Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

Admittedly, I'm a pretty low-tech guy. My usual way to write is with an "old school" composition book. What can I say, I just love the feel of a pen in my hand and the paper I write on. That said, I have an iPhone. It's a fun little gadget. One of my favorite features is the notebook. It comes in handy for all sorts of things. Most notably, shopping lists. But, the fun part is that with the mic option on the keyboard, I'm able to speak into my phone. With that, I've "freestyled" a handful of poetic rambles. This is especially useful when I've been drinking. What comes below is one of those musings. Minus a few switchings of words so it would make sense, and with the addition of a title, this is one I found while I was cleaning out my phone's notebook.

Thought Too Much/Draught Too Much

I know I might drink too much

Been said I do

Think too much

Been said I do

Drink so I don't have to think too much

But I still think a lot

Even when I drink a lot,

So I keep on with the drink a lot

Because why the fuck not?

I function

I fit

I do what I'm supposed to

I do my shit

So I keep drinking

To slow my thinking

But every drink, I fucking swear,

Makes me do more of the think

And so that cycle rolls on

And on

And on

And

On

Thinking to drinking to more thinking

To

More

Drinking

I see no stopping either 

I see no legitimate reason

I'm feeling what I'm supposed to be feeling 

Dealing how I'm supposed to be dealing

So I come around again 

Nothing to lose

Nothing to win

I'm going to keep thinking too much

Side by side with drinking too much

Wordfare

This one was kind of a slug-fest during the writing process. It worked me over. I'm not entirely sure why. I hope it's clear as to why I named it "Wordfare" though. It's because of all of that I'm going to let this breathe on its own, with this being my only introduction...

Wordfare

Isn't it funny that what is said,
And what is meant,
Could not be further apart from each other?
That sometimes intent changes all meaning?
Even if that's unbeknownst to who it's said to.
Or who said it.
It's almost like we all speak in some code,
A code in which words change meaning depending on who says them,
Or who hears them,
Or some live and hyperactive combination of the two.
Words.
Long and short.
Either easy or difficult to pronounce.
Words.
We all depend on them,
We all have been known to hang on them,
Leaving us prone to hang by them.
That knot can be tight.
Too tight and tighter for differing definitions.
Proof -
Loyalty that can be seen in bullet holes from taking shots for others,
But showing that doesn't mean it's money in the bank,
A savings protecting us from blade shaped scars between the shoulders.
There's word misuse and abuse too...
"Love" is a common victim to this.
People carelessly using that word as if it's synonymous with "enjoy" or "like."
(Though I know those that use it carefully and truthfully)
Or telling someone in a way that can only be heard as true and honest,
But, heartbreakingly, isn't.
Love from the wrong mouth to the right heart.
Or is it right mouth, wrong heart?
Either way, damaging.
Falling in love.
Said that way because even with perfect air currents under the wings,
It hurts like hell to land wrong.
Words.
Beautiful/Ugly
Tepid/Aggressive
Kind/Hurtful
Pleasurable/Painful
Caring/Callow
Singular meaning/Multiple meanings
To "who really knows the meaning?'
Words.
Leaving everyone of us in one of two states:
In the know.
Or in confusion.
All determined by intent,
the tone,
the choices of the users.
Why else would "soon" mean "wait longer still?"
"Sometime" mean "probably never?"
"Someone" mean "no one?"
That when a person speaks of "other fish,"
The "great big sea" still looks so empty?
We've all heard these words before.
We've all said these words before.
We all know these words by heart.
So, you really don't have to take my word for it, do you?

Hip Hop Is Free

Hip Hop Is Free

For as long as I can remember, I've loved Hip Hop. All manifestations of the culture. From the graffiti on walls, trains, trailers, to you name it. To the flattened out cardboard boxes that made the makeshift dance floors of break dancers. To the beats and rhymes of DJ's and emcees that took over my eardrums. I love Hip Hop. My favorite aspect of this is, while I grew up, all of what I described was around me. I was surrounded by it all. On my way to school, or the store, or the park, I'd see the vibrant colors left by spray paint cans. I'd hear the beats the dancers were getting down to. That the rappers were rhyming to. All of it first hand. I never had to go far to soak any of this in. It was all a few steps away. I was inspired. I learned to dance, and when I figured out what words could do, I started to write. I was taken by the culture. Lived in it. Breathed it in. So, if Hip Hop is a "house" as some folks put it, it's one I grew up in.

Which brings me here and now, and to my point... I've been watching a ton of videos lately. As much of a rabbit hole YouTube can be, if I focus, there are some treasures there. I'm not completely sold on the idea that VladTV is a treasure yet, but I find it provides enough thought-provoking interviews to start and continue conversations on many Hip Hop related issues. So there's that. With this said, like many people, I've seen the number of interviews with Lord Jamar of Brand Nubian. There's no way I'll argue that Hip Hop had its start anywhere but in the South Bronx. That it wasn't created by black people. That would be stupid. The Teacher KRS-One taught me that. Like Kurtis Blow says, "those are the breaks." Or more accurately, the facts. That's Hip Hop History. No argument from me against all of that. But, that doesn't mean I don't have some thoughts on some other things Lord Jamar has said that started with his comment that, "white people are guests in the house of Hip Hop."

If that comment stayed right there, I would have moved on and probably wouldn't have much to say. But, Lord Jamar goes further into it. It's my understanding that the conversation started around Macklemore's song, "Same Love" and branched out from there. In my YouTubing, I viewed many videos to make sure I have what was said straight. From the smallest of comments about Eminem rapping about pills not being relevant to black people, to the larger issue that racists claiming they love Hip Hop being beyond an oxymoron. With the Em/pills comments, Lord Jamar may want to listen to some Pharoahe Monch lyrics referencing "percs" to name just one source of disagreement. Also, the idea of addiction is universal. Substitute pills for any number of things, and it's relateable. As far as racists claiming they're down with Hip Hop though, not a chance. There is no way for both there. Not a chance of it. I wholeheartedly agree with Lord Jamar on that part. No racist can legitimately love Hip Hop. Back to the initial issue... Macklemore's "Same Love." Though the content of the song is part of Lord Jamar's beef, I won't start any debate on that specifically. There's a catch in it all though, artistic statement. A person doesn't have to agree with an artistic statement at all. That's the right of anyone that views it, or hears it. But when Lord Jamar says Macklemore, "overstepped his bounds, as a white rapper, by trying to promote homosexuality" I take issue. He further states, "don't come in the house and start redecorating without talking to the motherfuckers that own the house." Further yet, "We are the makers and owners of this. As far as the intellectual property of it." Again, I'll never, even jokingly, take up a fight on who created Hip Hop, but this isn't about that. This is about an artist's rights to say whatever he/she wants to. This is about artistic expression. The owner of that expression? The person that paints the painting, makes the film, or in this case, writes the song.

An artist should always respect the architects. The history of the art. I firmly believe that. But, should an artist stay in a lane just because that's the way it's always been done? Shy away from taking on issues that haven't been talked about before? No and no. So when Lord Jamar talks about bounds being "overstepped," or "talking to the motherfuckers that own the house," or the "...owners of this," he's talking about censorship. Since when has any artist in Hip Hop ever asked for permission to do what they do? To rap about what they rap about? Any and all subjects are fair game. Even if some people don't want to hear it. Hip Hop is not run by a committee of elders like the Jedi Council. KRS-One & BDP or Public Enemy never asked for permission to bring world politics into the mix. N.W.A. never asked to do anything they did. Point being, Hip Hop is, as Mos Def (Yasiin Bey) says, a folk music. With that, folks will write and rap about what they see in the world. The things that matter to them and those that they know. The lives they know. It's as simple and as complicated as that. No matter what though, Hip Hop never had a cap on its subject matter. And it never should. It doesn't matter if it makes anyone uneasy. Art isn't always easy. Hip Hop is artistic expression and is no exception to that. Let's not forget that Hip Hop itself, as a whole, was once considered taboo by many people.

With love for Hip Hop,
Woodrow




Links to the videos cited (in no particular order):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6scQrACku74
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QPouZR2UQI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYGs4nP4Lvk
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnYf8zQXddQ

Meghan

This poem is for a person. Her name happens to be the title of the poem, as well as the post. Other than what I just stated, I don't really know what an adequate introduction to this poem should be. I was as happy to write it as I am when I talk to her. I wrote it a while ago and I wasn't sure how to release it. I hoped she'd hear it before seeing it honestly, but here it is. Coming from my head to pen to page the words are here. With that, I hope the eyes of  the "you" of this poem sees it soon. And I hope it makes her smile. And I hope she loves it hard.

Meghan

Now I'm not trying to unravel the mysteries of the universe,
I wouldn't, even if I could
But I'm telling you,
I can hear it sometimes.
From the little to the grand
It's all there.
Like this one time I used a hashtag,
Just a simple phrase
A simple glance to see who else said what
It was then that this door opened
And there was this light there.
You better believe I did
I know you know I did
Since then, we've seen wavelengths
We've surfed them
And the surf is good.
So good
It's as easy to see as anything,
Some bad news and vibes want control?
Nope
Your messages come to clear the air
Bad moods don't have a chance
But the unravelling of the mysteries of the universe?
I'll leave that to some greater poets,
Maybe even a physicist.
Wavelengths
Like when I see some news about a singer you like,
So I tell you,
And you're already listening to her?
Yeah, wavelengths.
Or that in my days I see lots of money
(most of which isn't mine)
Now, I'm not saying I know how,
But guess what I see?
Not the answers to the mysteries cosmic.
I see a lot of New York quarters.
Or these other times I'm making change into dollars and the only two quarters left were Vermont
And yes...
New York.
I can't say that I know even a fraction of everything.
But, I do know about World Poetry Day,
Hashtags,
Hockey,
The frustrations and triumphs of technology,
The Triumphs of technology,
The teams that win and win,
The blinking ellipsis,
And the smiles made.
As for the universe...
I don't have any answers for that.
Instead, I have this poem.
And now, so do you.

At the Bar

In a sense, this is an "ode" to all of the women I've ever seen across a room and just couldn't muster the nerve to talk to. That number is very high. That's not a poet's exaggeration either. Just plain reality. But, I wrote what comes below, so there's that. What comes below is a meeting of the core of a conversation with a crush (I think that she knows) and an undying need to use the last two lines in a poem.

At the Bar

I've tried hard to
I've tried hard not to
A fact about me, a fact about how I do -
If I saw you across a bar -
I wouldn't talk to you
Not because I'm some snob
Or because a snob is how I'd describe you
Both are nowhere near the truth
But because I don't want you thinking I do what the rest of them do
I'm afraid you'd think that
And honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you did
Missing bravery is why you won't hear from me
Deficiency in courage to prove to you that there's the others,
Then there's me.
Even if if they use the same words,
My version is said with sincerity.
So instead, I sit on my side of the bar
In my head, the perfect conversation plays itself out
We smile at what the other says
Laugh at the jokes cracked
All over a few drinks we get in that zone
That zone where the rest of the bar fades away
No peripheral except an occasional refocus for refills.
The night winds into the earliest of the next day
We close the bar.
I walk you to your car
Our conversation doesn't stay back in the bar
Smiles, and laughs, and connections made
You tell me this is something you almost never do
I tell you that too
And we both know what we just said is true
You search for a pen,
And finding it,
You write your number on a random receipt
I do the same and it's an even trade
And before we say goodnight, we kiss
A short kiss,
But the reaction it causes
All the buzzing and warmth of a beehive
We both take quick breaths that turn into grins,
Grins that glow and radiate
You squeeze my hand.
Then we go our own ways,
But we'll see each other again soon,
So the grins turn into smiles and stay.
Though that's the play in my head
So I finish my beer and pay my tab
And leave a tip for my bartender instead.
That night stays as a waking dream,
As does the chance to say:
"I don't want to hear I'm not like the others.
I want to hear there's no one quite like me."

Thunder Storms and...

I'm not sure if this is a disclaimer, or an excuse, or what. But, I've never been a writer that ever wrote about nature, or even used nature as some sort of metaphorical device. I suppose I left that to the Frosts, Thoreaus, and Emersons of the world. What I do know is that this comes out of a conversation I had about thunder storms. Being a fan of them and such. I also know that the way she spoke her side of the conversation, the muse to be mentioned later issued me a challenge. Well, the challenge was accepted, and I think she knew it when she put it down.

Thunder Storms and Thoughts on Changing Opinions Regarding Said Storms Sparked by a Beautiful Muse

When I was a little I was deathly afraid.
Thunder storms spelled certain doom.
Like an impending dentist appointment,
Dark skies made me tense.
Slightest of rumbles sent me into hiding.
I was a fugitive.
It didn't matter how far away the sound was
That rumble meant that I was on the run to home
Or if I couldn't get there...
If I couldn't get there I lost my mind.
I resorted to locking myself in ma's car too.
So I never stuck around to see the lights.

These fears, they're sort of like tastes though
As you go, they might change
At some point in time, it's worth trying again
I don't know when it happened, but it did.
What stayed is that child like look out.
Finding that fear and awe run with each other.
Right?
Then there was this one summer,
Literally the most electric summer I can remember.
If I said every day was accented with lightning,
I wouldn't be exaggerating.
Not much anyway.
But, that summer...
Seeing lightning strike more times than countable.
Hearing that sound it makes.
Explosions.
Exploding.
The current's sonic signature.
Seeing something so fast the mere glimpse of it is on its way home,
The crash and boom like a thief that announces his presence to say,
"I'm here, now I'm gone, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."
Just awesome,
To the roots of that word
It's all there, lightning and thunder make awe.
In that awe I feel small.
I feel small in all great ways.
Small for every right reason I can muster.
Beyond the science of ozone gasses and electricity,
I've come to see thunder storms as a path to be humble.
As a way to find humility.

The surgical precision of a single bolt.
The reaching grip of finger like chains.
As some look like veins carrying blood.
All beautiful.
All coming with massive strength.
Culminating in what beauty really is:
A marriage of grace and raw power.
With time,  my view of thunder storms has changed.
From fear, admiration is born.
And I'm starstruck every time I see one.
The view goes...
Fear makes admiration,
Admiration makes respect,
Respect makes fear.
All taking the form of lightning itself.
Strokes and return strokes.
Electric currents to remind me to be human.

for Meghan

To All The Hipsters

It's no secret that I am an enthusiastic fan of many things. Poetry, music, movies, books, art, people... In that spirit, I love to share that enthusiasm. If I find something that awakens my interests at all, I tell everyone I can about it. I mean, look at the short list above. See what comes in best for last status? People. As reclusive as I can be, I simply love the energy of a good group of people. Now, my reclusive tendencies have allowed me to understand that not everyone shares my views on group settings. So, I get that. What I don't get, however, is the exclusivity some folks seem to use as an operating system. That, is the root of what comes below...


To All The Hipsters

How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?
"Some obscure number you've probably never heard of."
How many hipsters?
"I can tell you, but just know that I knew the answer first."
How many hipsters?
Hold up.
You know what? There's a problem here.
A problem with this idea,
This mentality,
This way it has become in to discover something and keep it locked away.
Wrapped up like it's better left a secret.
Touting it like it's some kind of pop culture elitism.
Or worse.
Giving someone a supposed reason to put down.
To look down at others.
Just because person A might not have heard of something person B has.
No.
When did it become cool to do this?
What happened to those moments when a person finds something so great it just has to be talked about and shared without question?
Shared in the company of others with unbridled enthusiasm?
What happened?
Instead, you hipsters try to keep it all to yourselves.
As if it's some sort of badge of honor?
Another feather in your cap?
But, hey hipster, do you know what it really is?
It's another mark of asshole-ism.
Another exhibit of how much of a snob you really are.
So, I've got a simple challenge for you. For me. For all of us,
If you find something that charges you up
Moves you
Gives you goosebumps
Shakes you
Makes an impact on you
Affects you
Share it!
For fuck's sake, share it.
Make it a reason to bring people together.
Rather than fueling the the fires of isolation let's celebrate that album
that movie
that painting
Maybe even this poem.
Celebrate these things with others.
So fuck the "bah humbugs" and Scrooging,
If it's charging you up
Moving you
Goosebumping you
Shaking you
Or who knows? Inspiring you.
Tell another soul about it.
And let's get together for it!