shores" (con Sacajawea) en Dreams of Water Themes de Adventure Time (2003).
"Wake up Show Freestyles" de Sway and King Tech (2004).
"Three Fingers" en Enter the Chicken de Buckethead (2005).
"Sea Lion (Extended)" (con Will Oldham) en "Sea Lion" de Sage Francis (2005).
"Mr. Nichols" en Sound Mirrors de Coldcut (2006).
"April Showers, April Tears" en ¿What de Stuart Davis (2006).
",said the shotgun to the head" en Thomas Kessler de Thomas Kessler (2006).
"Survivalism" y "Me, I'm Not" en Year Zero de Nine Inch Nails (2007).
"Gunshots By Computer" y "Survivalism" en Y34RZ3R0R3M1X3D de Nine Inch Nails (2007).
"Lyrical Gunplay" en Thru de Thavius Beck.
"Dance Of The Dead" en The Unbound Project, Vol. 1 un álbum recopilatorio en favor de Mumia Abu-Jamal.
"List Of Demands" en Nike Sparq Commercial.
"Black Stacy Remix" con "Nas".
"Act III, Scene 2" con Zac de la Rocha.

Bibliografía

En inglés

The Seventh Octave, 1998, Moore Black Press ISBN 0-9658308-1-0
She, 1999, MTV/Pocketbooks ISBN 0-671-03977-6
,said the shotgun to the head, 2003, MTV/Pocketbooks ISBN 0-7434-7079-6
The Dead Emcee Scrolls, 2006, MTV/Pocketbooks ISBN 1-4165-1632-8
Chorus, 2012, MTV Books ISBN 1-4516-4983-5

Traducida al castellano

Los manuscritos de un EMCEE muerto, 2008, Visor Libros ISBN 978-84-7522-669-9

Filmografía

Downtown 81 (voz) (1981/2000)
Underground Voices (1996)
Slam (1998)
SlamNation (1998)
I'll Make Me a World (1999)
King Of The Korner (2000)
K-Pax (2001)
The N Word (2004)
Lackawanna Blues (2005)

Televisión

Girlfriends (2003)





“los hombres de negocios servirán a la humanidad 
los líderes mundiales se volverán hacia sus madres en busca de consejo  
y las madres buscarán inspiración en sus hijas / ... / 

la historia de Jesús se contará como un cuento de niños  
en el que su nombre será reemplazado por el de cada recién nacido  
y las familias celebrarán cada nacimiento como el renacer del mesías  
y toda la gente creerá que toda la gente (ha sido) elegida”.






CIUDADANOS,  
hijos de la noche,  
portadores
de la antorcha del día  
chamuscados
y abrasados. 
NO ARDÁIS.  
el dique se ha roto
/ la maldición se ha derramado. 
(antes) enfangado y quieto, 
(ahora) el río fluye 
¡ROJO!




CITIZENS,
children of the night,
bearers of the day torch:
scorched and burned.
BURN NOT.
the dam is broken.
the curse is fled.
once muddied and still,
the rivers runs
RED!



Los manuscritos de un EMCEE muerto
Saul Williams
Visor. Madrid, 2008. 362 páginas, 16 euros

Por AINHOA SÁENZ DE ZAITEGUI 

Poetas muertos que, de estar vivos, serían rappers: Wilmot. Byron. William Carlos Williams. Catulo. Cualquiera con dos dedos de frente.

Si la lírica (como su nombre indica) nació con la lira, Los manuscritos de un EMCEE muerto es el regreso a un futuro poético de hip hop introspectivo. Borges de la negritud, Saul Williams dice haber encontrado en el metro de Nueva York ciertos escritos dentro de un bote de spray para graffitis: el desciframiento de estos textos sagrados de la vieja fe no es sino una descodificación de la nueva cultura. Las ocho partes del poema (“Deidad NGR”, “Amatistas”, “Meditaciones prematuras”, “OM”, “1987”, “Sha clack clack”, “Lenguaje codifuntado”, “Siete montañas”) emulan la continuidad rota de la Biblia, además de su origen y destino trascendente: “Dios, concédeme alas. / Soy demasiado bueno para no volar. / Tengo los ojos cansados de ver a los humanos sin alas. / Así que remonto el vuelo. Y me hacen cosquillas / las plumas de las alas. Vuelo histéricamente / sobre la tierra. / Numéricamente hablando, / soy siete montañas más alto que el valle / de la muerte, siete dimensiones más profundo / que las dimensiones del aliento” (“Meditaciones prematuras”, capítulo 1). El profeta Saul psicoanaliza el graffiti a partir de su padre, el jeroglífico egipcio, y estudia el ritmo que controla nuestros músculos y nuestras emociones en términos de ancestrales dioses despedazados: “La música de los ghettos, del cosmos, de los negros, / de los necros: los vencedores de la muerte, / los discípulos del aliento. Disección de redobles / igual que Set lo hizo con Osiris” (“Deidad NGR”, capítulo 28). Es paradoja, pero al monje contemporáneo sí lo hace el hábito: “Unos Guess lavados al ácido con parches de piel, / luciendo las Diadora blancas con la sudadera con capucha / a juego. Con dos relojes de la marca Swatch / y una pequeña cartuchera de Gucci. Podría haberme puesto / la de Louis, pero la dejé en casa” (“1987”, capítulo 1). De la tradición se evocan los motivos: “El cuerpo de Cristo de estos NGRs que intentan ser becerros de oro” (“Deidad NGR”, capítulo 14). Y se imitan los símbolos: tres consonantes (NGR) que heredan el poder atávico del tetragrámaton (YHWH) para nombrar Lo Innombrable: la etnia como ciclón.

Williams redacta la Sagrada Escritura desde Génesis a Apocalipsis, toda ella apócrifa, toda verdadera. Sus negras Madonnas son Juanas de Arco contra la misoginia estatalizada, el lento genocidio de la especie humana minoría por minoría, el racismo institucional como enésima enmienda a la Constitución. La nueva genealogía extiende sus ramas hacia cultos antiguos y modernos: “Robenson, / el hijo de Dios, Hurston, Akhenatón, / Hatshepsut, Pies Negros, Helena, / Lennon, Kahlo, Kali, las Tres / Marías, Tara, Lilith, Lourdes, / Whitman, Baldwin, Ginsberg” (“Lenguaje codifuntado”). Etc. Es el inacabable name-dropping de quien lleva la cuenta. Todos estamos en El Libro. “Asesinado por vuestras teorías de muerte” (“1996”), el poeta resucita en música y verso. La suya es palabra de vida. 



CAPÍTULO 1

PUTO NGR. El gatillo de la pipa. El glande grande. ¿Para qué follar? Asesino. Derramador de sangre. PUTO ladrón. Un donjuán. Mala suerte tener que follar con este machote negro. Bigger Thomas, lo juro. Deja un cadáver en la caldera.
¿Deidad NGR? Soy complicado. Incluso mis andares chulescos. De la misma manera que cojo la pistola, sobre el costado, como si fuera un cachorro. Acaricio el gatillo. Lo hago destornillarse de risa. Creerás que soy un humorista por la manera en que estalla.
¿Deida NGR? Represento las cenizas y el polvo. Todo el hollín que sube de tu chimenea. Te tengo atascado en la rutina. Puedes disparar o no, fulano, te estoy matando. Puedes ocultar tus deseos. Incluso Buda sufrió cuando lo mandaron al otro barrio.
¡NGR, ahora estoy de pie en la esquina de la interjección! Las exclamaciones me apuntan porque disparo estos sustantivos. Yo hice que esos chicos inventaran adjetivos. Me estoy haciendo con un nombre. Porque soy yo, NGR, ¡claro que lo soy!
NGR, por favor. La tierra, el aire, el fuego y los mares. La tercera dimensión. La cuarta dimensión, la quinta dimensión. Fácilmente. Todas esas porquerías que nunca imaginaste. Yo hago que alucines. En la puerta de tu casa con mi escopeta de cañones recortados. Yo hago que te pongas de coca hasta arriba.
¿Deidad NGR? Oye, fulano, no voy a llamar a tu puerta. Ábrela. Ahora que ha llegado la hora de encontrarte con tu creador, no voy a cambiar el argumento. Eres el actor de una serie. NGR, soy el dueño de todo. Y aquí estoy para pagarte tus royaltie como si fuesen monedas de oro guardadas en un caldero.



CAPÍTULO 2

Ahora quizá me estoy poniendo demasiado Sirio.
Demasiado pequeño para que se me tenga en cuenta aquí.
Aunque el sol me da la razón.
Un cometa cómico con audiencia de pulmones.
Este cuerpo de risa, ¿está conmigo o contra mí?
¿Depende del matiz? Humano, aunque el género es mudo.
Y el chiste se sustenta en la raíz.

Soy una estrella. Esta es una vida de suburbios.
Viajo todos los días. Hago la misma ruta a diario
entre el sol y el botín terrenal. Y crío a mis hijos
a la altura de la luz y de la verdad.



CAPÍTULO 6

Bajo la superficie de nuestra finalidad yace el rumor
de una lluvia ancestral. Vestida con un rostro de nube,
canta como un juglar al cielo. La luna es mi madre.
La tormenta acapara mi mirada.

Vestida con vientos del oeste. Ataviada por Paul Robeson.
El río Mississippi conoce mi nombre. Y la razón por la que
        naciste
es la razón por la que vine.

Saúl Williams en Los manuscritos de un EMCEE muerto.

Traducción de Silvia Barbero.



Children of the Night

And out of the sun's gates come little girls in dresses of fire
wearing pigtails of braided smoke which stem from their moon cratered scalps.
The glowing seeds of a nightly garden that will blossom into full moons 
          irregardless of the sun,
Veil the night in the seven names of the wind through the tales of their 
         wind blown fathers.
Who will father these mother's of light?
And what will become of me?
Children of the Night.

Only some will star the sky.
Only believers in death will die.
And fathers must feather the wings of women.
For the unfeathered masses dangle ridiculous,
carrying crosses to phalynx filled tombs.
The future sells silence through blood rivered wombs
that ripple with riddles of cows and spoons, and birth, moons, earths and suns 
         centered at noon.
She buries her eggs in the soil
and plants her feet in the sky.
Soil seeds the circus of carrots and clowns,
and minstrels show our desires.
And here I stand
court jestering infinity,
fetal fisted for revolution
but open hands birth humility.
Now what is the density of an egoless planet?
Must my spine be aligned to sprout wings?
I'm slouched in the slingsleps and kangoled with gang reps
but my orbit rainbows saturn's rings.
Mystical eliptical presto polaris karmic flame future with saturn and aries.
And now i'm a fish called father
with gills type dizzy,
blowing blood and liquid lullabies through the spine of time to tranquilize the 
         nervous system's defeat.
At the feet of the river the children are gathered or rather buried in that mass grave 
         site of the night.
They are the seeds of light planted in the sky
but the night and skies are meaningless to their unearthly eyes.
They are our children playing chess on the sunburnt backs of one eyed turtles.
Check mating a life time slow crawl to enlightenment.
They cash in their crown and glory for magic and contradiction.
The children of fiction
born of semen filled crosses thrust in cavalry's mound.
With memories of mañana's millenium.

The gravity of the pendulum,
the inscription of the grail.
The rumors of one famine and diseases and storms of hell.
All hail the new beginning, behold the winters end.
Bring on the puppets and dragons as the ceremonies begin.
For they have come to shatter time and bring back the dead newborn,
an army of me.
Bearing change in the frontline and shadows in the field mines,
the wilderness and the lights in the city.
I have seen them.
A tumultuous army of bastards and beggars, mad men and idiots,
witches and harlots, dancers and lunatics, singers and sinners,
losers and lovers, students and teachers, poets and priests.
Orbitting the realms of the ordinary through the ordinances of those ordained 
         by the beast.
These are our children, love laden life lanterns casting shadows that shepherd 
         the flocks.
Crying wolf in the moons full at sirens of love's lull.
The offspring of gibraltar's rocks.
Who will deny him and thrice crows the cock?
Will it be you, Peter?
Decked in demiers denial masquerading in matter overminded, under-trialed.
Self is the servant to serpents with wings.
Three is the beginning of all things.

Try angles to rectangle your wings,
let vision blur,
let your naught deservings disintegrate.
Pile stone, unearth ancient learnings.
See self as the ghost of your servings.
If you're serving the father, there's no son without mother.
Parent bodies discover water bodies and drown.
Wade me in the water until atlantis is found.
On the seas of ourselves, i'm starfish and unbound.
Heard the name of that mound is stone mountain.
Underwater volcanoes erupt water fountains of youth,
less this carnal equation cancel out truth.
Throw me beyond sometime and drench me waterproof.
Let leaves drop forever, rain sun sets on my roof,
as I sit on the front porch of my sanity,
deciphering ham bones to van gogh,
this vanity oiled egoes canvased and framed to be reborn,
unborn,
unburied,
unnamed.
A reflection through a bloodstained glass window of souls gone yellow around 
         the edges.
Carbonated dreams and blurred daily lives.
But let family bring focus.
Out of swamps blossom lotus.
The muddy water blue daughters of infinity.
Gravity, we water bodied bhodisatvas our serenity.
As we rise with the tides towards divinity.
And she will be raised by wolves just below the masonry dixon line,
where eagles noose the misuse of osiris's omega papyrus in their claws clenched
so that the vultures of our memories may feast upon the remedies of ancient laws 
         lynched
and flop to the treetops of the forethoughts we have forgotten.

Yes silence will be begotten of the wind.
The silver eyes of the darkness are her friends.
They sometimes plant forever in their dens.
On the mountain side but sometimes now and then, between the rise and set of you 
         and I
may blue visions know the depths of liquid skies.
And some ask me if she cries in the night, and there's a subtance of her tears that 
         drench the days with light.
****, you better hope she do.
'Cause they're riddled with fur coats and painted faces dancing at the porphyries 
         of perfection.
They eat chinese apples that stain their teeth red and they'll cap a cosmos of chaos,
and in a moments notice the children are on the train.
Selling chocolate with their mothers in the background,
fundraising their dreams from the dead.
And the authors of order are corresponding catharsis and change the leaves of my 
         needs from orange to red.
I need fruit and vegetables,
for these living things can feed the span of wings,
thus she was born to charter my flight into the blues of night.
I am the darkness that preceeds the light.
A pupil of the sea's reflective sight.
Notebook in hand, I footnote land and write.
Plot dot dot dot and dot my i's is right.
And cast my lot amongst the Children of the Night.


Untimely Meditations

CHAPTER 1

Time is money. Money is time.
So, I keep seven o’clock in the
bank and gain interest in the 
hour of God.  I’m saving to buy 
my freedom. God grant me wings.
I’m too fly not to fly. Eye sore
to look at humans without wings.
So, I soar. And find tickle in the 
feather of my wings. Flying
hysterically over land. Numerically,
I am seven mountains higher than
the valley of death, seven dimensions
deeper than dimensions of breath.

CHAPTER 2

The fiery sun of my passions 
evaporates the love lakes of my 
soul, clouds my thoughts and 
rains you into existence. As I take 
flights on bolts of lightening. 
Claiming chaos as my concubine 
and you as my me. I of the storm. 
You of the sea. We of the moon. 
Land of the free. What have I done 
to deserve this? Am I happy?

CHAPTER 3

Happiness is a mediocre standard 
for a middleclass existence. I see 
through smiles and smell truth in 
the distance. Beyond one dimensional 
smiles and laughter lies the hereafter. 
Where tears echo laughter.

You’d have to do math to divide a 
smile by a tear, times fear, equals 
mere truth, that simply dwells in the 
air.  But if that’s the case all I have 
to do is breath and all else will follow.
That’s why drums are hollow.

And I like drums. Drums are good.
But I can’t think straight. I lack the 
attention span to meditate. My attention 
spans galaxies. Here and now are immense.
Seconds are secular. Moments are mine.
Self is illusion. Music’s divine.

CHAPTER 4

Noosed by the strings of Jimi’s guitar, 
I swing, purple-hazed pendulum. Hypnotizing   
the part of eye that never dies. Look into my: 
eyes are the windows of the soul is fried chicken,  
collards, and cornbread is corn meal, sour cream,  
eggs, and oil is the stolen blood of the earth, used 
to make cars run and kill the fish.

Who me? I play scales. The scales of 
dead fish of oil slicked seas. My sister 
blows wind through the hollows of fallen 
trees. And we are the echoes of eternity. 
Maybe you’ve heard of us.

We threw basement parties in pyramids.
I left my tag on the wall. The beats would 
echo off the stone and solidify into the 
form of light bulbs, destined to light up 
the heads of future generations. They 
recently lit up in the form of: BA BOOM
BOOM OM. Maybe you’ve heard of us.

CHAPTER 5

If not then you must be trying to hear us
and in such cases we cannot be heard. We 
remain in the darkness, unseen. In the center 
of unpeeled bananas, we exist. Uncolored by 
perception. Clothed to the naked eye. Five 
senses cannot sense the fact of our existence.
And that’s the only fact. In fact, there are no 
facts.

Fax me a fact and I’ll telegram a hologram
or telephone the son of man and tell him he 
is done. Leave a message on his answering 
machine telling him there are none. God and 
I are one. Times moon. Times star. Times sun. 
The factor is me. You remember me.

CHAPTER 6

I slung amethyst rocks on Saturn blocks
until I got caught up by earthling cops. They 
wanted me for their army or whatever. Picture 
me: I swirl like the wind. Tempting tomorrow 
to be today. Tip toeing the fine line between 
everything and everything else. I am simply 
Saturn swirling sevens through sooth. The sole 
living heir of air. And I (inhale) and (exhale) and 
all else follows. Reverberating the space inside of 
drum hollows. Packaged in bottles and shipped to 
tomorrow, then sold to the highest NGH.

I swing from the tallest tree. Lynched by 
the lowest branches of me. Praying that 
my physical will set me free ‘cause I’m 
afraid that all else is vanity. Mere language 
is profanity. I’d rather hum. Or have my 
soul tattooed to my tongue. And let the 
scriptures be sung in gibberish. ‘Cause 
words be simple fish in my soulquarium. 
And intellect can’t swim.

CHAPTER 7

So, I stopped combing my mind so my 
thoughts could lock. I’m tired of trying 
to understand. Perceptions are mangled, 
matted, and knotted anyway. Life is more 
than what meets the eye and I.

So, elevate eye to the third. But even that 
shit seems absurd when your thoughts 
leave you third eye-solated. No man is an 
island. But I often feel alone. So find peace 
through OM.



1987

CHAPTER 1

Acid wash Guess with the leather patches, 
sportin the white Diadoras with the hoodie 
that matches. I’m wearing two Swatches and 
a small Gucci pouch. I could have worn the 
Louis but I left it in the house.

My NGHs Duce and Wayne got gold plates 
with their name, with the skyline on it and the 
box link chain. I’m wearing my frames they 
match my gear with their tint. And you know 
Lagerfield is the scent.

My NGH Rafael just got his jeep out the shop. 
Mint green sidekick. Custom made ragtop. Strictly 
Business is the album that we play. “You’re a 
Customer,” the pick of the day.

CHAPTER 2

There’s a NGH on the block. Never seen him 
before. Selling incense and oils. My man thinks 
that he’s the law. But why on earth would this be 
on their agenda as he slowly approaches the window.

Uh, uh, I’ve seen you before. I’ve been you and 
more. I was the one bearing the pitcher of water. I 
rent the large upper room furnished with tidings of 
your doom or pleasure, whichever feathers decree.

Yo, Ralph, is he talking to me? No I’m talking to 
the sea sons resurrected. I’m the solstice of the 
day. I bring news from the blues of the Caspian”

My man laughs. He’s one of them crazy 
MTHRFKRs. Turn the music back up. ‘Cause 
I’m the E double.’ “Wait, but but, I know the 
volume of the sea and sound waves as I will. 
Will you allow me to be at your service?”

My man Ralph is nervous. He believes his 
strange tongue deceives and maybe he’s 
been informed that he’s pushing gats,  Hidden 
in the back beneath the floor mats. “Come on 
Jack, we don’t have time for your bullshit or 
playin,  As Salaam A somethin or another.” 
“Wait isn’t Juanita your mother? I told you 
I know you. Now grant me a moment.

CHAPTER 3

At the gates of Atlantis we stand. Ours 
is the blood that flowed from the palms 
of his. Hands on the plow, till earth ‘til 
I’m now. Moon cycles revisited. Womb 
fruit of the sun. Full moon of occasion 
wave the wolves where they run. And we 
run towards the light. Casting love on the 
wind. As is the science of the aroma of 
sleeping women.”

Lost in his eyes.  They soon reflect my 
friends are grinning. But I’m a pupil of 
his sight. The wheels are spinning. “Yo, 
I’ll see y’all later tonight.”

CHAPTER 4

In the beginning her tears where the long 
awaited rains of a parched Somali village.
Red dusted children danced shadows in the 
newfound mounds of mascara that eclipsed 
her face, reflected in the smogged glass of 
Carlos’ East Street bodega.

Learning to love she had forgotten to cry,
seldom hearing the distant thunder in her 
lovers ambivalent sighs. He was not honest.
She was not sure. A great grandfather had 
Sacrificed the families clarity for gold in the 
late 1800’s. Nonetheless, she had allowed 
him to mispronounce her name, which had 
eventually led to her misinterpreting her 
own dreams and later doubting them. But 
the night was young.

She, the first-born daughter of water, faced 
darkness and smiled. Took mystery as her 
lover and raised light as her child. Man that 
shit was wild. You should have seen how 
they ran. She woke up in an alley with a gun 
in her hand. Tupac in lotus form,  Ennis’ blood 
on his hands.

She woke up on a vessel, the land behind her, 
the sun within her, water beneath her, mushed 
corn for dinner. Or was it breakfast? Her stomach 
turned, as if a compass.  She prayed east and lay 
there breathless. They threw her overboard for 
dead. She swam silently and fled into the blue Si.

CHAPTER 5

La So Fa Me Re Do Si. The seventh octave. I 
don’t mean to confuse you. Many of us have 
been taught to sing and so we practice scales.
Many of us were born singing and thus were 
born with scales.

Myrrh-maids cooks and field hands sang a 
night song by the forest and the ocean was the 
chorus in Atlantis, where they sang. Those thrown 
overboard had overheard the mysteries of the 
undertow and understood that down below there 
would be no more chains.

They surrendered breath and name and survived 
countless as rain. I’m the weather, man. The clouds 
say storm is coming. A white buffalo was born 
already running. And if you listen close you’ll hear 
a humming.

CHAPTER 6

Beneath the surface of our purpose lies rumor of 
ancient rain. Dressed in cloud-face, minstrels the 
sky. The moon’s my mammy. The storm holds 
my eye.

Dressed in westerlies. Robed by Robeson. Ol’ 
Man River knows my name. And the reason you 
were born is the reason that I came.

CHAPTER 7

Then she looks me in the face and her eyes get 
weak. Pulse rate descends. Hearts rate increase.
Emcees look me in the face and their eye’s get 
weak. Pulse rate descends. Hearts rate increase.

Emcees look me in the face and their eyes get 
Weak. Pulse rate descends. Hearts rate increase.
It’s like ‘Beam me up, Scottie’. I control your 
body. I’m as deadly as AIDs when it’s time to 
rock a party.

We all rocked fades. Fresh faded in La Di Da Di.
And when we rock the mic we rock the mic right.
But left’s the feminine side. Ignored the feminine 
side.

I presented my feminine side with flowers. She cut 
the stems and placed them gently down my throat.
And these tu lips might soon eclipse your brightest 
hopes.



Said the Shotgun to the Head (extract)

CITESENS,
children of the night,
bearers of the day torch:
scorched and burned.
BURN NOT.
the dam is broken.
the curse is fled.
once muddied and still,
the river runs
RED!

"ALL
those ships that never sailed
the ones with their seacocks open
that were scuttled in their stalls
TODAY
i bring them back
HUGE AND INTRANSITORY
and let them sail
FOREVER!"*

if ever
there were currents
uncurrent

the wind
could not serve as
truth's currency

CURRENTLY
MOON MARKED
AND
SUN SPARKED
UNMARKED BILLS
i AM
CERTAIN
i SPEAK A NEW LANGUAGE

as is ALWAYS
THE FIRST SIGN
of a 
NEW AGE

i had begun to believe my blackened toenails
were on the path to decay when, in truth,
they had begun the gradual process of
CRYSTALLIZATION.
i am he who walks on wind scorned feet with toenails of
AMETHYST AND ROSE QUARTZ.

my path now crystal clear.

i AM COME TO TELL YOU
SHE IS HERE.

it is not written
NO pen MAN ship
was ever CARGOED
with her character
NOTE:
BOOKS ARE CAREFULLY FOLDED FORESTS
void of autumn
BOUND FROM THE
SUN

Likewise, she made her residence
ON THE OUTSKIRTS
OF A SHADOWING HISTORY
ON THE DARKSIDE OF THE MOON
where the searchlighte of the sun
COULD NOT SPOT HER
nor rot her
the seed of forbidden fruit
every tree
HAS A HIDDEN ROOT

YET, SHE HAS
COME TO LIGHT

THE SWELLING PATCHWORK
OF VIBRANT DREAMS

YES, THERE IS A SCIENCE
TO THE AROMA
OF SLEEPING WOMEN

(AND TO THINK OF THE GIRLFRIEND i WAS TEMPTED TO BREAK UP WITH 
BECAUSE SHE SLEPT TOO MUCH)

i now know, they NURTURED her there:
they slept in packs
dreamt in cycles
NURSED HER IN SHIFTS
and became her
ON ROTATION

unnamed her

everytime she was named
so she would not be known to anyone

(even unto herself)

undressed her

everytime she was dressed
so she would not be
recognized

as anyone other than herself

they blindfolded her
and spun her
in circles
so she would
find her way here
by no other means
than her intuition

and
she
is
come

i am a simple disoriented man
in her presence

i wear my loincloth
over my eyes
and ejaculate
too soon

forgive me father
for i have sinned

i prayed to you
and cupped
the wind

and in doing so
barred her entry
into a century:
100 years
of solitude

(yes, the wind is the moon's imgination wandering)

i will now pray
with my hands

outstreched
with these psalms

etched
into my palms

9:

most beloved,
i am certain of nothing more
than your existence

a thousand ants
crawling under a log
may find themselves exposed
in my childlike search
for you

(...)

my kali flower
i am eternally destroyed
by your love
no longer
am i eligible
for any worker's
pension

my friends laugh at me
and talk behind my back
they say you have
changed me
and
i am

i am like a survivor
of the flood
walking through the streets
drenched with
God
surprised that all of the
drowned victims
are still walking and talking

maybe there's hope
i rush to each victim's side
sucking what i can of you
out of your various
incarnations
pumping their stomachs
and filling them

to touch them
is to touch you
to kiss them
is to kiss you

my friends,
love is an artform
slightly removed
from its element
one may ask
well what does this mean?
i respond
i've made it up
but it shall be
from now on

from now on
cities
will be built
on one side
of the street

so that soothsayers
will have wilderness to wander
and lovers
space enough
to contemplate
a kiss

she kissed
as if she, alone,
could forge
the signature
of the sun

i closed my eyes
although
i never knew
the difference
i stood before
a brighter light
at lesser
distance


and then, a feeling. Almost as if nothing were ever bound to repeat itself again. As if history had been as masterfully created as the great pyramids and any attempt to reconstruct or relive any given moment would have to stem from an understanding of how the pyramids were built from the TOP DOWN.


and if one could understand such majesty one would also understand that kisses hold codes for unlocking new portals and that pyramids were first made of flesh

our bonded souls
shifting through
hidden corrals
and passageways

i will find my way
to eternity
within you

when i can feel you
breathing into me
i, like a stone gargoyle
atop some crumbling building,
spring to life
a resuscitated
angel

i sweep through city streets
my wings out-stretched
making mothers
clutch their young
and remember

and do you remember, dear ones
or has your history forsaken you?
there were tales told 'round fires
mysteries coded in song
chants and uprisings
centuries of art
all incantations
calling forth this day

on this day
the drunks vomit in unison
'though last night they drank from different cups
children laugh and play
introducing their parents
to invisible friends
a country girl smiles
and two trees blossom
out of season

sea sons awaken
our mother has returned
to wave us
from uncertainty
once tidal

twice born
of wooden ships
thrice formed
through mother's hips
mother ships
graced tu lips
a poet's garden

"2 for 5"
"they're going fast"
the future's bargain
"that's strange"
"i heard my name"
the river's parting
"hurry up"
things blurry up
the sun is darkened

rivers
like oceans
oceans
like answers
questions
in cloud forms
raindrops
in stanzas

to be
or not to...

to see
or not to...

she has eyes
like two turntables
mix(h)er
in between
my dreams and reality
blend in
ancient themes

the bass is of isis
(basis)
cross-faded to ankh
the beat drops
like a cliff
over-looking
my heart

8:

6000 feet
above
sea level

330 bodies
disassembled

the head bone's
connected
to the cock pit

knee jerk
ass backwards

dancing slaves
in a mosh pit

punk rock
of gibralter
roll out
nothing's new

mo' blood dues
the mo hawk
only this time
it's you

and you
never loved her
for what she 
possessed

you powdered
her face
and came
on her
head-dress

oil slicked feathers, putrid stenched water-bed
"mother nature's a whore," said the shotgun to the head.

and it smelled like teen spirit
angst driven insecure
a country in puberty
a country at war


His dilemm
every morning
I rise and face
the firing squad

every morning
there is one
who holds his fire

his dilemma
is my system
of belief

they fire rounds
but I am seldom
in their circle

a quiet mind
is labeled "sound"
and colored purple

my little boy
has not yet learned
to color within lines

his jumbled diction
has not yet learned
our contradiction

we speak of art
with flaming passion
then do work
void of compassion

and wonder why
reality is bleeding fiction.




Saturn's Rivers

Her newborn cyclops had my eye
but i knew i'd never claim it

i was taught not to claim
when the wind
wrote my name in the water:
waved blueness over blackness and i
at that moment i saw
that blackness would die


but not me
not we


in the deep blue abyss
we kissed on a current
and drowned eternities in loves' lost lagoons


she had hidden rooms in her womb
where i had seen screeenings of her future


wrapped in swaddling clothes
and God knows i wanted to kiss it
but my lips were sealed by time

...Saturn's Rivers overflow
with schools of frankincense
and myrrh-maids: swimming scents of self to the soul
and sphinxes, they swim, in Saturn's rivers.
drenching the waters with ancient magic
and the secrets of the Saturn Sutra.


secrets that could name the future and
saturate the soul with stardust nd samba of the seasons untold
the future in Saturn's rivers
so i sailed my soul through the fore-thought of the forgotten
and waded through windows of time...

i'm certain of
Saturn's Rivers
and all else is fact

so baptize me in the stars
and wrap me in the night-time moon blue

pupil my sight with orange balls of light
and echo my plight through the corridors of metaphor
what else are we living for
if not to create fiction and rhyme
my purpose:
to make my soul
rhyme with my mind

over

matter
minds create matter
minds create fiction
as a matter of fact
as if matter is fact
matter is fact
so spirit must be fiction
science-fiction
art-fiction
meta-fiction



Language in Zoos

I could recite the grass on a hill
And memorize the moon
I know the cloud forms of love by heart
And have brought tears to the eye of a storm
My memory banks
Vaults of autumn forests and amazon river banks
And I have screamed them into sunsets
That echo in earthquakes
Shadows have been my spotlight
As I monologue with night
And dialogue the days
Seliliquies of wind and breeze
Applauded by sun rays

We put language in zoos
To observe caged thought
And tossed peanuts and p-funk at intellect
Motherfuckers think these are metahors, I speak what I see
All words and worlds are metaphors of me
My life is authored by the moon, footprints written in soil
The fountain pen of martian men noveling human toil
And yes, the soil speaks highly of me
When earth seeds root me
Poet tree

Now, maybe I'm too serious
Too good to hear
Too matter
Though I'm riddled with the reason of the sun
A stand-up comet with the audience of lungs
This body of laughter, is it with me or at me
Hue more (humor) or less though genders mute
And the punchline has this lifeline at it's root

I'm a star, this life's the suburbs, I commute
Make daily runs between the sun and earthly loot
And raise my children to the height of light and truth










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