parts of the greater whole

i began this summer not thinking i was gonna write a damn thing. i didnt have any features scheduled from may15 until (never). the BX1 feature was coming up but i knew that would be a short reading and it would be best if i focused on my bronx-centric work for that.

i know its horrible to only write for a feature. ive been told that real writers will put to pen religously every day and have these set patterns where they will and must produce some work for X numbers of minutes Y times during the day. man, i let the bullshit of that last statement live in my psyche for way too fuckin long.

as a newbie, i thought for sure there was something wrong with me when i couldnt produce work like that and that i must be some kind of poseur playin the role of poet.

today, i am still a newbie. i have not read all of eliot’s work and couldnt tell ya the difference between (john) donne & (stephen) dunn but im learning. and one of the things that ive learned is that your process is just as unique as your writing style and the minute someone tries to warp your process to match what they feel your process should be… RUN! DONT WALK!…. get da fuk outta der!

me, i work best under the pressure of a deadline. for the most part, i dont write the poems until the 11th hour but i do know that i am thinking about them. all the time. 24/7, y’all. and, on the real, i have only met a few people that can keep up with me on this one. i hear a lot of people say “OH THATS A POEM!” but rarely see it pop in their work. me, i see shit and make a mental polariod that would look like something right out of CSI. i am taking shots from different angles, seeing how the light hits the subject, where the wind is coming from, asking side questions, the whole forensic nine.

as far as featuring goes, i am under ZERO obligation to produce new work. none. the way most of these places work, i could hit em off with the golden oldies (MotB, Ceviche, Sorta Rican, Getting Ronald Reagan, cover poem, Oda) and be out. crowd applauds, feature takes a bow, thank ya very much. and the series organizers would be happy folks. luckily, i do have some friends and fans that do show up and do listen and would probably stop coming out and chillin with me the minute i start putting it all on loop.

lets depart from the ego bolstering words i just dropped about mahself and get back to the here and now… i started the summer with a desire to read more and to lay back from some writing. my experience tells me that i am a poet (and one that gives quite a damn if i am an effective communicator as well) and aint nobody gonna run up and take my poet card outta my pocket just cuz i havent written a poem in a few months.

and with that burden lifted from me, i go out and throw down a couple of poems this summer that all make me smile. im still reading and i still keep saying theres no pressure, nope, none, not at all. smilin all the while.

i got a feature coming up at the end of the month with Profe. lemme tell ya this- it will be the hotness. i plan on coming into dis reading with one older piece and even that one may get put on the shelf the way im goin.

one last thing- whatever you do, always take time out to raise a glass of chivas to the muse

singing: glad and big

since i am poetry 24/7, i will start the morning grabbing a random book and opening to a random poem just cuz. unless i am trying to figure out someones poetic steelo and then i will jus read the same poem every morning for like 10 days straight or sumthin like dat

todays selection matches very well with my mood which is has me wanting to go to olympus and steal fire, not for the benefit of humanity, but to show the gods that cruelty can be a two way street.

all these recent dark images has led some to believe that i am not in the best of sprits but AU CONTRAIRE, MON FRERE i am actually feelin damn skippy as of late. sure life is hectic and not everything is going as planned but somethings are developing out of thin air and blossoming into wonder and even better the horizon gets more focused every day. its still blurry but i am starting to see some shapes and figures in the distance and they are looking damn inviting, damn inviting indeed.

on the purely random tip: ANCHORMAN seems to be on cable almost all the time and the Franklin Ave Snack Box couldnt be happier. NO COMMERICALS– NO MERCY!!!

and now we switch channels back to the point of the damn thing which is this morning’s random poetry selection because when she calls you should always honor the muse…

[somewhere i have never travelled]
by e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands


e.e. cummings

how soon is now?

insomnia is the only way i can properly see a sunrise.

chuckle moment: a few months back, at cheryl’s writing retreat we did an early morning exercise where we wrote a poem to the sun rising. it was easily the WORST piece of free writing i have EVER done. some of my early slam stuff is better than what came out of that but thats what happens when i get thrust into the dawn.

now, riding the night till it breaks and seeing the velvet moon bleed into cyan is the kind of memory that keeps me going stronger than a double espresso, no sugar, with lemon rind. huh!

my life is such chaos right now. i am still mending fences with a best friend that means more to me than anything and is stil the only person that i can share it all with. i am lucky to have him and even luckier to have learned how to apologize without still trying to win. all this and still so many more bridges to rebuild. i miss my siblings, i wish they would have always stayed young. i miss my sister playing the role of mom even though i (foolishly) thought i didnt need another one. i miss vision. the jokes, the pranks, the camaraderie.

i still love working with my hands. love shoveling snow and building fires. moving furniture and bringing gorceries up the stairs. my legs are starting to get strong again. my knees can support the crosses i am carrying. invisible unnecessary ones.
juancho: you know everybody gets to play jesus, right?
ob: huh?
juancho: we are all going to have make a sacrifice

yeah. word. le mot. palabra. my life is starting to border on the fantastic, i stare at my hands and wonder when i will become two-dimmensional, when the edges will appear as movie reels, when the director yells CUT! but we go on, watch as the everything fades to gray tones but my sunrise remains impossibly bright.


sunday in the park

lila downs at summerstage was the TROOF. she was all kinds of fierce aztlan warrior-sage. her band showcased a full drum kit, harp, keyboards, violin, electric guitar, hollow cello, trumpet, sax, electric bass and ms downs on marching drum, guiro, maracas and acoustic guitar and her vocals ranged from opera, mexican maricachi, rap and a wonderful growl that rocked my world.

las ondas marteles also rocked my house doing justic to poeta cubano miguel angel ruiz. the lead singer had that low key flirt voice that some guys can rock (cough, Merovingian, cough) to the fullest.
Merovingian: I am picturing how we would look spooning in the morning.
Señorita: You are just too cute!


ob_sketch
Originally uploaded by oscarb.

some time in the middle of the concert i go to take a water break and local artist, jose luis ortiz hands me this sketch he did of me enjoying the music.

all this and a visit back to spanish harlem (what you know about el barrio, kid???) good food, good company & a great chess game.

best part, my chess partner didnt need to be told what all the pieces do and was ultra-patient which is critical to playing with me cuz i treat every move like life and death. i think this game clocked in at about 40 minutes. my beginning and middle game was aight but my end game still needs a lot of work. i hope to get my room mate to play some more but if anybody out there wants to get a game going online. let a brother know!

primera version

con muchisma gracias a mi padre(!) que me alludo con las primera revisiones con mi primer soneta. me dicen que la soneta es bien addictiva y una ves que completas una, toda tus futuro poemas se convierten a sonetas– ay peores castigos en el mundo.

attempter a esribir una soneta del estilo shakespeare pero mis sonetas favorita vienen del maestro neruda, so sigue el camino logico y aqui esta el resulto.

ps- si ay una traducion de la poema en mi mente pero usteds tiene que espera un ratito porque traduciones van hacer parte de un nuevo projecto en mi mente loca

te amo como pablo ama a catorze lineas

******************

mad props to my dad(!) who helped me with MORE EDITS (ding! the inside joke bell) to my first sonnet. i am told that sonnets can be pretty additive and once you write one, the form starts to infect all your poems. there are worst fates.

i started by trying to write a more classic sonnet but my favorite sonnets come from neruda so i followed his lead instead and here is the result.

ps- yes, i can translate this in my head but y’all are gonna have to wait for the translation since thats wrapped up in another crazy project of mine.

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SONETA 1

QUIERO SABER DE TU PELO
RECOJER PEDASOS DE SU PASADO
Y LEER TU HISTORIA VIEJA
EN UN RINCON DE OSCURIDA

TE LLAMAN LA MUJER OSCURA
DICEN QUE TU MUNDO DE POEMAS
SON DIFICIL Y PELIGROSO
COMO FUEGO DE UN ANGEL PERDIDO

Y YO, UN HOMBRE VESTIDO
EN LA SOMBRA DEL GARDIN URBANO
ESPERANDO A LORCA APARECER
EN MI CORREO A DIRGIRMER

A SU HILO NEGRO– UN CONCIERTO
DE CONCHAS, BRILLANTE Y BELLO

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