Another track from that project… incidentally called the WarrenPeaceProjects.

One of the few tracks from a great but lost project with san fran producer kid dynamite.

Beat making experiment from a few months back.

A bit of music and poem that I hope to grow into a new show. Feel a little heavy handed, but I do like it. Let me know what you think.

campfire30:

Dear Blue Couch: When you
are blue, I am blue. So long.
Thanks for the velvet.

The bus awakes together. Soundtracks bleeding from earbuds and encousures 

are unnoticed because everyone does it

but me.

I enjoy the chorus of a dosen transportations

barely recognied as genre, let alone voice.

The intent disection of a mandrian newspaper

a couple snuggled on concrette embackment

pointing to the clouds.

The wifi hicups constantly

gmail rendering emails

like secret code passed from enemy lines.

Pennsylvania hills.

How the clouds stain acres

a richer kind of green.

The hours massage of imperfect highway,

heat of strangers arms that never greet.

Spied titles of chapters just started

through the place where headrests seperate:

The Silver Body

page 55

Dar knew that “things” mattered.

They all barbequed secert wishes.

Pedaluma Monday
My first piece at Losers and a cover of the fantatic Charles Getter of San Francisco. Few stage poems nail the joy of the simple like this one.

Six things I want to tell a Nigga

Likewise from Losers.

One of the fastest poems I ever wrote.

This one was caught soon after an encounter with a high schooler choking his girlfriend in the middle of the street. This was after a little staring session we we’re having after a similar kind of domestic violence “joke” he was playing. Typically, letting a young dude know he is seen is enough to get them to act as they should, but not this time. This time out of nowhere he grips the girl and slams her against the wall while she does kind of gasp laughs. I didn’t know what to do, but something had to happen. So I slapped him off her instinctively with no real plan of what to say. He looked me like I was crazy afterwards. He made no move to stop me or strike back, just stared at me. I mumbled something about this kind of thing beneath him, how he knew better then to play like this but in truth I was lost to where to beginning to explain how serious this thing he took for a game really was.

I walked around the neighborhood for near my whole lunch hour before stopping at a bench and writing this poem.

The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Bad Part 2

From a recent slam at Loser’s Slam in NJ.

There is, incidentally, a tree of the knowledge of good and bad part 1. That one similarly plays with the line of the obscene and innocent. Or on the real, that one ACTUALLY does…while this is just sex as fun. That one….I don’t know if I’m gonna post that one…

My parent’s have computers. This is enough.