Hermano hormiga sígame un rato,
un rato sensato, un rato duradero,
Hermano corbatero, corriendo a tientas
en corrientes hundidas en mentes sumergidas,
Hermano subterráneo, con afán
yo te contacto:
No entiendo tus actos, yendo apurado,
mucho menos tu plan, man,
oh cráneo subterráneo,
aunque tengas planes, yo paseo,
pues no me pises con tu prisa,
los matices de tu misa motorizadamentematerialista
sacrifican vida por velocidad balística en la pista.
No ofrezco atajo simplista:
pero acá abajo nos podemos sentar,
cultivar quietud y crecer para arriba.

Su cara era chueca, joven, sucio, ningún ojo me miraba,
ni miraban los dos para el mismo lado.
Hablaba sin sentido ni sentimiento,
siento el temor relámpago que todavía
me late el corazón con pulsos sacudidos.
De golpe sus dos manos se cruzaron, sacaron
dos cuchillos como si estuvieran hundidos
en sus muñecas – brillan, sonrisas sadistas.
Izquierda, derecha bailamos
me doy cuenta que son cubiertos de mesa –
Amateur, pensé.
Ahora pienso:
No tenía ninguna carne para cortar
sino la mía.
Corrí, me choqué con un hombre - ¿estoy
atrapado, están todos con él? pensé
Ahora pienso:
así que ni grito ni lucho, corro.
Corrí, me choqué con el poste de una parada de colectivo.
Corrí, eché un vistazo por atrás – se fue
en la otra dirección, pensé
Ahora pienso:
Se fue en la dirección de Migraciones, y
yo hacia Retiro.
-¿Te hizo daño?
-No, estoy bien. No me tocó.
Investigo mi torso para asegurar que es verdad.
-¿Qué te dijo?
-Nada. No entendí nada.
-Te pidió monedas. Tenía un cuchillo.
-Sí, pero eran cuchillos de mesa, cubiertos.
-Igual, con eso, si te apuñala…
-Claro, me hace trizas… ¿Viste su cara? Tenía la cara chueca.
-Cara de otro mundo.
Ahora pienso:
Cara demasiado sumergida en este mundo.

a boy with a drum
told me ba-boom-boom-bum
this life’s all rhythm!
it’s in and out
hit it and rest
do your best
to make the dance fun

so I listened and hummed
and knew yes, yes, rhythm it is
rhythm is this, what bliss, what bliss


a girl with a knife
told me aaaaargh! this life’s
carving your way through tangled-up strife
it’s jab and slice
till your space is nice
and free of that sticky
icky mess all about the out-
and insides

so I tried to feel alive
and knew yes, that’s right,
so far it’s all fight


a man with a cup
told me drink up, drink up
what luck that life’s
got teats to suck, but
grab yer gulp now
cuz ‘fore you can say ‘wow,’ hup!
that’s it, yer all dried up

so I savored and sighed
felt yes, oh my, the flavor’s so fine, and
knew its time would very soon fly


a woman in the nude
told me heeey, dude,
this life’s me and you,
you and me being truly true
really real with deep-down feel,
we making we squeal with glee…
just leave all those other spiels
for another ride ‘round life’s wheel
and come with me

so I came, with thee,
(hee hee hee hee!)
and knew no more

Que lo vean en alta calidad!

hmmmmmm... what am I doing at this bus stop?

Restlessness grips and I slip
since stability sweats and slicks
my sense of satisfaction’s traction

Oh please, for tonight
find your words as you go
don’t reach for what you already know
never give me canned, stale, stale-mated statements
reach for revelations and be sustained in the moments’ birthing
speak not in stickies or any other such staccato convenience
rip rot from thought with devastating thoroughness
bother not to second-guess
until tomorrow

To the tune of Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher”*

Well folks here’s the story of Mr. Mister (wua wua!)
He was a lowdown loan hound grifter (wua wua wua wuaaaaa!)
He made the roughest, toughest sales (wua wuaa wua!)
But Mister really shoulda been locked up in jail
A-hi-dee-hi-dee-hi-dee-hiiiii!!!
A-hi-dee-hi-dee-hi-dee-hiiiii!!!
He’ll sell ya hiigh, he’ll sell ya hiiiiiigh
(wua wua wua wuaa, wua wua wua wuaaaaa!)
A-ho-dee-ho-dee-ho-dee-hoooo!!!
A-ho-dee-ho-dee-ho-dee-hoooo!!!
He’ll buy ya looow, he’ll buy ya loooooooow
(wua wua wua wuaa, wua wua wua wuaaaaa!)


*(if you don’t know the song, or if you haven’t heard it in a few days, you need, and I mean NEED to see this Betty Boop video by Max Fleischer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZOXF83zBg and probably check out other videos where these two geniuses collaborate)

My new card, for the new economy.

Made for the crew at Ragged Wing Theater co, after acting in Splinters... and other F-Words a couple of years back.

I've been listening to our new president read his autobiography, and hearing his moving speeches, and again I am reminded of the power of the spoken word. Even more so, at a spoken word event the other night here in DC, I was once again reminded of the tongues-on-fire passion that can kindle individuals and masses of people to aspire for progress. And finally, as the hard-won festivities die down and the immensity of the work looms, and as the powers that (continue to) be keep on with the same business as usual (at which they make a killing), I see the need to bring some pressure on the new administration and give the new man in charge the political capital needed to invest in real change.

So here's an old spoken word piece from back in my days of anger and surety - whose all-over-the-place attack works a bit better for the ear than for the scrutinizing eye, but that's okay, since passion and immediacy is really the point:


they don’t lock you up till you utter the word.
ideas get deferred until you get heard
write, publish, cite and study it:
immediately forget it, even if you might stutter it
you gotta shout to get it out,
if you flout their restrictions on vocal dignified diction.
people will remember, recite, revive your thoughts,
just put it to a beat and the streets will leap alive and hot
but watch out for the mediocre power-mad sots’ shot
in the back so think slick jack or you’ll be quick knocked flat,
watch for CIA foul play if y’ask me
or he or she that knows bout the troubles you meet
if you rhyme in time to a beat,
(specially talk to those inspired by blows
to dark forgotten bodies that even in death
have begotten bumpin like procreative humpin
like global e-motion wired to tired peeps
mired in the sleep and sweat o’ their ghettos)

that creepin sooth seepin in music
will make truthless fists ruthless and lose it
cuz they know that fine minds find time to grind
to sly rhyme and bring shoddy bodies to the boogie ring
to sing for the gents and the ladies
but not that safe, sorry, sissy bling-bling,
just that pissed fist power of words whacked with zeal for tomorrow
and reeling with sorrow, careering for movement
on the real-world pavement yet searing into memory
the scent of the earth’s worth and the sound
of her howling anger’s hound getting loud
bout being treated like a cheap whore’s bleeding sore.

So I ain’t got time for that half-ass ringside romance, lady.
You got the full-force crash-course freefall flash-dance?
Or are you just gonna make me crazy with your asspants?
We got no time for lazy people or intellectual preachers steeples
¬or that hazy, fuzzy-thought heap of
hedonistic solipsistic whoreshit
Unless we jus get down in the congregation
get down to the ignant part of this hell-bent nation
get down and dirty, loud and wordy,
raising smog-sent yellin tarnation
get down to the (amphi)theaters, to amplify demystify the crime
that millions do time underneath our amusement
(you know it was a PR ruse when Ali’s smooth moves
made Mobutu’s palace-plighted jail-packed
Congolese screams sound like cheers).

So who here hears me?
Steer clear of booty-call crass classless rap crap
Rap at me so I can get down like in those oldschool bop bars
that wildly revolutioned Harlem while most white-washed writin
couldn’t hear em maybe cuz they feared em or couldn’t steer em
through insulated cellophane window-panes
all high and mighty but too penthouse-flighty
unable to feel the bent cuz they pay high rent
to remove themselves from the rant of the radicals,
the slant of the offbeat poet.
But you know it ain’t too late to recant
And hit the streets like a Panther in heat
ready to procreate or devastate,
depending on the current state
Howling in rage at the cage brothers and sisters live in
Scowling at those who squeak our livin’ anger reeks
of an immature phase… Man, we’ve been raised
in sleepy fright and awake scared sight
on the blaze of gun-craze night and day

So here’s Hampton’s worth-dying-for question:
how many kids’ graves till we organize
our gang lives into ways that pay
down our debt to the driver for his lashing “aid,”
pay off our guilt at squandering our heritage of ancestors’ blisters
as their brothers and sisters came through slaughter,
not wandering lost like most of us, but chained into gangs –
why do we forget that cost and spend what change they left us
on crack and talk smack instead of back?

So what’s the deal? Why do so many feel
the need to repeal the oaths to common, constant action
when the satisfaction of success lies so close?
Are we too verbose for those used to soundbites to stand and fight
for mere words and clear morals here?
Or do the deaths of our prophets, revolutionaries
make us wary, make us wanna drop it,
stop this evolution maybe cuz we’re afraid
those with power intimidate, pay to segregate,
to fill with hate those that they manipulate,
to push them to shove us to final fate before our time?

Our time is now, to climb to the bow,
seize control and roll with the punches of waves,
be they pay-offs, nightstick lay-offs,
or simply play-off passive aggression junkfood-induced soft scoffs.
Cuz media-prized hypnotized ignorant eyes
fear progression from comfort and don’t realize
they participate of their own volition
in the safe pass-the-crushing-buck exploitation
that looks the other way and runs this nation
and darkly crushes opposition or the slightest expression
of the brightest digression.
Some say They’ve left us dead, deaf and dumb,
our sensibil-ity numbed, bereft us of the best of us,
generations forced to feed on corporate-run
city crumbs as bums or convicts
Some say that those that remain
walk sick or in pain and stick to the talk
we been taught in white-washed schools where fool’s rules slosh
cruel hot memory into cooled-calmed consumable slop
I say they close their memory’s shop
to all hot bop that don’t sit still and swig that swill
without a shout of get-real steel
feelin that’s so substantive you can make of it a meal
and learn to stand and live on what’s at stake in what shakes
in such brawlin batter and if you can just swallow
bitter medicine, you’ll follow what’s the matter
for god’s sake and we’ll make the earth quake
That ain’t to claim we ain’t been maimed
but we gotta rename the greats,
reseat their feats in the justice hall of fame
and recognize their blooming flower flame
that never did wait inactive, we got millions that live
that the powers-that-be-always-the-same can’t ever placate
till we create equality and
a just social reality.

I’ve been tryin’ to fix my shit with other shit that needs fixin’,
I’m thinkin’ it oughta all be nixed,
this is more than a jinx,
all my shit stinks,
think I’m gonna wash it down the sink…
wait, that’s a bad idea.

Tryin’ to get healthy, get offa Teflon an’ on the latest diet,
One of them lean green queen of diets things
that don’t support those bloated kings
of gmo-hormone earth-plundering nature riots…
But can’t keep my stomach quiet
and the brandy-new hullaballoo for the new brand’s new ham
is fuckin up my fuck-the-man plan…
see, was gonna go all-raw na-tu-ral
but I saw how you got god-awful skinny
and in a shimmy before you could say jiminy
I was back on the easy track.

Here we go again… I mean, here we remain
runnin’ ‘round to wait in line
“You’ll be fine,” they say with a thin grin,
“just fine, just sign on this line”

I scratch my name into their dead tree pulp
I don’t even gulp, much less yelp that yulp
that’s been ticklin’ at the back of my throat
ack, I think, won’t let ‘em get my goat

(first they’ll have to attack this thought-moat
that I built with my own bleedin’ palms
‘round my nigh-impenetrable castle o’ calm,
then, they’ll have to offer alms all around

till they’ve found the right rejected pauper
who knows the proper way to the forgotten back gate
to the pen that fuckin’ buckin’ hissin’ pissin’ chewin’ n spewin’ goat is in
then they’ll have to catch the slippery bastard)

in the meantime, I think I’ll wait, getting number,
till they call my number…
but when they do, man have I got a plan:
I’ll surprise ‘em, yell “BINGO!” and go get my prize.