Later Hermes

Mercury is out of the funky retrograde cycle as of this Saturday. ‘Bout damn time. I have not been feeling all together there for a minute. Yesterday, in an effort to dodge work, I almost gave myself a migraine. My body kicked the olfactory sense into overdrive and I was totally disgusted with the world for a hot second. Now I say my body but it may have just been my mind but sometimes the difference is just way to narrow to even try to make sense of it.

Tonight sounds like a nice night to chill out. Or not.

Lots of poetic work on my plate which leads us right back to Scene One of “ob tryin to figure it out” Kinda like a staged version of Bill Murray’s “Ground Hog Day” but with Andy Garcia playing me. Everyday Andy wakes up doubting himself and his role as a writer, he interacts with friends, family and the rest of the world trying to figure out how it all fits, in between he finds a lovely musa, falls in love, writes a poem and feels pretty damn good about the whole damn thing only to wake up again in that same doubting place.

Positives- Falling in love more and more every day is a fly experience that I am getting used to on the regular.
Negatives- Feeling like a hamster in the wheel.

Sunday I was at a pretty fly birthday celebration that was all kinds of fun and included a poet circle. By request, I dropped some new hotness that is still evolving, still kicking my ass, and still showing me mad love. When I finished dropping this version of “Menagerie” my first response was to go around this room of mentors and ask “Whatchathink?” like a wide eyes pup. You’d think almost five years after the fact that this would go away but it really hasn’t.

I am approaching the finishing touches to a real-deal manuscript which at this point just yells First Book. Good. I am loving some of the stumbles, trips and falls that i have picked up on the way to where I am right now. Each of these scars come with a good story or even a couple of good stories. It’s not waking up all beat up that bothers me, its waking up with the battle wounds but no sense of victory that is the downer.

Where Zulu and Azteca meet

recommendations rock. giving them out to fly poets and also receiving them from fresh wordsmiths. the following folks have told me i HAVE to feature John Murillo at Acentos- Raina León, Aracelis Girmay, Tara Betts and Martín Espada.

works for me… now bring your hotness!

Tuesday, November 22
@ 7:00pm
ACENTOS
The Bruckner Bar & Grill
1 Bruckner Boulevard
(Corner of 3rd Ave)
6 Train to 138th Street Station
Hosted by Oscar Bermeo
FREE! ($5 Suggested Donation)

Coming from Manhattan: Exit by the last car on the 6. Take the exit to your left, go up the stairs to your right to exit at Lincoln Avenue. Walk down Lincoln about 5 blocks to Bruckner Blvd, turn right on Bruckner past the bike shop, the Bruckner Bar & Grill is on the corner. For more directions, please call 718.665.2001 or click here for an e-map

JOHN MURILLO

John Murillo is an Afro-Chicano poet and playwright, originally from Los Angeles,
CA. He is a Cave Canem fellow and a former instructor with
DCWritersCorps. A coach of D.C.’s 2001 National Teen Poetry Slam Team,
John has performed his own work in venues from The Kaffa House to The
Kennedy Center. The 2002 and 2004 winner of the
Larry Neal Award for Poetry, John is the author of the chapbook, Aluta, and the forthcoming collection of essays, A Poet in Havana, both from ZuluAzteca Press.

FOR MY NEIGHBORS WHO WALK WITH PURSES, LIPS, AND ASSES CLUTCHED TIGHT AS THEY HURRY PAST ME ON THEIR WAY TO STARBUCKS WITH A CELL PHONE IN ONE HAND AND A LEASH IN THE OTHER
--after Martín Espada

I have awakened to the rumble of stampeding bulldozers
flattening skulls of black Barbies under hoof.
I have choked on jackhammer dust in the shadows
of ten story skeletons and billboards that trumpet your coming.
I have watched potholes vanish and stop signs appear
next to shiny new health food markets.
I have witnessed tribes of drummers communing with God
pushed from parks like Navajos from their native ground.
I have seen the chiseled noses, Duke Ellington’s
mural, a sphinx on the wrong side of Giza.
I have zig zagged to work between the yapping
end of your leash on the street’s one side,
and the curbed furniture of an evicted family on the other.

May the Saints of Dilapidation cave condominiums
in on the flaxen strands splayed across pillows.
May the Gods of Rain Gutters deploy a sewer rat battalion
to gather and execute all poodles.
May the Spirits of Foodstamps sneak into your wallet
and turn all your Ben Franklins to Bushes.
May the Angels of Government Cheese curdle your latte
and send you hurling ass first toward porcelain.
May your sleep be disrupted by visits from Biggie, Pac,
and Big Pun singing Pavarotti and P-Diddy remixes.
May your furniture float. May your walls bleed graffiti.
May your house speak in Robeson’s voice. And may your
leather couches become housing projects for cockroaches
until two-headed albino alligators buy their way
into your living room.

© John Murillo

like ice crystal rainbows


Pomegranate
Originally uploaded by bexn.

y’all do know that THE best blog about good eatin in NYC is over at bexn.net, right?

not only that but they also have some food pics that just make mah mouth burst!

now what is really really good – as the children say – is some chilled pomegrante seeds as the topping for your lilikoi, aka passion fruit, sorbet from cones

oh yes, it is the simple things that make life worth livin.