Thursday, December 9, 2010

Rhapsody_of_Women: Yolanda:_Second_Grade_Love

Yolanda...
I watch you from my seat,
Letting the flickering TV
Guide my eyes as I
Redraw your figure,
You have been divinely constructed,
Reborn before my eyes
Dripping in amniotic white noise
Which eases the friction of
This terrestrial world,
You belong in the clouds,
Showered in fanfare and
Decked in angelic regalia,
You awaken the things inside of me,
Which lay dormant
Like the Kracken,
And, as if though summoned by Poseidon himself,
My second-grade penis
Swells and tenses,
Breaking free from the binding waves,
That crash and tumble,
As it suffocates no more...
Yolanda...
Yolanda...

~Marvin Gonzalez

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Shit

I'm gonna tell y'all a story about how i shit my pants.
That's right, i was about four years old or so
And i was shopping at JC Penny's with the Moms,
She used to let me run wild while she looked around,
It was the Eighties and the Moms was apt
To find herself trying on a maroon pleather jacket,
Which matched her maroon boots,
The ones with the four inch heals
She either stole from Prince or Cyndi Lauper,
Anyway, she didn't much pay me any mind,
So, i used to hide in the circular racks of clothes
And pretend that i was in a foxhole,
Or, evading enemy fire in trench during the Great War,
Sometimes i would hide under the manikins
Who had on the long skirts,
And, i would admire the long shapely manikin legs,
Which to my judgement were engineered with
The very same care and precision as Greek columns,
And, i would let my hands follow those long Doric columns
All the way up to the equally beautiful bas relief,
Imagined, of course, with prepubescent Marvin
Seated amongst the Gods,
So, i would spend hours on end touching and feeling
These legs as solid as granite slabs,
While the Moms tried on the maroon jacket
And danced around looking at clothes,
Until such and such employee would
Be informed by a customer of by bawdy transgressions,
And, then the employee would have to wrangle me outa there,
Always with same bitchy tone,
Always with the same spiteful expression,
Always with the same vulnerability to her eyes,
Ostensibly she was just doing her job,
Doing what was expected of her,
But, deep down i could see that what she really desired
Was for someone to look upon her
With same admiration,
Oh, Debra if i only knew then what i know now!
So, Debbie would drag me to the Moms
Hollering and squirming,
Because i didn't think that i was doing no harm,
And, the Moms didn't care,
She laughed at the whole mess,
Maybe because she saw a bit of her own
Self in my innocent actions,
Maybe because she couldn't believe it,
And, was plain mystified by her son
Who was hardly able to wipe his own ass,
Who still wore shoes with the Velcro straps,
With the blue dots on the left shoe,
And, the red dots on the right shoe,
Which she bought him so that he would stop
Putting his shoes on the wrong foot
And having his feet take off in divergent directions,
May be she was mystified that her little boy,
Who could read and write and draw unicorns
And deranged men with giant noses and bifurcated-dicks,
Who still walked in circles and put his Levi's on backwards,
Could have ever even reckoned to climb
Underneath that manikin's skirt,
But, then she remembered her brother Samuel's Boda,
And, how the little weirdo in front of her,
The same strange being who'd incubated in her for nine months,
Ruined his white wool blazer
Because he'd lain down on his back,
And, pushed himself along the waxed floor
Of the reception hall
As though he were some kind of human powered floor buffer,
Patting himself on the belly and making train-engine-noises,
Until he snuck up on some older girls
So that he could stare up their skirts,
She remembered some sixteen year old girl named Griselda
Dragging her son, whose heals slid across the waxed floor,
Demanding that he be punished,
But, she reacted then as she reacted now,
By picking her sobbing boy
And hugging him while she laughed,
She had on the pleather coat,
That maroon number that smelled vaguely
Like a couch in smoky room,
Then the Moms set me down
And i asked her if i could go to the bathroom,
Because even though i was only four or so,
I'd waken up with the Pops at five-thirty
And had drunk me a cup of joe,
And, now i needed to pee-pee real bad,
So, i walks myself down to the bathroom
And close the door of the stall behind me,
And, i am standing there like a fountain cherub,
But, ain't nothing coming out,
Then i close my eyes and i'm straining so hard
That a flurry of little white dots shoots outa the darkness,
Until i hear a little toot,
"Pppthththptttt!
And, i am surprised as Hell because a poop popped out
Instead of pee,
So, i open my eyes all wide and loosen up my stomach,
And, even more poop comes out,
And, then i am left standing there with my trousers full of poop
And i don't know what else to do,
So, i start shoving toilet paper into my Ninja Turtle underwear,
And, i can't stop,
I am like a magician pulling handkerchiefs
Outa his hat only in re-wind,
Until i have half a roll of quilted two-ply in my shorts,
And, i turn around and walk out
Like a soldier injured on the battlefield,
Or, maybe i am waddling like a drunk penguin
With half a roll of toilet paper shoved up his ass,
So, i am forced to do this like ridiculously long
Walk of shame back to the Moms,
First past the kids section with racks of Osh-Gosh
And a stuffed Big Bird,
Who towers like a monolithic idol,
Then past the ladies underwear section,
And, the jewelery cases,
And the men's section with pin-stripped suits
And endless racks of Docker's khakis,
Until finally i reach the women's section
Where the Mom's can like detect something is amiss,
And, she asks me why i am walking around
Like an ostrich high on wip-its,
But, she doesn't need to ask,
She's the Moms and she knows the face
Of a boy guilty of shitting his own pants,
So, without waiting for a reply she turns me around
And looks down the back of my pants,
Where she sees this ungodly amount of feces and toilet paper,
An amount so large
Her mind strains to comprehend
How her little boy could produce such a mass,
Without a second thought she swoops me up into her arms,
And, as she clutches onto my head,
She screams "Ave Maria purisima!"
While she runs outa the JC Penny's
Chanting something incomprehensibly in Spanish,
As though to ward off the evil spirits,
And, she races toward the mocha-colored 1985 Ford Tempo,
Speeding home still seemingly speaking in tongues,
I am lying on my stomach in the front seat
So as not to wade in my filthiness,
And, i look up at this woman raving madly in Spanish
And she is like a goddess atop a pyramid,
But, instead of wearing a Phrygian cap,
She is wearing a maroon pleather jacket,
And, through those tears i feel a joy knowing
That the Moms has unwittingly committed a sizable theft,
And, for the rest of the way home
I don't care that i have on a pair of pants
Full of shit,
Because the Moms is like goddess in that maroon pleather jacket.

~Marvin Gonzalez


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Sexual Capital

Don't hate because i capitalize
On this sexual enterprise,
Handsome face,
Big brown-eyes,
And, an intensity so deep,
It could displace the heavens and the skies,
Oh, to-night you say you're indisposed,
But, I see you through your lies and guise,
And, it comes as no surprise
That the indecency I've proposed
Has produced no significant reply,
For your silence is much more cacophonous,
And, a much more raucous rendezvous is upon us,
I can already envision your blustering an boisterous
Bombastic acrobatic sexually aromatic sonorously sensuous
Screams hoist us all the way up to heaven's gates
Just so St. Michael can cast us back down
To the sulfurous grounds of Hades
Just past the River Styx,
Where I predict you could use my dick
As a springboard to rocket-launch us
Back to my bed where I grab hold of your haunches
As my eyes roll back and I slip into my subconscious,
Where I see me consciously seeking sexual synergy,
See, my goal here is to achieve symbiosis
While at the same time avoiding mitosis,
But, i dispel these thoughts fraught with forbearance,
And, instead focus on our destiny or mutual inheritance:
A history of mankind's flirtation with the romantic,
Symbolized by our frantic, often drawn out sexual sagas,
Nearly Icelandic in length and complexity,
But, time flies when you lie next to me,
And, it perplexes me just how you conduct yourself sexually,
Never mechanically, though often methodically,
The way that you use my body erotically,
And, I move robotically, as though I were biologically
Programmed or wired to inspire the fire that
Burns wild inside causing me to perspire,
Which waters this sexual crop,
You see, I'm just planting seeds,
Or, maybe supplanting your needs
With my cock,
But, baby I'm not proposing this investment out of greed,
As my many clients before you can attest to or agree,
You see, I'm a venture capitalist trying to get this start-up of the ground,
And, I ain't hard up, or disingenuously marking my product up,
But, i got sexual capital see,
And, my stocks are bought and traded on the market publicly,
So, invest in this sex and see what happens next is a guarantee
That you will see your numbers rise exponentially,
Now, you can say that this is all bull-shit,
That this is ain't real, or whatever,
Or, you could go home with me to-night,
And, we could ride this bull-market
Together, forever.
Heather.

~Marvin G.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Rhapsody of Women: 1st Movement_Evocation of the Muses

An infinite collection of words
Spun around galaxies
Could scarcely scrape
Your superficiality,
The profundity of you
Lies in your fecundity of thoughts,
Which give birth to your words,
Immaculately begot,
Like a thousand ships
Set sail in simulcast
Your lips launch a thousand quips
Simultaneously cast,
One by one reducing me
To sub-atomic absurdity,
You give the strings that bind me
Extra-dimensionality,
Meaning, you move me
To theoretically postulated realms
On un-manned barges
With uncertainty at the helm,
and, by you i am most certainly
overwhelmed,
Though, I'm no expert in Chemistry
I can see we have valency,
Basically, i mean we attract
Mutually,
And, the words that comprise you
Blur the lines of banality
As they filter through me and arise anew
To destroy this malady,
Empty pages require
Literary sages who
Require a kiss from you,
I require your abundance of words
Laced with Irony dipped in the absurd,
You require a life deferred,
Inspiration is your inclination,
And, verbiage is our destination,
Superfluity with continuity,
You have no idea what you do to me,
Never with animosity,
This is not bellicose or prose,
This is poetry
Of the finest order we compose,
Indisposed forevermore
Nipping at your toes,
Trying to get a taste your sweet rose,
My varicose egos
Fragile as a fortress of Legos
Are fortified by you,
Mortified unless you
Breathe life into each syllable
Right on cue,
And, when we come together
In this ejaculatory endeavor
You make want to cum forever,
This was my dream
Once only seen
In science fiction magazines,
Made reality with you,
My muse,
My Queen,
Now each word that i dispatch
Is the catalyst that frees the latch
That keeps the door in your mind closed
With only a keyhole into the real world exposed,
My poetry splits your mind in two,
And, the cerebral residue
Touches the mind of the brother
Or sister that sits next to you,
And, just like the splitting of nuclei
Creates a nuclear transmutation,
The opening of your third eye
Creates a spiritual transformation,
This is the binding energy of humanity,
A chain-reaction that decimates banality,
So, all hackneyed exercise
Can stand aside,
And, let the poetic Kundalini rise
That eternally lights the skies
That resides in our minds!

~Marvin G.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Ms. Bradshaw

Her breasts are in full bloom like sunflowers,

Gazelle-like legs seemingly agitated,

Pumping and throbbing as she

Steps out of her lace panties

And into the stale fifth-floor air,

Her eyes radiate a certain sense of worry,

Of silent panic, of unwritten pain,

And, her pursed and softly bitten lips

Whisper secrets across Willard Avenue:

“She is alone in this crowded world,

Waiting for a hero to rescue her from this prison,

A sensitive boy with hard eyes

And soft cheeks,

A boy she’s dreamt about since she

Was a girl, and whose portrait she

Drew in her copy of Robinson Crusoe in Middle School…”

Her lips tell me many things,

For I see beyond the obvious,

Beyond the wrinkled forehead,

Beyond those thoughts that sit there like glaciers

And slowly carve and sculpt her dreams,

I can see that she is lonely just like me,

And, as I watch from across Willard Avenue,

Huddled under my Captain America blanket,

Peering through a single telescopic lens,

I notice that her solitude condenses and crystallizes

Around the window panes of my still bedroom,

And, I become a prisoner in a palace of ice,

Watching, waiting, admiring

The beautiful Ms. Bradshaw as she

Prepares for her nightly shower,

And, dances before her mirror like a ballerina,

I love you Ms. Bradshaw…

So I devise a scheme, an adventure,

I draw up plans under my Captain America blanket

With my father’s Mag-lite flashlight

Projecting red, white and blue shields on my ceiling,

And, after mother has retired,

And, our apartment airs a sigh of relief

Settling in for the evening,

I creep out the door,

A shadow descending five flights of stairs,

Racing across the puddled-asphalt of Willard Avenue,

And, Stand dressed in black against the porous bricks

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s building,

Grapple and rope in hand,

I chuck up the grapple,

Which bites into the window sill

Of Ms. Bradshaw’s open window,

And, so I ascend like Batman,

One foot before the other,

Until I peek inside her window,

And, see to my fright the biggest secret of them all,

My father waiting in the bathroom

In my mother’s pink robe and the
Plaid slippers she bought him last Christmas,

Sitting on the toilet

Stroking his fully erect penis

Beckoning Ms. Bradshaw

Who moves like a ballerina from the other room,

And, as I fall down five flights

Screaming,

With my arms stretched toward heaven,

And remain paralyzed,

I see Ms. Bradshaw once more

With her hands stretched toward me,

Red locks fluttering in the air,

I smile,

Because though I’m heading toward Hell,

It doesn't matter,

I already know what Heaven’s like.


~Marvin Gonzalez

Monday, November 15, 2010

Free-Style

Better not boxed in
or locked in a corner,
giving up on life
but, i'm hardly a goner,
no longer somber
staring up at the moon
or out the window
in a pensive mood,
no longer will i brood,
no longer will i swallow
your bullshit like un-chewed food,
fuck your tailor-made life
mine's a hand-me-down,
but it fits me alright,
good enough to go out a night
when the light
don't shine too bright,
my eyes are cast down
but my thoughts move
faster than the speed of sound,
wandering around
like a vagabond
dumpster-diving
living amongst past regrets
that harden with time like baguettes,
but, i still butter them up
and dip them in the
oil and vinegar of life,
and make a meal for men
that is fit for mice,
I break open centuries
and fry them on the griddle,
order my sentries on the extremities
to meet me in the middle,
i am mobilized, sterilized,
but, my words rarely go
memorized,
but hemorrhage from minds
only to remain the glimmer
in your eyes,
the air that touches your lips
that separates them from mine,
the secret in your ear that remains
suspended in time,
the fire that burns but defiantly
refuses to shine,
that one last breath
made just before death
that's so much sweeter than the rest,
that you actually never feel,
those are my words,
a compost heap,
a rotting pile of absurdity
full of decomposed
poetry and prose...

~Marvin






Sunday, October 31, 2010

Lookin' for Ms. Write Vol.1 Num.1

i've been lookin' for ms. write fo' long-ass time,
bitch harder to find than a virgin on prom night!
see, i been lookin' where i shouldnah, i suppose,
too many gin joints with frightful jukeboxes,
too many nights ah wakin' up on the couch
embracing a crusty pillah and wipin'
the shame off my soggy lips,
"no more ah this hell,"
i told myself some time back,
"all the listerine in Hyde county
can't rinse that alkali-lined mouth,
how you expect to meet ms. write
if she can't properly stand to be
in proximity ah the sulfurous drain-pipe
you got flappin' un'erneath that hairy nose ah ya?"
see, i been sayin' this type of thing more frequently,
standing in front ah the mirror in a scolding-fashion,
pressin' my pointer-finger into the chest
of my own reflection,
i been havin' to buy too dang much windex,
and my shoulders have grown weary
from all that circular cleaning-motion,
plus my paws reek of windex,
which they say has got pneumonia in it,
which has scared one or two potential ms. writes off.
but, i shouldn't trifle over such things,
my therapist tells me,
she told me to take bold steps,
be adventurous,
and, normally i woulda shrugged
her suggestions off,
however, that very same afternoon
i read my horror-scope
and it told me the same thing,
so, i tried joinin' a book club
at the chain bookstore downtown,
thought what better spot than at a
romance novel book club
to find me a ms. write to take home,
i fancied i find myself in the middle of a bath,
and stretched out and the like,
with water nymphes pouring bowls of
freshly squeezed goat milk all over m' body,
whilst they peppered my ears with
expansive stretches of erotic narrative,
poorly-written, though beautifully delivered
by lips so soft ya figured they'd dissolve in water,
but, instead i got marge,
whose presence was analagous
to a queen ant,
some bloated sordid creature
sittin' upon her throne whilst these
depraved women around her
erected her ego like an anthill,
one pathetic kiss-ass pebble at a time.
we was talkin' about Virginia's Letter,
a shabby piece of trash, if ya ask me,
banal and predictable at every turn of the page,
so when it came time fer me
to give my two cents,
well, i gave them a buck and a quarter instead,
which rightly pricked marge
right in her station wagon ass,
and, she was so overwhelmed with ire
that she took on the color of blood,
and couldn't speak,
but, like literally began to fume and sputter
like some old jalopy crappin' down the road,
suddenly every last one of them worker ants
erupted in unrelenting diatribe,
and, i sort of became like hypnotized
by their droning on and on,
which is when i got lost and sort of
blurted out the word, "whore!"
and, instantly found myself being shanked
by an overweight caricature wearing
a red and white polka dot scarf,
jabbin' me with a Luna bar that
was still in its wrapper,
whilst marge's right-hand woman
slammed my head with her copy of Virginia's Letter,
each 567 pages of it gettin' its turn
to send my forehead and neck into
a state of suspended reality,
then i fell out of my plastic seat
and kissed the ground,
which is when i was drugged out of there
like some lousy drunkard,
and tossed out like the family dog.
as i pulled myself off the ground
a lady passed by and gave me
the bandanna she had tied around her neck,
she had hipster-hair and old woman eyes,
after i cleaned up my bloody lip
she said, "keep it,"
then she strolled outta my life,
"what's your name?" i yelled out,
"stella."
so, i watched her shiny boots
fade into obscurity,
then she disappeared.
i tell ya, these days it's becomin'
increasingly difficult to find me a ms. write.

~Marvin Gonzalez

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

word, hard.

these are words we write to right wrongs and plight. we word hard for the money and a touch of the sun's light. we twist caps and bust heads over and over to flood the faces of fools who act to cool for school, but need to be skooled. and i'm old skool kinda. i mean my sensibilities unwind with the rewinding of the minds of Sam Cooke soaking up songs like open books on praise to a days hard work. and i'm workin like preachers and church sermons to eradicate the vermin squirmin' the burnin' learnin's like life in light wasn't pertinent. my scribes penetrate the night to open up the obscure underneath trite tricks in lieu of the licks that skip a beat on downtown trips. i need the names of the languishing losers, lost in the lounge lapping up the sounds of sadness like a fiery shot of whiskey. like, the taste will let you touch the sluts more gently if even seen, if ever seen. green in the face with a graceful grin sinning like lending a hand with crossed fingers behind backs and blowing sweet kisses of nothingness in the wind waiting for the right, wrong type to pick up the drift hoping the hints of hate in your pheromones don't awaken or heighten their sensibilities and undermine your campaign. see these types trot the lots of lands lilly like, like not one of us could spot their spite, but i'm attuned to these attributes having been through the bluest of hues. see i've walked the streets in haste and heat hollerin' at hoochies with wet coochies spendin' chesse with no grief. my pleas line the beds of the undead, dear and departed from hard hearted half tones of lust, but i sing a different tune. i whistle with wonder, walk like a man even if i'm damned, damn it to hell with oh wells and wishes in wells and whimsical whims wasting away we. we write the words to disturb the order of chaos melting in our thoughts and counting in our talks like tic. we think out loud so often, you'd wanna shut us off, shyt, but we're here. here to voice our disgust and bust sick rhymes that come through with that ill to spill in real time. get reeled in and really feel what we're feelin' while we're spillin the illin that could pop policits and teach the chil'ens before callin' quits fully equipped to get rich like greener grasses on the other side of the fense.

-Talik

Monday, September 13, 2010

Sit

She sits,
Filters in the tobacco
She sits,
Tension releases,
Smoke dances a
halo around her crown
Her lips are espresso
Her tongue, forked
Narration of the last 23 years on skin
A pen rests between the pointer and the thumb
Today's canvas, still vacant
Today's mood, frustrated
She realizes
He will never call again,
Left side of the bed, a ghost town
It's not fair
Breakfast skipped since,
The kitchen has too many memories
There was once love here
Every morning, she sits
If it wasn't for a 9-5 she would stay in bed
She sits,
Zombie on the a.m. drive
Punches in
Work
Break
Work
Punches out
She sits,
Zombie on the p.m. drive
Ignores the 2 missed calls and 4 text messages
Parks
Through the cafe doors
She is not a regular
Orders a double espresso and a cup of ice
She sits,
She tries to write
She sits,
She tries to fight
She sits,
If I could offer anything
I would
But...
I sit,
staring at her pain,
I sit.


-emic

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

poetic exercise

forget what you heard,
i am to spoken word
what ham is to cured,
treacherously lecherous,
my infectious lectures bust
nuts inside of aural guts,
my tonality trumps your banality,
infinitely create hyper-reality,
with just a tongue-twist,
i've never missed your sun-kissed
tits, digitally enhanced 64-bits,
you give analogue monologues,
but mine stream clearly
like mp3, a b c, baby you know me,
i interface with the Gods,
5-star rated rhymes on ipods,
sick as a cancer ward,
the illmatic 21st century bard,
so, forget what you heard,
i'm reinventing the past,
painting my own future:
prophetically pathetic,
pathetically un-dialectic,
but, undeniably eclectic,
shit, i feel hermetic,
that is,
sealed like a word ham,
or, canned like verbal spam...damn.

~Marv

Friday, September 3, 2010

still




...still confused...

I know what's in my heart, but I gotta make my way through the maze of days like everybody else...

...I've built up walls and judgements and opinions out of my experiences.

I have an open mind to the most unexpected of things, and close it up quick to the things one might think I would be all for.

I have been the only white kid in all black neighborhoods in Northern California.

I have been the only Californian in a high school full of rednecks in Central Oklahoma.

I have been the only poor kid in an upper class town in Massachusetts.

I have seen shots fired, been knocked around. I've knocked fools out and felt great remorse.

I have been judged for my thoughts and screamed til I was hoarse.

I have been locked up too many times to mention, and I've argued with Republicans about the importance of a pension.

I have disagreed with Democrats on some liberal hippie bullshit. I've memorized prayers then heard them preached down from a pulpit.

I've spit in her face. This other woman spit in mine. I've recited the same poem over a hundred times.

I've bragged about accomplishments to anyone who would listen. I have felt like a failure while considering a possible new mission.

I'm just like you, we all sit down to poo. We all gotta eat, sometimes we all face defeat.

I've smoked meth in crack houses from Hollywood up to Reno. I've hung out with hookers and been at knife-point outside the casinos.

I have been clean and sober for over two and a half years...but, still I have been known to bring a loved one to tears.

...I love myself like crazy, and I've got a lot of work to do. I love the rest of you too, even though you all sit down to poo.

...fuckin' weirdos.

...still, I'm confused.

Oh yeah, one more thing: I always know what I'm doing.

-tr@veler

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

poetic excercise

don't hate on me,
i'm this way Occidentally,
that is, Western Culture fashioned me,
which is why reluctantly
i am plagued with that malady
consuming conspicuously
with a hunger characterized by insatiability,
post-modern non sequitur train of thought,
immaculately conceived, divinely begot,
my soul was raided by barbarous germanic tribes
my thoughts written on papyrus by scribes
my love for life was never requited
and, though i've danced with devils
i was never delighted,
but tonight, i gotta get my mind right,
forget about hindsight,
focus on the lime light,
take my cue in this theatre of the absurd
and, prove to the world that,
in fact, it is possible to polish a turd.

~Marv

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

free-style

embodiment of soul-collision
has arisen from the precision
of my mis-managed decisions,
too many times i made the booty quake
with the familiarity of a hand shake,
never thought to do it for love's sake,
but, what's love anyway, hombre?
nothing more than emotional souffle!
so don't let that admixture
become a fixture
on your dinner plate,
keep them shady ladies a la carte,
where they should've been from the start,
instead, they became the only item on the menu,
but, instead of ordering them they ordering you,
so, turn around,
affix that crown,
'tis better to be profane than profound,
and deafened by the sound
of their heart hitting the ground:
soul-collision.

~Marv

Monday, August 30, 2010

Untitled....(to be continued)

on this day recognize the raising of my brow against your subtle, demeaning humor. understand that  the look on my face is disgust and distaste. you are incredibly, utterly and most especially ludicrous. apparently you're under the impression that your notions on life, inherited you prestige and honor among the common man in some sort of predefined hierarchy you, yourself have created. an illusion to top delusions. a freak of nature resting at ease in the uncomfortable silences of the denounced and emotionally detained creatures you confine as cretins casting them aside as unimportant, resolute and destitute of intelligent thoughts. you sink in your stink and think it smells like roses you poser. posting your stench on the wrenching of the soul. smells like gene smearin'. disenchanting spirits in the circumfrence of curses, dark nights and crimson sonnets. slinging mud like a pitcher outta hell playing the fields of dirty laundry and smriks and crappy attitudes. rude. dishonest. cheap shooter. shister. shady commuter like lightless tunnels in subways lost on new world developments. unending. bending the spine in search of what's never yours and only others, you make "mine". greedy. seedy sooth sayer looking like sweet, but sounding like snakes slithering hither and there impairing the judgement of those who want to love and never freeze, but have froze. posed......to be continued

be peace

-Talik 

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

cracked

Form-fitting, from the crack of dawn to the cracked mirrors, the ones from the "before times..."

When all it takes is whimsically perserveranced prayers, and meeting my maker half-way,

these things work out.

Some may say a whole bunch of shit about it, but those who stand true, aligned, and awake,

will continue to give props.

And may the props flow circular, connecting and raising the consciousness of the warm...

infecting the cold and the calous ones with our sickness of grace and compassion...

well, gratitude can apparently transform a tough guy convict bad-ass loud mouth, trash-talkin', judgementally-inclined type-casting pigeon holing, elitist fuckin wannabe music snob...

...into a real poet again.

Thank you Spoken Views, I'll come back around soon, stronger and cleaner than before

-tr@veler

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

skipping a stitch

call me lovely, call me the scent of the sun, call me the scattered but sure light of the stars, call me hard goodbyes. call me beauty eyes. say i taste like laugther on salty days. like shattering the glass over cold hearts opening just as wide as the sky. say my presence feels like building stairs to the clouds, that my voice is the sound of stacking bricks up to climb to hope. take my hand, take comfort in wingless flight. tell me that the way words roll of my lips breaks you. breaks you so badly that you can't keep anyone out anymore. reveal your cracks and faultlines, forget the stitches and burst. let your colors coat me. show me every single tone of your rainbow. tell me that once you bleed the bad out, that i can replace it. that i can become your new palette to paint bliss with.

-m.o.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

he sings for them

2 weeks pass and the words overflow in coversations with little to no substance. silence endures in the back seat of the new car he bought thinking this meant he was more of a man. a man who cared about his family. their status. meetings of the minds found him to be dead wrong beyond a soft correction or shift of the hand. it's easy to misread the clouds over head as they seem to dicipate, excaping permanence. he was thinking that he did good things in his day to day and the love would never fade into obscure hand signals and obligitory shouting matches across the threshold of the haven they called home. he wondered where he belonged. all he had were songs. pockets empty cause the gas tank called to them; now he carries songs. on the backs of old songs he writes new ones. working it all out in the open hoping to hitch a ride back in the direction of certainty. he knows not at all the path that he has chosen is enclosed in a mountain with a meaning the gets deep into the heart. he knows not of his future song, but he still sings.

Talik

Thursday, May 20, 2010

19 May 2010 Open Mic Event

images from last night open mic. enjoy.
















Saturday, May 15, 2010

I wonder when I'll leave this bathroom. Finding time to waste, not wasted (at the moment), but wasting waste while wondering. I should get up and shower. I should get off this seat and shower. If I could find the strength beyond lazieness and lift a finger to reason I'd be on my way--wouldn't I? To what end? On what means? Dissiminating the thoughts in groggy headedness. Sufferring deep depression upon making first impressions stand while I sit! Sunken into a state of contrast in clamor constricted by mine own restrictions in complacentcy. Impatient, but still. Riding the moments like a sloth sticking to his convictions--No! I will get up! I will have the will be willing! I shan't sit for this any longer lingering on lounging in a shitty state! No! I will not! Ohhhhk! I'm fuckin' up! Fine! I guess it's not do bad after all.


Talik

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Dark surrounds me like bullies
Fool me now and watch the strength drown
And there is no real reason,
I guess you can blame it on the season
Growing pains cause strain
And my fucking brain is getting the best of me
I thought we were suppose to be homies
Show me a light,
A flicker of hope so I can cope
My scope is now cloudy,
body, rowdy
How'd he do it?
Simple
Threw rocks at the negative
Threw the head off balance
Now the aura leans with a mean disposition
Depression tag teams with anxiety
Anxiety has a pact with panic
And this is just the way the universe planned it
My shoulder blades frame my motto
The skin sheds and the meds may numb
But this is no time to sit & act dumb
I'm from a starship that still has steam
And plenty of reasons to peddle these dreams
Screams on silent
Put demand on vibrate
And my ringtone is my breath
Simple
Learn to say no more often,
But say yes to beautiful energies that embrace
Expectations are there...grind gradually to exceed it
Always ask for help because you never know when you're the one who'll need it.

emic

the ship

i wanna wish for better times and times are good, but it ain't grand and the skemes are worse than ever and i meant to be great but i missed fate by a moment. holding onto what's become my passion placing my past in the trash bin and picking it up to do backspins and relaxin's not really my thing. i guess that's why it's a mess. messy meetings for better moments in time trickling down the waves of my emotional undercurrent. i take detours before i wake up and when i walk with eyes open it's as if doors keep shutting and openning and closing and disappearing and wearing on my memory. my mind is missing the points and placing space in my pockets that are filled with phone numbers and bad credit. i'm indebted to the medication of procrastination while holding hands with multiple ordinances and opting to go on. so go on wish for bliss and send me a kiss while i'm missed my mrs's. hopefully one day we'll forgoe it all and dive deep with sea fishes while our dust whistle's in the wind. i hope the ship can hold that long. i love you.

talik

Monday, May 3, 2010

blessed I guess


still paused and flowing slowly...

...with the vibrations unseen

and the busted perceptions of a lucid daydream.



willful thoughts, old and moldy...

...in a mined basement, come clean

while a trusted connection spun a musical crazy scene.



it's hot but cold and lonely...

...kissed by my angels under wings

until those muddy collections uncovered a hazy sea.



wishes got bold for only...

...a second or two...



who would've guessed it could move?

the simplest gift was lifted once or twice...



for only a second or two

-TraveleR-

let me.

i'll hold you until you bleed nothing but sunlight and daisy yellows against cement.
like every golden dollar thrown into a fountain filled with shining wishes.
speak nothing but whispers when you are so far away that only the wind can carry it to me-
secrets of barren hearts that were robbed empty of color when worn on a sleeve in a black-and-white world.
show me your favorite colors so i can paint myself in them and you will never feel grey,
i can be every hint hue tone of hope in your day if you let me.
the train tracks that kissed the landscape of your beauty, gritting metal to rich soil, left more than rusting steel
and i know this and i can see this and i hear it in every cracked syllable of your exhausted speech.
but let me be your dream catcher.
i will wait by your side to collect every cloud atop your head and pop it until you see nothing but rainbows.
the pot of gold at the end will be my arms filled with every drop of love you never received when you should have.
i'll kiss your wounds into scars and your scars into
so distant memory because these hands will stitch you new.
if you let them,
if you let me.
let me be the thief of your darkness,
i will harness every act of war the world will try to lay upon your smiling face.
shadows will no longer dance around you, sprinkling defeat along your path.
they will bow to you and fear your light.
all the screams you sequestered that tore at your tissue will leave and become music for dancing feet.
you will dance, dance,
dance until dawn and dusk both applaud you.
until the stars demand an encore.
until the moon's face glows with tears because in all it's years
it's never seen anything come close to such wholeness as you.
believe this promise song i offer you.
believe i would die for you if it made you happy.
believe that my hands can't hide every hole in your soul,
but they could damn well try.. they could damn well try.
if you let them, if you let me.



-m.o.

Monday, April 19, 2010

moments: 1-5

when chelsie rose was still part of spoken views and she proposed a book idea for 1,000 moments from 10 poets, i came up with 50 before the plan was abandoned. they were supposed to be short and kept simple. i found some today on one of my old blogs. who knows, maybe we could still do this book. i like where it was going. anyways, here are five for now. i'll keep posting them in increments.

1.) sweaty palm electricity
stutter, stumble over words hormone
jaw dropped and drooling mouth prone
imaginary fairy tale brain land
working out scenarios your hand could, should
brush against mine
affection growing as a tumor benign
infecting smiles, causing shakey knees
melting me to the floor in heaps

2.) concrete convulsions
crumbling quickly to cover up
the lower level black asphalt lover
sediment and dust caress it's worn places
red bricks looking like chapped lips
roughly and hastily kissing
the forlorn and lost other half

3.) unwanted lips
touching the back of my neck
insistent words fall somewhere between
the cracks of my poor communication
and your hands groping to be fed
the weight of your boflex body
pressing against the back of my small frame
crushing cleanliness out of my skin
heavy breaths fill my ear
and i know what it feels like to want to die.

4.) the light projected onto the crowd
strips away daily facades worn on our faces
the beat drops and dancing hands
float through the top of the mass in unison
elbows bumped and toes stepped on
go unnoticed as eyes are glued center stage
see the knowledge being dropped out in rhymes
into the mic that serves as a weapon.
we're all aspring to be inspired.

5.) on these dirty streets of reno
one man positions himself in the same place
daily during summer on virginia st.
in between the silver legacy and the golden pheonix
preaching the words of god
he placed his palm on my forehead,
prayed for my lost
and told me that i was saved.
that god was watching over me.

seconds later a friend and i were
hassled by four or more bike cops
that placed us in handcuffs
for breaking curfew.
thank god.



-m.o.

Monday, April 5, 2010

you
make
me
sick

everything about you.
go ahead with your tricks...
i know all about you.
you're indebted to insecurity
embeded in impurity,
quite pathetic.

you
make
me
sick

talik

Sunday, April 4, 2010

cigarettes.

light.
inhale.
exhale.
flick.
repeat.


enjoy this,
it will be the death of you.



-em.o

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

$ex Cells

    so, i am serious about this erotic poetry collection.  and, i would like to edit the final chapter, as a sort of collaborative collection. anyway, i am including a little sample, so the spokenviews and poetry universe doesn't think i am blowing smoke up skirts.  check it:

the sound of her screams seems
like the sonorous insemination of jet streams,
incantations of past relations packaged
inside of her moans and ejaculations,
stress's is no longer manifest but my 
hand prints are impressed upon her chest.
she's lost in far-reaching gazes that 
beseech love live beyond the moon's many phases,
and, nothing fazes me or amazes me
quite like the way she falls back lazily,
with her arms out-stretched in praise of me,
abandoning far-fetched ideas of chastity,
yes, lose yourself in abandon, 
let's take a ride in tandem,
as questions fly at you at random:
what lies beyond those clenched-eyes and bitten-lips?
what pries open clenched-thighs and birthing-hips?..

...just a sample, now keep writing and keep loving!

~MarvinG


2002 Winter Olympics, Salt Lake City, UT, Late January.

     here is another (mostly) true story.  the names were kept the same to incriminate the guilty:

They look like mythological creatures,

Stout faces burned by time and the sun,

Their eyes shine like a trash-filled cauldron

Burning at the end of an expansive snow laden lot,

They have the mouths of a carp,

Slowly aspirating in rhythm to the inflation and

Deflation of their corpulent bellies,

Which are contained by faded plaid shirts

Stained with BBQ sauce and whiskey

From misplaced sips from the bottle,

They emit an ungodly odor

Vaguely reminiscent of urine and bile,

Their matted hair hangs down from their foreheads,

They bounce on the train

Like hooded figures swaying in tandem the Southern breeze,

Suddenly one grumbles, a surprise on my part,

As he move as though a stone figure has become animated,

“Gimme your shoes, honky!” says the drunk Indian,

We are alone on a the train that’s headed toward downtown,

Just we three and the two drunken Indians of mythological lore,

The comment is directed at Drew and his gray Chuck Taylors,

“Gimme your shoes, honky!”

I know that to fight these drunken Indians would be a losing battle,

Not only do they have tree trunk arms

And pissed-off expressions that twitch in a fumy cloud of Jim Beam,

But, we are all beginning to feel the effects

Of Psilocybin invading our collective conscious,

Only minutes earlier I was telling my buddy Paul:

“These shrooms are making me gassy, man,

I think I’m gonna puke that Margherita pizza from earlier!”

I was saying this clenching my belly

While Paul looked at his fingers, which had become

Flaccid as wet noodles and were swirling as though in a sea before him,

“Gimme your shoe, honky!”

This time the drunken Indian attempts to stand

When he says it, but he sways like statue unlocked from its base,

He tries to right himself but his grain-soaked brain

Still thinks that he is sitting down,

Suddenly the train comes to a halt and the Indian topples over,

The doors swing open and we dismount the train 

Leaving the two Mythological creatures to rot in their mobile tomb,

The world outside is just as hellish

As the one we’ve just departed,

There is something weirdly chthonic

Implicit in the environment outside,

Hoards of empty-eyed pedestrians stumble about

Like the walking dead with their mouths agape,

Office buildings tower overhead

Like the ominous tombstones of fallen gods,

A once verdant and overgrown park

Is now littered with skeletal trees and ashen snow,

And, at the heart of it all, at the Galvin Center,

Lies the Budweiser Beer Gardens,

In which the multitudes shift in and out,

Mindlessly filling their plastic red cups with a sort of golden death,

At the entrance to the beer gardens are monolithic columns,

Celestial spires or ziggurats

With corporate sponsorship that read: King of Beers,

It is like the gates of heaven, only instead of St. Michael

There is a DJ spinning the most unbearable house music,

He is like some long forgotten general from the Third Reich

Reanimated so that he can once again bring havoc upon mankind,

Who wears a headset whence he is seemingly

Receiving telephonic messages from Satan himself,

And, the most horrifying part is that the crowd just loves him,

Or, maybe they are hypnotized by the pulsating drumbeats,

Will these lemmings follow their leader to the precipice? I wonder,

But, Paul wakes me from my reverie

Handing me an Anchor Steam

That he has just wrestled from my backpack,

The beer will calm me down, I think,

Perhaps, retard these fleeting notions,

I look up to see the group has proceeded to march on,

Check this shit out, Paul says, motioning toward

A giant picture of a figure skater draped over a skyscraper,

The city has draped many similar enormous

Photographs over the buildings downtown,

From a distance the appear still,

But, standing underneath them now

I realize that a bit of air separates them from the building,

And, a breeze dances just below it causing the

Ice skater’s figure to wave and ripple,

Suddenly a notion dawns on me: the closer you get to

Any still object, the more you realize that everything

Is in constant chaotic motion,

This shit is really tripped out, says Drew,

And, I feel no words better articulate what I am feeling,

We trudge on, going through Anchor Steams like

An Escalade goes through unleaded fuel,

We roll joints laced with Opium,

And, blow clouds of billowing smoke into a crowd of missionaries,

We are lawless, we are vigilante, and we are stoned as a mutha,

We get locked into port-o-potties, and ogle beautiful women,

We offend young children with our crass tongues,

And make little girls cry with only our grimaces and pig-snort laughter,

We have fire burning in our eyes, and make demon-possessed expressions,

We talk endlessly, our subject matters cover the

Width and breadth of human knowledge:

Metaphysics, Epistemology, Ontology, Genetics,

And, with each passing word the world becomes

Even more harrowing and less familiar,

Suddenly, Paul and I are staring through a window at

A lithograph of an old couple, titled: The Lithographer and her Husband.

And, staring through the window into this ad hoc art museum

 I realize that this is what I want; what I’ve been searching for,

To be re-rendered, to be recreated; reborn…to be made a work of art,

And, so I wander away from the group, bewildered,

And, in my Psilocybin-laced thoughts I think

 I must move on, but I know not where,

And so, I meander onto the street, walking toward the train tracks,

My arms are raised in the air,

My friends are yelling at me, telling me that a train is coming,

The lights form the train trace my figure,

And, this moment becomes frozen forever as I stand on the tracks

Like a life-sized snow glow,

Marvin, the fucking train!

But, I my mind wanders on, transfixed on something far beyond,

Something just out of reach,

Snow swirls around me,

But, I look on,

The train’s lights paint

And everlasting picture in the minds of my friends,

But, I look on,

The train honks and flashes its raging lights,

But, I look on,

Overwhelmed by something that burns dimly over the ash-dust horizon. 

Thursday, March 25, 2010

the sleeping baby never weeps
even with the wind howling
his serenity is quite deep
wrapped up in his warm blankies
as i inch in to take a peek
his sweet face is dreaming
i will let him be
in his momentary serenity

~secret~
Pour the hope in my soul.
fill it up with the gold of the earth
and when i break free of the ropes that hold me down
i will emerge from the depths of the oceans and fly through the endless galaxy
hoping that you will be right beside me

~secret~

Monday, March 22, 2010

So, as it were...

...So, as it were lying on top of a symmetrically sound system of mission statements, we missed the latest disrespectful taste test, conducted by the fuck heads who seem to be loveless.
...so, now that we've identified an enemy, we can rectify the symmetry with our own tantalizing taste bud stimulating tea party.
...except tea tastes like shit to me. I foolishly prefer highly caffinated coffee. But, you know what I'm sayin.'

...I'm sayin' Kiss my nuts, you punk motherfuckers, chuckin' a bunk over-stuffed muffin' full of nothin' worth mentioning, but hurled strong enough to wreck our scene. Mess with me and my crew again, and we'll bless the breeze with our energy. We got some shit up our sleeves that y'all can't even see, and come summer, we'll be up in your shit with our pleasantries.

See, you all fuckin' pissed me off. So I'm gonna come at you with eloquence and grace and a fat load of nut for your face.

...k, maybe not the skeet, but we'll take to the streets. You will experience defeat. We will spit freshness through our teeth. We kick knowledge to beats, and empower the weak. We created a scene and our leaders shine clean.

oooh wee ooh, y'all done fucked up now.

-traveler

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

what they want is...

we spoke our views and included the few that wanted to be clued in as to who was holding our voice for randsom. they want more cash for our talents to pass their cirriculum cooperation compression disorder. they want more of us to hush and walk past and nulify our rights to speach, freely. freely we stood to take a stand and still sequester these jesters to ground themselves straightfaced with a point in case beyond the calculated value of our souls in their pocket books. now they think us weak, but we be strong. so strong we took 2 hours to make a song. people sang in poetry and breaths we've taken as souls were shaken about the doubts of freedom in our city. should we run and hide away our emotions at the bottom of bottles incandescent in essence to present a lack of presence. should we forgoe that which is supposed to be innate and negate the correlation between body and soul...soul to mind...to mine these fields of chil'en seeded in deep within the community of pundits who spun shit so fast their eyes became glass...cause they work with the sand man and he helps them sleep at night and they connect the irrigation tunnels to funnel monetary values higher than family values and community. they capitalize on the grants and take percentages of scantily clad fads that flaunt too often around the sound and so conscious. obnoxious noxious gases cascading contiuously, corroding the caverns we've carved out of these desolate times. they want no voice to be heard and we...we just want...to be.

talik

Monday, March 15, 2010

7-7-5

loose yourself in these words please
find calm and comfort so sweet
lean closer to love

talik

Reno Haiku (7-7-5)

that last blog was pretty lame
I need to be positive
Reno is still weird

-Traveler

Reno Haiku (7-7-5)

Some crazy fools piss me off
and some of them don't at all
Reno is straight weird

-Traveler

Thursday, March 11, 2010

(775)

the tweakers and their keepers,
are far from quiet sleepers,
probably mumbling.

Corpse

You’ve been dressed well tonight,
little shell that sold herself to see the light-
See how the light has left your eyes
Blank face, and your jaw keeps moving,
Your mouth streams fallacies and your eyes lie fallow,
the organic matter of truth
became the fallow fields of ignorant dreams
Unceasing movement from which your subconscious streams,
That began rotting early in your youth.

You see, they’d rather dress you well,
Cover the patches of dirt with what they want you to be,
Tuck flaws under tight jeans,
Insert credit cards where there might have been meaning,
Then admit that what they are taking
is more destructive then what they are replacing.

Still, her corpse was half price, and you dressed her up nice,
Took her out for the night, and danced with mannequin hands
Until the patches of dirt under her skin began to hurt,
And she is layed in fallow lands, the fields of failures and dreamers
who could no longer refrain from haunting the empty eyes,
And return to the land where thoughts have been banned,
Collected, canned, and kept in whorehouses
for the next narrowly escaped apocalypse.

-eLeigh

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Reno Haiku

i want to break the mold now
in an effort to change things
we must be steadfast

talik

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

In the style of Reno Haiku

One more year older I am.
Twenty-Eight on this planet.
A little more wise.

-emic

Monday, March 1, 2010

remember the moments when the rocky mountains drifted by us supposin' we would never meet again. across grey skies and night rides watching the moonlight dance along ridges and state line signs. showing us the wonders of the dark. we watched in amazement fighting the sleep that bated our bodies against cold glass with cheeks pressed snugly. the starlights guiding our imaginations longitude and lattitude, stretching our thoughts into the spaces lost in the shadows forshadowing the proceeding moments in succession. the process of life unfolding with a beautiful pace against these skies that turn blue under black with white and yellow spots pokadotting the rhythms of the universe. yet another turn for the search from worse to ok to better to best to blank mindedness settling on the sun dripped sounds of the evenning skies loosing themselves to the pitch black bound to fade into the nautical. somethings sings to me in these moments of memories amounting to the sublime remembering a bus ride.

talik

move.


we are
the pushers and sluggers,
the muggers of indifference
towards inactivity.
spitting, vomitting, expulsing poetry
through every pore.
to say you can't live wealthily on writing
is one poor statement.
it is my food, drink, pillow at night, hands
that hold in cold weather.
i watch over pages and pens, seeing you
getting up for your 9-5
while i write my 9-5 pages
of movement.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Sit with it, til it bleeds


...So we've formulated a concept; manufactured a dramatic interaction.
blasted with a passion to create a foundation that's long-lasting
...i'm askin' for some compassion to keep our heads out of our asses
and live for the light that we can celebrate and bask in
...now that's not to say that it's gonna be an easy process
buncha punk motherfuckers wanna spit out fronts and nonsense
...i'm a hater of haters, clowns that say shit like "check ya later,"
or call every dude "my brotha," it's a magnificant conundrum
...so I gotta watch my mouth, cuz i'm startin' to judge again
who knows, maybe those clown-ass bitches can be trained to be a friend
...maybe they have no idea what it means to be true to self
just like me...fuck you. I love you. I hope this rant finds you in good health.
.........man, I need to switch to decaf.


-traveler

Monday, February 22, 2010

in the lasting moments of music till 5...i await departure like the birds of cape town around this time...soon...soon...i will take flight and be caught by the night as the days light fades faster than i'd like it to...mostly wandering the fields of grace looking for space...beginning to race in place finding solace in the in betweens...ticks merging once and often and again and never meeting really...and there's days like this one that excitement builds like kids in a candy store or at the toy shoppe...life is full of beauty in sounds and silence and somehow this is perfect...somehow some days there is balance and i find these words to be right...

be peace

Talik Talluah

Saturday, February 20, 2010

quick like

i woke up to find myself surprisingly well rested after 3 days of performances. i hope this is the route things continue to travel upon. i want small naps here and there and time with my son and Alicia. i need time with the son and trees ta...stay rooted. keep me on the up and up and fill me with gratitude in the midst of being rude. as i may walk the earth on rolling hills and mountaintops talking the talk of a tall man on higher aspirations. bigger than himself. bigger that the thought of being BIG. this is HUGE! i'm on a high the way my peers ride the words they've worked out like hands to clay or hammers to jagged stones collected from rockslides. i wanna rock out like Hendrix and claim glory in the eyes of them. my peers. peering though all my faults and misteps and taking time to correct me as i make mistakes, they keep me grounded. thank you. quickly. be peacequci

Knitting Factory

We killed the Knitting Factory!!! Well every performer rocked it! Hopefully we've opened up alot more people (estimated @2700 through the door!) to this SpokenWord thang thang in our little city of Reno! We've got hope...bless up...be peace

talik