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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