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

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.

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.

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

cigarettes.

light.
inhale.
exhale.
flick.
repeat.


enjoy this,
it will be the death of you.



-em.o

$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. 

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~

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

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

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

(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

Reno Haiku

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

talik

In the style of Reno Haiku

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

-emic

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.

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

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

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

Spoken Views at Knitting Factory on Thursday 2/18