The Bits

(just looked in my written posts; I wrote this post several days ago, during my prep, and never did hit post. I forget what I was going to add - guess I'll put it up now. I was driving home today from work to ASU, and I think I might rip part of Aceyalone's "Everything Changes" and JMT's "Death Messiah" to make a backbeat - with some drum fills - as a beat for this, rhyming or not. I think the opener and closer for the latter would be a great lead in and final fall out, and good for in between lines. We'll see)

It actually hit me when I was walking out of my door to work yesterday morning, that "Farting in the Shower/Fuck You, Rudy" and "The Bits" were practically at complete odds with each other. I liked the statement in FITS/FYR, but I suppose the last few months may have changed my perspective on the matter - I'm coming around to the value of scorched earth.

Anyway, my level of production is going crazy - I went through my last three notepads, and started copying out smaller rhymes - that weren't part of any particular song, just jotted thoughts - into a new notebook, and organizing them by idea, so I could maybe string them together, or use the ideas and metaphors in them. That started taking so long, that I typed 5 single-spaced pages, just based out of the last notebook alone, after I'd stopped copying by hand.

I'm enjoying that fact. Anyway, I wanted to put up "The Bits" - I wrote it at home, a day or two before Thanksgiving, in one sitting, lying on the couch with my sisters. It was one of those trance writings, and it was interesting to me, because I made no attempt at rhyming. I haven't written a non-rhyming poem in a long, long time - "The Bits" is interesting to me both because of that fact, and because immediately after I wrote it, I began to write some other non-rhyming, but more song-structured items.


The Bits

I feel - I think - there were bits
of amazing, of passion, of love
but the aftertaste of latent contempt—
in that shitstorm, I can’t find them
you cheated
I cheated
you cheated
I cheated
we cheated
we quit
and we stayed anyway
maybe the bits kept happening
but I choked you off
choked you out
I was bitter
and you tore me apart for it
I kept you from what you loved
and fell for a Manhattan lesbian
but you got me back, well and good
you sent me heartfelt notes
said you needed to hear my voice
through a mouth wrapped around someone else
and while I thought of your kittens
and your hands in my hair
you laughed and bared it for everyone else
kept me hanging –
on the little bits that still cared
and if it wasn’t on purpose
you still knew what you were doing
it was still a summer for a fall
a quick trip past the bitter end
ammonia to clarify and erase whatever bits
I might find in the pictures of your face
staring intently from my phone
the ones I haven’t already deleted
so that when I think of Spain and
concerts and the road and my bed
sheets soaked with sweat and spent
grasping passion and your glowing eyes
full of laughter and love and hate
it’s all dimmer
whitewashed and going under
sands of grit scraping away
grinding the bits to zeroes in my mind
it’s not that we failed
it’s that we tried
long after we should’ve quit
all those precious little bits
are floating in a river of shit
and I’m pleasantly, painfully washing it away
the jealousy contempt fear
self-hatred love wonder passion
all together all gone all together
it’s so much simpler
just rip the bits out
cover, scrape, cleanse
take the lessons learned
like scars from a scrape and use them
know them
more poignant than silly ink
take them, and leave the bits behind
all together all gone
all gone, all together
scrape, wash, cleanse, bleach
gone
a river of shit
wash it away
so you don’t have to pick anything in it
you don’t know what’s worthwhile in there anyway

3 am yummy

Been a bit since I put something up; just wanted to end my night in a sweater and boxers and a haze, deliciously writing and typing as I find myself doing lately. --Not a sweater, but boxers or nothing, naked and writing, inebriated or wrapped in smoke and curled in blankets spilling and spitting and thinking and writing.

Gotta talk about fall break, about red glows and beers; meaning to talk about poems - have a half-written post with "The Bits" in it, and need to put up the accompanying "Fuck You, Rudy"; need to talk about teaching - about the difference between rapport and respect, about the sexual assaults in the past week, about brain tumors, about inspiration and self-failure versus fucking up because you didn't try, about Seattle and San Diego and KIPP and Portland and Denver and Colorado as a place and Albequerque and Brooklyn and Southern Manhattan as wonderful places, with better salaries and resources and accountability and more fulfilling teaching experiences - and most interestingly, the talks with friends about charter schools and moving to Seattle together or Brooklyn or other amazing places, and laughing over dinner when you find out every carload of people had the same conversation en route, as we are all at similar points of frustration and success and despair and glee and desperation in life; and my most recent musical selections which are rocking my shit: Thrice B-sides, in addition to the Beggars album, which are rocking my world, poetically, thematically, and musically, the Thrice album lyrics remolding my mind in terms of their flow; Them Crooked Vultures, with Dave Grohl on drums, John Paul Jones of Led Zep on bass and keyboards, and Josh Homme of Kyuss and QOTSA and Eagles of Death Metal and whatever else on guitar and lead vocals, with absurd rhythm and melodies, full of massive pulsing purple sexual rhythms and orange-red percussion piercing it in a fabric perfect for oral sex and lyrical inspiration; Michael Buble, Paramore, string remixes of the themes from Requiem for a Dream, jazz funk, metalcore, French angst techno, Citizen Cope - with "Son's Gonna Rise" rocking my car-drive and home existence every ten minutes - all of these songs, a random melange on my current list, along with others, as well as a Thrice Christmas half-mix, with a cover of Carol of the Bells that melts every aspect of my being - all of this shit deserves a writing in this thing, and in my journal perhaps.

It's weird what I pull out a pen for and what I write on here for. Sometimes I think it's completely random (except, of course, when I type out a rhyme on here. It's such a different funk and flow, typing words from finger-taps as opposed to small-motor manipulation a pencil on a page), and other times, I think it's a mathematical progression of what I'm thinking - like this morning, stoned and walking into ASU, ready for flowers to grow from my eyes - and many times, it's just a matter of efficiency: Sometimes, I can manipulate a pen, others, the best I can hope for is hunting-and-pecking letters on a keyboard, and that determines where soemthing gets written.

Anyway, funny how it happens. Typing is faster, but feels less authentic, and is rooted to laptops at the simplest (minus one of those bigassphones), and I prefer more than anything the sweat of things scribed in my current book. As annoying as the moleskine (or whatever this thing is) may be, it's nice to have something new to remind me of the $1.29 notebooks I've burnt through, now piled in my room.

I need to pass out - writing, conversation with good people in other places - that must wait.

Good night, good luck, good love, and god bless - it's a wonderful, cold night, and I can't wait to curl up and enjoy sleep in it.

Beatcraft

This shit is blowing my mind. I went online, thinking I'd find a beatmaker to put my raps to; now I could sit here for days assembling drum fills and making a percussion song. I can see why it takes so long -

"I deserve to make these numbers
Locked in a room making five beats a day for three summers"

but damn is it fun. This is a powerful ass program.

Matty P will be over later - much Coors Light and audio fills will be produced. I suddenly don't want to go back to Phoenix, at least for another day or two - I'd rather sit and produce stuff with a musical friend. :-)

Even Odds

I'm chilling at home, stuffed with tryptophan, and incapable of higher brain function. It's been awesome; I'll write about it later. For now, I'm chilling at a friend's, and I need to kill some time. I think I'll just post one of my rhymes from my everpresent pocketbook - this one's called Even Odds, Good Odds, who knows. :-)

Hey, what's up? Hello there
I see you watching with that hungry stare
And I do believe it's quite fair
To tell you to take care and beware
Because I'm probably going to tell you half-lies
I'm only half-like most other guys
See, there's a half a chance
I'll be aching to get in your pants
And if that's the case
I swear I'll say what needs to be said
To ride home and roll dirty in your bed
Even if that means just shitty drunk head
You've got even odds to show up at your door
And I'll be naked as a whore is
And you can rape me bored
Like a bad Seattle chorus
The only thing of which I'm sure is
That you're not the one I want to take to My Florist
But I'm probably not going to heed these thoughts
So pour out some shots
Before you pull out my cock
We'll kill the lights and let it rock
Have ourselves a frantic fleeting fuck
with no shame and no names and hope at least one of us came when it's all done I'll remember the flame, and know that not all sex is the same
It's not just a matter of feeling her turn inside out or wrapping our legs around each other's mouth or finding every single place we can fuck inside of my house
--I want a girl with a razor-sharp brain
There's nothing like it, nothing the same
I want a girl with wicked liquid laughing beautiful eyes
So I'm aching to kneel and lick my way up your thighs
I want to hear a fantastic, free laugh
Like she's down to chase me around and smack my ass
See, I don't pound, I grind
I want to run my hand through your hair and feel your orgasm come out the back of your mind
In fact, I want to be able to just slip, nibble and suck
have so much fun when we laugh and touch
that I don't care if we fuck
and sometimes it's so hard to find it
That I try to pretend I don't mind it
let myself forget I crave someone to wine and dine
who will have ridiculous sex with my mind
because I'm 23 and sometimes I just want to make someone mine
so I let my will break and give into the urge to make someone's legs shake
because I LOVE it when she comes
I love to make her go
I like to bend and play and curl your toes
I like it because I did it, it was me, I know
but it's not always like that
sometimes, mentally, it's just falling flat
I might still come hard as a gun
we might roll and dance have plenty of fun
but if I want to grind and make love to your mind
then there be one behind your eyes that I respect
and if I'm not digging your humor and intellect
then I'm not really interested in teasing you wet
and your ladynut is still a sure bet
but just because it's polite
not because I want to eat you all night
so reciprocating down south is a
rote obligatory lie down and add mouth
Nah - I want to find a girl whose grin lights up my whole world
find you in a crowd because you laugh out loud
discover how you taste after a bbeer
feel your hot breath on my ear
wrap my arms around to draw you near
feel your body lean into mine
eager to worship at your shrine
to pour out some rum stick my thumb in your bum and lick the front to make you come
the look in your eyes when you finally let go
feel your bloody nails down my back
and you soften when you hold me close
whether you wriggle your nose
whether you throw you head back, or side-to-side
do your legs fly out or pull me deeper inside?
do you need to stop and breathe or is it just a minute before you're again ready to ride?
I want a real reason to scream like a heathen
don't just wanna ride for personal pride
because not every notch on that post is a reason to boast
I've let just about anybody
ride my face until my nose is bloody
and their legs are putty
but I want more than a whore
like the redhead I had on Ty's floor
someone who's funny when we're done and sore
but look, everything aside I'm still 23 and horny to ride
so there's your even odds and chances
that I'm interested in casual romances
and why my lies are maybe half-true
I might be interested, but wish there was more to you
if not, you're still got a decent shot
my will breaks and I'm ready to shake
but in the meantime I'm going to sit
and work on my rhymes and wiat til I find someone with a wicked mind to wine and dine and actually want to make mine

Good Morning, Reasons Why I Drink

Hehe - heard that on Scrubs the night before last with Sky and it sounded so apropo.

So, Tuesday was the second day where the students took their district-wide benchmark testing, to see how they'd been doing for the past few months. The results are conclusive:
(1) Two separate bathrooms were lit on fire.
(2) A third bathroom was graffitied.
(3) Two eighth-grade girls in my homeroom drank tequila, in school, for a few hours until they got caught - by smell.

Other fun weekly happenings:
On Monday, one of my roommates had a kid chuck a rock at his head on the way back from recess.

On Wednesday, a 7th grader brought a boombox into class. While the kids were working on test review, he plugged it in, stuck it under his hoodie, and began blaring music. Hoodie or not, it wasn't hard to figure out who had it; I confiscated it. The next day they'd already picked the lock into class, or otherwise gained access, and retrieved said boombox.

Today, I spent $150 on a pizza party for the best students from each class. Way too much money. But I've enjoyed them on the last day before break, and it was a nice thing to do. They were really happy, even if they still get my name wrong.

I've come to realize taht something's gotta give. I can't keep covering $300 monthly car payments and $600 a month for rent and utilities. I've either got to get refinancing, or sell the Tiny Car.

Also, I think I will become a flight attendant. Travel, time to work on writing, people to meet, travel. And I can chuck the children off the plane when no one's looking.
But, seriously. A flight attendant? I'm blonde and perky. :-)

Sneeze

Back in ASU - I showed up almost an hour and a half late; I got home, and Barishnakov suggested having a beer with his friend from Spain, which seemed absurdly more interesting than sitting through classes I don't like, am required to take, and which expect absurd amounts of busywork. The professor for my first class is amazing, and nice, so I feel guilty, but it's just not hugely necessary or helpful. I do enjoy it at times, though, and so I wanted to take a moment, and post the freestyle I wrote for class last week.

We were asked to do a freewrite - a writing sneeze, as my professor put it - for three minutes. I, being slightly inebriated, took the cue and chose to spend the time spilling out a quick little rhyme. I found it in my laptop case when I got here this evening, and thought it was kind of nice - so I thought I'd share it. The sneeze was:

"In my class, writing is..."

a pain
a chore
for them, a bore
but every so often, they stop
and realize the words aren't slop
they come easy and fun
and that's when I know the "not done"
chant they yell when I come to take their papers
like an absurdly dressed waiter
is not something said in panic, but with pride
because they broke through and found the writer inside
--ok, so it's not quite as transcendental as that
but still, it's the kid who yesterday wouldn't've sat
who is today glued to his chair
with his nose right at the page there
playing the annoying child game
double-checking to make sure their sentences don't start the same
asking themselves "why" over and over again
while the words tumble and roll from their pen
quiet and determined inside they try
more now, since I told them they bring happy tears from my eyes
and when it happens I love to hold up the page they filled
and praise them in front of the class for the words they spilled

Yup. I thought it was fun. Maybe not, but I thought it was worth sharing.

For the Kids

I got one of the most unsettling emails I've ever recieved yesterday morning, and I suppose it's deserved. I'm working through my thoughts, of which I've of course produced pages. I had a day off, woke up at 11, retired to bed for an extra hour, and then played bball for two straight hours. I am loving Encanto. Anyway, I then spent three hours at Toyota getting my oil changed, and I had plenty of time then to sit and think, and apply some of the perspective I've gained since graduation, through Institute, and through these last few months. I'll write on that later; I just wanted to post the rhyme I wrote for my kids last week I mentioned.

They really are absurd; one girl has missed two weeks of school, apparently under the impression that she could just drop out (and presumably, her family didn't disabuse her of the notion, or didn't know that she was wrong). Today, she came back, and as I saw her in the hallways, I observed that she appeared to be in a ridiculously cheery mood, and thought perhaps two weeks off had improved her; instead, she was in a good mood because she had come back to school for one sole purpose: Fighting with another girl during recess. I guess kids had been ragging on the first girl for being a chicken--for not coming back to school to get in a fight--and she was finally back to settle some score.

Seriously - for many of these kids, school is viewed as an interruption of their sex lives, and a stage for their fights and establishments of reputation. Not for all, but for some. I mean, come on --coming back to school just to fight?

Anyway, this is the song that I read, and one of the girls in the fight - the one who usually attends - is one of the girls I made cry that day. Hope she remembers the message when she gets back, and in the future.

So it happened - you probably saw me cry
Saw me stop my mouth flop and the tears in my eyes
So I want to take a minute and tell you why
I come every day, and I see your faces
Smiling, sad, or angry, I just want you to go places
Because I care about each and everyone of you
(name), (Name), (Name), (name), and (name), you too
I want each everyone of you to fulfill your dreams
So when class is out of control and I scream
It's not as simple as it seems
I'm not truly angry or mad
Truth is, I feel robbed - of the day we could've had
And I'm disappointed. And I'm worried.
I feel like time is so short, and we must hurry
For the days are ticking by ever so fast
But before the 25th of May has slipped past
I want to give you everything I can
So come what may, you will stand
With your head held high and a wicked grin
The confidence that it's your life, you're gonna win
Because you can do anything you want, I know it
That's why I push you, I demand that you show it
I don't want you to keep your light locked up inside
I want you to crack your shell, and make sure you hold it up high
So you yourself can see just how bright you shine
Look at the glow coming from around yourself and think, "hey, that's mine"
That's why I fret, and that's why I stress
When you don't hear what I say and the class is a mess
Because I want the world to be your buffet
Like Burger King, so you can have it your way
And I want to make sure that happens
So it's about time I stopped my stupid silly rapping
And get back to regular class
Now you know - I don't just want you to pass
I want you to be the best
That's why I feel it get tight in my chest
and I cry
when you don't push
when you don't try
so please - put some happy tears in my eyes