The SAMO ArtistIt was the same old for SAMO, a product of a world so cold.For even an artist in new hair and new clothes still remains an artist:a sacrificial lamb for the community in which he has been received.The romantic enigma, birthed and supported by our desire to eatof the trees that drop the fruit produced by his genius looms.But, eventually, when his destiny looms deep over the horizon,the artist child cries out and…is rejected by the ones he was created for.The artist child is ignored.Even with his desperate eyes, the genius cries and produce tearsthat could quench the sun before it rises, but gone is the allure.No more. No more. No more need for the artist.After all, he has accomplished all he was created to do.For did we not create the artist?We pushed him along, encouraged him in his creative pursuits.Sang praises and sang songs!But in the end he’s been done wrong.As he unwillingly sings his swan song, we’ve moved on.Desperate to be pleased, our cathartic need will soon haveour newest artist on his knees. And even as he begs and pleads,we will have moved on once again. For no one wants to be thefriend of an artist that can no longer pay society’s rent -an artist that will soon no longer exist. *I wrote this poem several months ago shortly after watching The Radiant Child. The SAMO Artist is an allusion to SAMO, Basquiat’s former graffiti tag.
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The SAMO Artist

It was the same old for SAMO, a product of a world so cold.
For even an artist in new hair and new clothes still remains an artist:
a sacrificial lamb for the community in which he has been received.
The romantic enigma, birthed and supported by our desire to eat
of the trees that drop the fruit produced by his genius looms.

But, eventually, when his destiny looms deep over the horizon,
the artist child cries out and…is rejected by the ones he was created for.
The artist child is ignored.
Even with his desperate eyes, the genius cries and produce tears
that could quench the sun before it rises, but gone is the allure.

No more. No more. No more need for the artist.
After all, he has accomplished all he was created to do.
For did we not create the artist?
We pushed him along, encouraged him in his creative pursuits.
Sang praises and sang songs!

But in the end he’s been done wrong.
As he unwillingly sings his swan song, we’ve moved on.
Desperate to be pleased, our cathartic need will soon have
our newest artist on his knees. And even as he begs and pleads,
we will have moved on once again. For no one wants to be the
friend of an artist that can no longer pay society’s rent -
an artist that will soon no longer exist.

*I wrote this poem several months ago shortly after watching The Radiant Child. The SAMO Artist is an allusion to SAMO, Basquiat’s former graffiti tag.

The Days of My Youth I see ahead of me,as far as the eye can see,for miles ahead, nothing but possibilities.I see the sun beating down on the pavement.Heat sizzling from the ground,then rising to the sky,like romance and adventures,being born of the earth.I see the day waiting to be had,and time waiting to be conquered.Memories are waiting to be made,memories of adventure and sweet serendipity.Even in what is to come, I am nostalgic.Even as the yellow yoke in the skybeats down on the ground,it evokes in me feelings of anticipation parallel to those long gone.And it’s these sediments of those former sentimentsthat grant me an assurance fully cementedthat the events of today will be no differentthan the events of days past.So in this, I thank God for the days of my youth!These days of discovery, romance, and joy.These days. These days.May these days long remain with me. This is my ode to the joy of summer and a life of novel spontaneity. Live young while you’re still young. Fill your life with adventure, for no else will do it for you.
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The Days of My Youth

I see ahead of me,
as far as the eye can see,
for miles ahead, nothing but possibilities.

I see the sun beating down on the pavement.
Heat sizzling from the ground,
then rising to the sky,
like romance and adventures,
being born of the earth.

I see the day waiting to be had,
and time waiting to be conquered.
Memories are waiting to be made,
memories of adventure and sweet serendipity.
Even in what is to come, I am nostalgic.

Even as the yellow yoke in the sky
beats down on the ground,
it evokes in me feelings of anticipation
parallel to those long gone.

And it’s these sediments of those former sentiments
that grant me an assurance fully cemented
that the events of today will be no different
than the events of days past.

So in this, I thank God for the days of my youth!
These days of discovery, romance, and joy.
These days. These days.
May these days long remain with me.

This is my ode to the joy of summer and a life of novel spontaneity. Live young while you’re still young. Fill your life with adventure, for no else will do it for you.

I Envy the Naked

I long to escape this treacherous reality,
to make good on my promise and just disappear.
I dream of liberation. My innate passions cry out to me.
As clearly as my cry on the day that I was born.

I’m trapped.
Behind a wall of adversity,
behind the murderers of visions,
and the shouts of the anti-free.

To truly escape this.
To be pure, sincerely naked.
I’ll break off these chains
and run for the sea.

Gil Scott-Heron Passes Away

If you check the top of my Tumblr page, you’ll see that I’ve installed a new banner. It’s a temporary banner, but one I felt the need to put up anyway. It’s there to commemorate Gil Scott-Heron, my favorite poet, who died four days ago at age 62. It’s always a bit sad whenever a source of great inspiration passes away. Gil Scott-Heron’s poetry and music, particularly his debut album, had an indelible mark on my own art, forever changing the way I perceived and wrote poetry. He was also one of three big influences for my new short film, Wholly Aware. He was one of my personal heroes, and he will surely be missed.

“The revolution will not be televised” is a term that has been over-used to the point of cliché, and it’s been floating in the air like none other these past few days due to Scott-Heron’s death. But there’s a reason quotes like that become so culturally salient in the first place. The phrase is a potent cultural discourse that is as challenging as it is profound. But that was Gil Scott-Heron to a tee, challenging and profound.

Spent

It’s 3 am.
My blanket beckons to me.
My pillow whispers my name.
My bed’s patience is running thin.

We’re all restless and impatient
because of the last 3 hours I’ve spent,
in breathless anticipation for the moment
I feel spent.

The moment I can justifiably climb into my abode,
where all is still. The castle at the bottom of a hill.
The moment I can comfortably reside in my
ephemeral estate, located in my dream land.

Guiltless rest, residing in
the arena of unconscious imminence.
The feeling that the only thing
I currently feel is my mind,
slipping down that hill.

*I’ve still been burning the midnight oil as of late. But later today, I embark upon an adventure…my last final exam of freshman year. Very soon I will have no excuse for maintaining terrible sleeping habits and not working out. I won’t be in class.

Summer has nearly arrived. Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff are visibly excited.


Bags

The bags which stare at you
from underneath these eyes
tell no lies.

They are tell-tale signs
of the nights I have survived.
Nights that are derived
from my lack of an iron will or drive,
my knack for piss poor planning,
and my inadequate foresight.

But don’t take me as contrite.
I am just happy that I’m alive.
Pleased that I have the chance
to commit suicide, one more time.

*This is the second time I’ve posted this poem on TheCreativeRoutine. But it’s finals week so I feel it to be once again appropriate. It’s amazing that freshman year of college has zoomed by so quickly and will soon end as abruptly as it began. For everything in life, there’s a cycle I suppose.

A Pawn in the Larger Scheme of Things

It’s a tall order, but we’re taller.
Much taller.
Tall enough to see over that cliff
that meets the purview
of the scurvy nature of our consciousness.
All these promises.
They’ve formed a line outside my mind.
But I can’t let them in.
I don’t have the key that unlocks the door.
Nor can I say that I anymore wish to see
what has been kept from me for so long.

Even as I longed, knowing all along
that broken promises can never be super-glued.
All they know how to do is use.
Use use use.
Even as they sit back and watch the view-
err. That’s right. I’ve erred. On the left side of right.
Right before my big break, I slipped.
Nearly broke my neck.

But it’s still intact.
Intact enough for me to be aware of the following fact:
reality is whack.
But not intact enough for me to
stand up and walk away.
At least not today.

The rest of today will be spent lying
on the broken concrete,
contemplating my broken dreams,
how I became a has-been.
A forethought.
I’ve gone without.
But not for lack of trying.
I’m lying here dying!
I can’t stand up and walk away.
I’ve become too maimed.
I’ve become a victim of my own game.
A pawn in the larger scheme of things.

*I wrote this poem while editing my latest short film and simultaneously watching Downtown 81, a film about a fictionalized version of New York artist Jean-Michel Basquiat. This poem is undoubtedly a result of me watching Downtown 81, and it’s unlikely the poem would have ever come to exist under any other circumstance. The amazing is, though, that even if you’ve seen Downtown 81, it’s unlikely that you notice any visible indicators as to how the movie influenced this poem. I’m not even sure I notice any indicators. Yet, they’re there. I suppose it’s the metaphysical nature of art and inspiration.