Wow. 10 Bond Street is almost done. They grow up so fast
Wow. 10 Bond Street is almost done. They grow up so fast
Party with Mr. Belding at Le Poisson Rouge in two Fridays. If you go, just hope he doesn’t do any stand up…his jokes feel like looking at old men licking bare teenager kneecaps.
CLOSED OUT OPEN MIC
I had arrived yet again, too late to sign up for the Monday night open mic at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. There was a decision to settle on whether I stay and watch or go home but I could do nothing but remember how much water I drank after dinner and my bladder was about to burst. I needed to pee.
Starbucks on Delancey.
I walked back to Avenue C and 3rd. There were more people now, like myself most were too late for the sign up. Some were frustrated, I could relate because a week ago I felt the very same way. Last week I appeared 30-20 minutes before the doors opened. Learning then, the conflict of interest between signing up and not arriving real early. This week, I figured an hour would secure me a slot, perhaps not one of the very first but a nice space in the late middle—Wrong! “Its all been filled.” I was told by one of the dudes who work there and sat outside on a trash bin. I leaned up against a tree still undecided whether I would stay on. I wanted to. I was already out here. Might as well, right? A tall attractive girl who was part of a small group, some within it, were poets, parked eyes on me and I on her, “hello,” I said. She said hi but we both knew it was a strange exchange. So I’m against this tree in black faded clothes that, joining forces with my beard makes me look like an Arabic/St. Marks Hamlet. I’m alone. And no one quite knows what I’m up to, not even me. Fortunately, no one really notices. People are either too nervous/excited because they’re going to perform or vexed that they’ve missed their chance—There’s also the people who just came to watch but they usually are in groups and are too busy talking amongst themselves to humour any clue upon their surroundings.
One guy I spoke to traveled from upstate New York with his brother to perform tonight. Wasn’t happening. Before he found out I didn’t have one, this dude offered to buy out my slot. He described he and his brother’s style as similar to Slaughterhouse and I nodded as if I knew what that even meant. I felt bad because you could tell he was hype all day to get down here and rock. The day must’ve felt perfect up until he got to Alphabet City and realized all the energy, all the tension built up throughout the day would have to be put on hold until another week. Its a very familiar feeling and I empathized completely, having experienced the same letdown 7 days before. I took the news much better this week. Its humbling in fact. No matter how good you think you are, how ready you feel, all your practice, all your pre-meditation and passion; none of that matters—at this level, this equal anonymous level, the only thing that makes a difference is getting there early enough to sign up. Your thirst to rock is reflected by how early you show up. But once you get given that chance, those 5 or so minutes to do whatever it is you came to do, you should do well to remember those who stood outside, with despair signing their faces, they would probably pay up to 3 times the entrance fee for your slot. That’s the grind! That’s how hard you have to go. As if you paid 3 times or more to get on that stage and its still not enough because what you’re doing is worth even more than that.
I ended up not staying. Growing weary of waiting and lacking curiosity for the evening, I decided to go home. A decision I don’t regret. I got in and chomped at tortilla chips with some good New York Cheddar, opening Text/Edit on my Macbook, I began on a new verse while listening to The Acid and XXYYXX. Knocking out shortly after a small glass of Mango Mezcalade. The open mic wasn’t even on my mind by the end of the night, its value had expired for the day, replaced then by the intangible quality of Being. That present state which creates what the future remembers and draws from when it finally arrives early enough to sign up.
Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast in The Bronx makes you write dope rhymes!
A list of the open mics I’ll be attending, hopefully I’ll get a chance to spit at each one. If you’re in the area for any, don’t be shy, come through and say hello!
Monday 7/21 - Monday Night Open Mic @Nuyorican Poets Cafe, NYC
Saturday 7/26 - The Core @Nicholas BK, BK
Monday 7/28 - The Poet in New York @Bowery Arts + Sciences, NYC
Wednesday 8/6 - All That Hip-Hop @Nuyorican Poets Cafe, NYC
Wednesday 8/13 - The Limelight @Corlette NY Lounge, BK
Debuted one of my new songs at the WORDS Hip-Hop/ Spoken Word showcase at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, LES
Stay a while madame, I will be faithful…
Because I’m clueless:
I will go to Rite Aid or Walgreens when its time to reup on soap and just grab a pack of Dove without furthering any attention on the matter. Then when I get home I will realize its scent-less and…
Because I’m vain:
I like having the scent of a “summer breeze” or “fresh spring” after showering. So it sort of upsets me when I buy the unscented pack. Especially since it does have a scent, sure its not that of a meadow or orange blossom, lavender or cocoa butter, its just the bland smell of white soap—Which for some odd reason feels like it sticks to you like deodorant or it could just be me and…
Because I’m partly neurotic:
In the next few days I will return to Rite Aid or Walgreens and buy a scented pack of Dove soap but I won’t throw out the unscented pack—That would be wasteful. So…
Because I’m ridiculous:
what I’ll end up doing is, both soaps will be in the shower and depending where I’m going that day I’ll soap myself up accordingly. White bland soap for the every day wash and scented soap for the special occasions.
And while tonight is a special occasion, I realized in the shower, since I use the white bland soap more other than the scented, the white bland days are almost over and soon all days will be special occasions, so much that I won’t even notice the scent on me.
I activated a facebook music artist page, which Ive had before and deactivated, which might also happen to this new one. Im also now on Twitter, which Ive never been on before. Why do social networks make me so uncomfortable? The picture above, I took earlier, its the real kind of social network summer days like today were built for.
Unlock your hunger.
Listening to Creeper by The Acid
Let me creep into your blood in complete conference of taste. Let me hear the sizzle of your tongue as you suck in air. Full stone of body and mirth, woman like an earth, ghost that haunts my Heathcliff-hanging heart. Let me walk over to where you rest and seep in through your verbs as they dress your contour. Let me tour your eyes, into the coffee brown recesses that orb the silent abyss that burns my face right off the skull, I’m revealed to you without ever saying my name. Let’s wrap our veins and braid the blood, let’s dance so close our ribs cross like hands. Pale stitched finger over knuckles. Crack open my head and let the thoughts yolk down onto your frying pan palms. Push me as I drag you down into the marshes, knee-deep in clawing hands, oily grips that steam in pulse and reach us to the bone. Press my tongue against your smile, press my spine into your nails, press the moment into the dark lava that inhales us, we evaporate—The molecules grinding in the early air.