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it is 655 am and fuk what ya heard, it is officially dawn. well, at least for me, as the sun has made it over the roof tops and tree line and is now hitting me dead in mah face washing me with warmth.

by my side are what remains of a french toast & coffee breakfast, adrian castro’s latest book “wise fish”& my moleskine. both the breakfast and castro’s poems were excellent while my early morning attempts at a poem are not. no worries. i have never been an early morning writer anyways.

since you are probable thinking it, i will come out and say it- ob, what da hell are ya doin up at this hour?

last night i greeted the dawn for the first time in a long time – actually, a lil over a week – but still, with the turns my life has been taking as of late, a week can be a very long time. this ‘greeting of the dawn’ has become very important to me as of late. i look at the sky from my window and assign a color to the blanket of the sky and shape to the clouds that may inhabit it. i look to the moon for a friendly face while searching for a star i have claimed as my own. this star resides in the interior obtuse angle that forms from the ladder and base of the fire escape outside my window.

all these things are important to me now. all the little things have a weight and gravity all their own. and this is good. i travelled for too long free of the pull of this world. nothing had a hold of me and i was wandering flotsam in ether.

but in greeting the dawn last night i realized how much i love the chaos which is my city. a claim i put on it early in my poetry. if you look past the ever present noise and filthy streets you will find people who wake every morning to this dawn. they go out and live extraordinary lives. not extraordinary in accomplishment but extraordinary in perseverence which, i guess, is an accomplishment. this city is unwielding and any spine that can brave it deserves praise or at least a spot in a good poem.

something which did not happen today. sal’s restaurant, the tree resting on concrete, the mta worker restin on the sidewalk, the men playin backgammon & chess by dawn, the hoods clockin outside the bodega, the joggers by the park, the newspaper delivery, the flowers by the makeshift memoria, none of this made itself into a poem. not today.

i did however scribble some words of thanks to the star that lives above my fire escape, which is packed now with poets looking into my sleep and seeing how my dreams tangle themselves into my sternum.

and now i attack this day armed with a modicum of sleep but full of hope that my life can be just a little extraordinary.

love ya like mexican chocolate loves ice cream

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a few weeks back, i was lucky enough to catch louis reyes rivera’s feature at cornelia street and was luckier still to have a pretty in-depth discourse with the man through the streets and rain. if i was with anyone else i would say that i had a conversation or discussion but louis (all 4’10” of him) is a living history/poetics/economics lesson all the time and his function is to educate through anecdote and analogy. while louis doesnt put the fear of poetry god in me like a very select few do, he does have a stare that says “when you’ve lived as much as i have, youngster – YES! i can call you youngster – then you can feel free to contribute to this conversation but otherwise you best stay shut, learn something and reflect on that” of course, i love this about the man.

having learned my lesson from previous meetings, we walked through bleeker st as the rain threatens to come down hard. if it was anyone else, it would be preferable to get out of the humidity and possible soaking in favor of some nice cafe but louis’s voice is as urban as it gets and hearing his words ring above the crowds is jus about as natural as pigeons descending on popcorn from trash bags.

our talk wrapped up with a reading recommendation, “find the poems of otto rene castillo” this came after my thanking louis for his time and insights while also offering a lil praise. sucking up? no. more like saying to people how you feel about them while you have the chance or as another mentor puts it “dont wait for the funeral/give me my flowers now/while i can enjoy them” werd

this all comes together into a pretty package with the hand knotted bow as i revisit carolyn forche’s “against forgetting” and come across señor castillo’s work. can ya say flabbergasted? i knew ya could.

castillo’s work cuts to the quick and brought the taste of separation from out of my gut and right to the roof of my mouth. ima have to take some time out to transcribe his EXCELLENT multi-layered work “Distances” but for now i leave you with this poem that (as far as i’m concerned) says YES! to the idea of poet/artist as a precursor to history versus the tabloid reporters & bombastic propagandists i continually encounter.

Before the Scales, Tomorrow by Otto Rene Castillo

When the enthusiasm
of our time is recounted
for those
yet to be born,
but who announce themselves
with a kinder face,
we will come out winners,
we who have suffered most.

To be ahead
of one's time
is to suffer much.

But it is beautiful to love the world
with the eyes
of those
          still
to be born.

And splendid
to know oneself already victorious
when everything around
is still so cold, so dark.

Otto Rene Castillo

ob.musing

Last night in conversation with a friend the subject of muses came up and I laid down some thoughts on invocation, offerings and conversations with the muse. My friend was amazed at the fact that these ideas were so concrete in my mind. * This is me smiling inside * This spilled into a few other areas which included the democratization of art, a concept which we both agreed is a farce at best and manipulation of wills at worst.

Democracy in art leads to telling people what they want to hear versus bringing messages that people need to hear.

I was also lucky enough to share some of my newer poems, got some good critique and dialogued on the Bible/mythology/poetry/storytelling. As such, today’s reading assignment is Genesis. No worries, though, I have not reverted to full Catholic dogma nor do I expect to.

I think the only chapter that I read fully on my own would be Revelations mostly due to the fact that it was the only part of the New Testament that we didn’t get to study during my seven years in the Catholic School system.

Actually, I don’t think I have read very much of the Old Testament at all. I have a good idea of the stories and the timelines thanks to one of the first books I ever received: The Children’s Bible (An Illustrated Version). My mom gave me this when I was about 5 and not only was it the first book I recall getting but it was also the first with a dedication, dated and all. * This is me reminiscing about my mom *

It’s not easy processing all this but late night conversations with La Musa filter out the extraneous ego, praise the necessary ego in writing, wonder on the role of the poet in history, marvel at voyeurism in art, laugh at the periphery, delight in the comfort of food and salt while letting me be as honest as possible amidst the static roar of oceans meeting.

Current music: U2’s Walk to the Water

aka

what happens in cornelia street stays in cornelia street

Soundtrack goin on in mah head: U2’s version of “Unchained Melody”

The set list for this last Friday’s reading at Cornelia Street will be up by the end of the week but that news sure does take a back seat to the fact that my invocation of the muse is on some, as the kids would say, next shit.

For you lovers of the nebulous, the Top Ten:

10. (Cue the Homer Simpson voice) Oh, Profe! How could we stay mad at you? (Dan Castellaneta mode: Off)

9. Whiskey- Yes/SoCo- No

8. NO!!! Not ___________!

7. What is this Mango Lassi you speak of?

6. “Boo boo, it’s been a whole thirty minutes since I’ve seen you!”

5. Rice Cake! Rice Cake! Rice Cake!

4. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire in Brooklyn

3. Mangu = Yummy

2. Canoodling at Cornelia

(Cue the drumroll!)and the number one title for this blog post:

1. Best Weekend, Ever!!!

love ya like if ya fell from the sky and into mah arms