so much of the illness is here ^

I believe you’re standing in my garden.

So I am, I said. Trying to steal the last of the soaking raspberries, although I wouldn’t admit it.

I had removed my jacket to catch rain in the hood for a sip, and my white shirt was soaked.  A small wooden house accompanied the garden and she stood on its porch, just above the steps and beyond the rain.  My feet sank deeper into the soil.

How long have you been here? she asked.

When did you leave?

I don’t remember.

Since then, I said.

            This small vegetable sanctuary sat damp.  It reminded me of my grandfather’s funeral.  The fence was built of logs and branches gathered from the forest.  The tips of each post were rounded, worn from years of harsh weather.  They shone a slick blue in the heavy downpour, some distant cousin of sea glass.  A creaking gate hung open.  The hinges were recently replaced but slightly too large for the hand-carved oddity and now the gate swung slack-jawed.

            A motley crew of edibles surrounded me.  Chosen either because she loved that particular fruit or vegetable, or because she was experimenting with some new breed, these plants shared a feeling of disorganization.  Clumped together towards the eastern end of the garden rose a now-dormant arrangement of wildflowers that had grown with minimal assistance.  Once vibrant purples, blues and reds, they were now dull and had lost their smell.  These barren stalks could be mistaken for a tall grass or some unwanted shrub.  Her favorite herbs were in small rectangular clay pots at the entrance to the garden.  In these she kept sage, rosemary and other more exotic garnishes that she used nightly in her cooking.  The rosemary smelled like doughy bread and mint.  There were artichokes, green peppers, tomatoes, carrots, onions, garlic, ginger and small blood-red colored rhubarb plants.  All of these spaced awkwardly about the garden in small groups, splinter cells conspiring to take more land for themselves.  Two gnarled apple trees stood at the edge of the garden, half the leaves gone and the rest rustling resistance to the wind.  A few branches of the smaller tree spilled over the boundaries set by the morbid little fence, and they rubbed against each other slowly dancing some ancient wooden ritual.  A small row of raspberry vines littered the path in-between the artichokes and wildflowers.  It was between these artichokes and wildflowers that she found me in her garden.

You’re going to catch a cold out there, she said.

I nodded, feeling the weight of the rain in my knotted hair.  Streams surged from the tips of my bangs, hoping to regain the sensation of falling they had experienced their entire lives.  I laughed, looking down towards where the water pooled at my feet.  I looked up again and she was still there, leaning against the screen door.  Between us the rain hammered into the earth, unrelenting in its energy.  The greenery that had initially responded with a bright and triumphant show of colors was now buffeted into submission by the overwhelming downpour.  Only the now-blue posts of the fence held any vibrancy, glimmering around the edge of the garden, tiny faeries trapped and unable to fly home.  A slow fog waited about the trees behind me, keeping still in the rain.

The house wore a brown that did not quite fit with the wilderness about it.  The sloped grey roof hung sullenly; a broken umbrella.  Four sturdy posts held up the overhang that protected the back porch from rain.  A small protective railing skirted the porch, painted an eerie orange in a year when the growing season was cut short and she found herself with little to do.  Wicker and teak chairs sat about in a welcoming fashion, entertaining phantom guests.  Through the haze I could see the warm yellow glow from her screen door.  Off to the side, her bedroom window curtains barely noticeable in the rain.  I walked up to the steps and stopped just beyond the dumbfounded gate.

What’s that, she asked.

Looking at my washed-through shirt, her eyes reflected the twinkling posts behind me.  I glanced down, surprised to find a tattoo covering my torso.

I’m not sure, I said.

It looks like a forest from here.

I think it’s a letter.

The rain pounded behind my ears, turning her voice to a whisper and mine to that of a grand orator.

            Script scrawled upon my skin, surrounded by the frayed edges of an imitation scroll.  Stretching from my shoulders to my waist, trailing down in a hauntingly realistic fashion.  It must have taken many days to finish.  I was unable to read it, although I knew that it began ‘Dear’ and I think, even though she could not see it from where she stood above the steps, that she knew how it began as well.  My focus shifted from the tattoo to the water that ran beyond me and into the dirt.  I brought my head up and watched her.  The wind, which had been meek in the face of such rain, strengthened, and the sound of the apple tree and fence rubbing together grew into a formidable creaking.

“The team that used to put on the defensive squeeze of a cobra now plays offense like a family of rabbits that got into a meth lab.”

- Fran Blinebury, NBA.com

     My best friend is an old man named Dennis. He rambles, and ventures into offensive statements. He’s in his 70’s. He comes into the store to keep me company, and he won’t stop talking. Sometimes he gets under my skin. I can’t get rid of him.

     He frustrates me, but I know I’ll be there for his telephone booth funeral.

     And i’ll make sure that telephone booth bumps louder than any palladium. I swear. I swear to god.

     “When we’re little kids, we have diapers and we poop our pants. When we die, we have diapers and we poop our pants.”

     Neither of us are “getting any.”

due to the overwhelming success of May 13th’s release: The Dog-Shot Man, i’ve decided to crush through this workstretch of nobreaks and put out another album before June 1st’s Library Sessions. it’ll be pooping around some time this week. i’m tired.

     open with open market. close with bulldog.

     clothes with bulldog prints in open market. people in clothes with bulldog prints walking on prints of paws.

     The Prince of Pause enters. Pause.

     streak-hair sidelined by good intentions’ waste of gesture. simple bonsai stamp, and the letter has permission to travel.

     quit askin: “do [i] have love for it?”

     if you only knew what i’ve done for it. what i’ve overcome for it. what i’ve given up for it. you’d quit askin.

     take the love of your life. take it out of your life. hi.

     earlymornings inspire spirituals & yogamen. not us.

I don’t like them. I don’t like their food, their themes… I don’t like them.

oversized glasses

 undersized shorts

  oversized glasses

   undersized shorts

    oversized glasses

andalliwonderishowmuchtimetheymusttaketoputonsuchlargetopsandsuchsmall

bottomsandiftheyknowthey’reattractiveoriftheythinkthey’reugly

     I hesitate to engage philosophy. I do not like to read it, I do not like to hear of it. And yet today, my thoughts won’t turn elsewhere. I’ve picked up a book by a poet to whom I’ve been compared. According to the (quite attractive) poet & teacher who compared us, we share similar philosophies regarding the human voice, the necessity to encompass all of life’s energies into whatever container in which they may rest, and our physical stature. Charles Olson was 6’8, and gifted with words. I am 6’7, and am the least capable writer in my family. Apparently, he wasn’t so hot on his size; or - rather - he was constantly aware of how his presence effected a room. I understand his feelings.

     I don’t understand his poetry. And this is where philosophy rears its mirror-laden head. In the book I’m reading, Collected Poems of Charles Olson, I gravitate towards beautiful lines and ideas, but find the poems - as entire pieces - to fall flat. I felt obligated to read the book because of my teacher’s comparison, and because the introduction comes from a poet whom I admire, and who was a great friend to Olson, Robert Creeley.

     Doesn’t matter who intro’d it. Doesn’t matter that a hot poet thinks something of the man. For the moment, these words are not for me. But I ask myself:

                  “how much more enjoyable would your reading experience be if you had a great base of knowledge upon which to view his words?”

     Essentially, how much do I have to know before I can know something? This is an issue I avoid in hip hop. I’m not a classic “head”. I grew up on what I grew up on, and I rarely take the time to look into the past to see the influences. Most people criticize me for this. It’s a criticism I accept with a smile. For every rap fan who critiques my lack of knowledge, I wonder how much Baldwin, Merwin, Blake, and Homer they’ve read.  Rap has a poetic base, and poetry is at least as old as written and oral tradition allows it to be.  There is no endgame, no way to know it all or gather it all into a soup from which you can taste the most illustrative brew.

     I guess I simply am asking where one draws the line. At what point can we say,

“i know enough to enjoy or dislike this?”

                                        i fear: never.

EMOTION WITHOUT RESERVE - J.Z. (Redizent)

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used to rap with this muther. i NodBow. this is a song I like verymuch

BALLATICIAN$ - You’re Welcome

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BALLATICIAN$ - Fuck You

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BALLATICIAN$ - Soft White…

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three great, free, albums by the best unknown hip hop group of the late 2000’s

album now available on bandcamp for lissstening & free download.

you built a temple out of tissue boxes in-between the fits of talking to yourself and disavowing any knowledge. professor plum in the parlor with the crowbar hid the body in the forest til it rotted and a gorgeous rhododendron grew up out it and you picked the flower smilin while yer sippin on a gin and tonic talkin to yerself about the line between ironic and erotica.

you brought it on yourself.

GO TO YOUR LOCAL ZOO

(freealbum = clickonbag)

i’m a giddy schoolgirl. today’s the day.

bustinraps:

CHIPPER - ft. Fustin & Crimm.

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cause i’m feeling so fucking chipper.

HOW CHIPPZ CAN WE GIT