Words and Weapons

A room of 9 students,

silent, cautious and careful with their words.

I thought this was going to be a program where adults talked and students listened.

The system is laid out like dried squid in the sun.

Student’s listen, adults teach, students are only there to please adults.

You will recieve an A from me if you do what I say.

What we have programed our youth to be?

Compliant, receptacles for knowledge.

And that knowledge dumps right out after class is over.

Not here,

Not on the corner of 1st and Elm where fresh fruit is sold on the street and we pack ourselves into a room with windows.

We break into minds and steal the secrets so closely guarded giving that experience back to the people.

They speak as Robin hoods giving their own wealth through words back to the poor.

No flashhiders will muzzle the barrels of their guns because the heat is too strong.

Lips part as words reflect the soul inside, THIS is what education should be about.

Life and what you make of it.

(revise and smooth out)

So that kids when asked what they want to be when they grow up answer I want to be RICH.

When kids asked what they want to be when they grow up answer I want to be SOMEBODY.

9 students turn into 7 Fierce minds,

who’s truth cannot be denied.

the myth is that the world tells you who you are, we answer that truth lies within.

I love my work

This is one of my first spoken word pieces. I wanted to post this today because I’m going to be performing it tonight at an event.

I don’t like performing it because it does bring me to the edge and sometimes to tears. And that’s why i want to post it so I won’t have to perform it as much and the girl’s story in the piece can get more exposure.

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I love my work,

but sometimes reality can get too heavy.

I started my hour and a half commute like every day.

Driving to the station, taking the train then biking to the office.

My morning began by reading essays from highschoolers applying for scholarships to Nara Bank.

The Rubric, spelling punctuation and organization.

Immediately I felt like something was wrong.

Spelling, punctuation and organization.

No where was it written that we actually look for the content of these essays,

Or peak into the soul of these students.

Spelling punctuation and organization were god,

So writing a safe essay about sunshine and rainbow’s the American dream, patriotism and hard work with PERFECT Grammar.

Would be defined as the winner.

I am skeptical by nature so I approach these essays with distance and mockery,

Because I know that half of what goes into a scholarship application… is bullshit.

I am in a position of power where what I write down can determine if these young gifted minds will receive the money they need for school.

Their futures rest in my hands, and they will never meet me.
I read stories of sacrifice and triumphs against all odds,

I also read a lot of bullshit.

But one story sticks with me.

This application is written from a girl in Queens,

She has a single mother who takes care of her and their annual income is $8,700 a year.

That includes rent, that includes utilities, that includes food.

Her story unfolds before me.

Since she was 3 she has been molested by her father.

The man charged with protecting and providing for his little girl took advantage of her dependence upon him.

Instilling within her fear and mistrust of any man that would approach her,

Wondering if he too would force himself upon her.

You see, oppressors don’t always have to be rich.

The social worker assigned to her case only worsened the situation.

The mother who could only speak Korean had to translate through her 15 year old daughter.

Unfortunately it’s still PC to make fun of ACCENTS.

so the social worker who has the ENGLISH ONLY complex laughs her way right out of the case,

dismissing it because this 15 year old girl waited too long to tell anybody.

A 15 year old girl waited too long to tell the authorities that she has been molested by a man that terrifies her.

The man who is waiting for her to come home,

The man who sleeps 4 feet away from her bed.

The girl dreams about escaping and going to college.

She dreams of what that education can bring to her and what life would be like WITHOUT Fear.

About liberating herself from her situation and not having to live in poverty anymore.

She has kept her grades up DESPITE EVERYTHING.

And Achieved more than what most would even attempt.

As my eyes reach the end of the page she asks for help,

Because school isn’t free,

As it used to be.

She says Help me,

And I want to do more.

I want to reach through the page to break into her world just to hold her and tell her,

“Everything will be alright,”

and I want to believe it.

I want to beat the shit out of the man who touched her with his filthy hands,

I want to send that fucking social worker to Iran where speaking English could get you killed.

I want to put her mother up in a loft in J-town where her biggest worry would be what color to paint the walls.

I want to send this girl to any school she wants with enough money so that she will never have to worry about bills or starving again.

I want to wash away all of her pain and give her memories from a happy childhood because she never had one.

I want to tell her to her face that she is a queen from queens,

And she has rocked her crown every day that she continues to struggle and breathe.

But I can’t ,

Because I’m 3 thousand miles away.

And my job requires me to give a grade based on spelling punctuation and organization.

So I give her the highest score possible and send it with the hope that the next person to read her story will look past the Rubric and into this girls heart.

To see what I saw,

To be moved by words that pierced the soul.
I find comfort in believing that her fight for life has trained her to beat anything that life throws her way.
And I hope that the next man that she meets,

Will do right by her,

That he will support her and give her the love,

That her father was supposed to.

Then Perhaps, some form of justice will have prevailed.

Hazard to yo booty

I’m going to cause an accident soon.

I have this problem.

Hello everybody, I’m a Funkaholic.

My funk and soul playlist is too good.

I’ll be driving to a meeting and then it will come on slowly.

Ill snap a finger,

nod my head or tap the steering wheel.

Without warning it’s disco infection at the single’s karaoke bar and I’m the drunk 50 year old who loves the mic a little too much.

BABY COME BACK! YOU CAN BLAME IT ALL ON ME! I WAS WRONG AND I JUST CANT LIVE WITHOUT YOU!

It’s not the singing that makes listening to funk dangerous to yo booty.

It’s the dancing.

The in the seat soul shuffle,

The snapping fingers on both hands while I’m closing my eyes in the intensity going 80.

Envisioning the OG lockers wrist-rolling their way through my thoughts.

Suspenders down to their knees, applejack hats hanging over one eye and colors that are so bright home depot couldn’t match it.

Funk is so serious that “givin up food for funk”,

is an actual song.

This means that Some lucky bastard lives off guitar rifts, soulful nasty keyboard solos and sexy sexy baritone lyrics.

OOOoooo girl the way you do the things you do, make me have the jones for you, all the time, all the time.

Take me up to the mothership cuz I want my funk uncut.

Gimmie that P Funk.

Cuz I want to get funked UP!

Ya Dig?

Life Interruption

{ written to the tune of Mint Condition -Nothing left to say}

I synced with you when we first met.

Arriving late at the same time.

Who knew we both would end up off schedule.

Blinded by your smile i was hooked.

Now it’s hard to look you in the face,

and know that your wall was always up.

I wanted to delve so deep,

and massage away your pain you hide inside.

There are things that drew me to you.

but all these things are pushing me away.

And all i can do for you,

is bang my head on a wall and say I’m ok.

There are no tears as i stand here.

but there’s nothing left to say.

irritated, frustrated, and hurt.

Who would have thought the pain i wanted to take away was water reflected back at me,

this is so confusing I thought I had grasped a puddle and it streamed right through my fingers.

With no one left to blame i splash at it violently,

But i can’t hear my thoughts drowned out by the water.

There are things that drew me to you.

but all these things are pushing me away.

And all i can do for you,

is bang my head on a wall and say I’m ok.

There are no tears as i stand here.

but there’s nothing left to say.

I’m angry but I can’t be.

I’m disappointed but i should be.

The fact that keeping up appearances was more a important to you,

than than my fractured emotions tells all.

The bomb shook my senses.

Defenseless I’ll move on.

There are things that drew me to you.

but all these things are pushing me away.

And all i can do for you,

is bang my head on a wall and say I’m ok.

There are no tears as i stand here.

but there’s nothing left to say.

There’s nothing left to say.

{ Y, this gave me a reason to write}

moments before

Rough starts are so familiar.
Its not my event but I can’t help but sympathize with the organizers.
The panic before the start.
The late night finishing touches that blend into the next morning.
The last minute calls because the audience is empty.
The associates did not come through.

Everything is going to be alright.
Nothing ever goes according to plan anxiety will turn to focus and focus will beget enjoyment.
Because you threw this for a reason.
Because no one else would.
Panic purpose peace.

contradiction

Pitcher or pint?
Pitcher of course.
As I sit the band starts with a tune entitled contradiction.
Contemplating and taking stock in my life more questions than answers flood my head.
Plainly spoken in poetry format my own contradictions rise like the bubbles in my beer.
I work for a substance abuse agency but I can out drink most other asian service providers that address other social ills.

I hated my fathers drinking but now I understand why the bottle is so comforting.
The lectures, the stink of crown royal on his breath.
The random calls I would get from him because he wanted to set me up with the bartender.
The friends he introduced me to that I had to call uncle out of respect.
The same ones I would walk away from because I hated talking to them.

My entrance to Manhood started when I was twelve supplied by my friends alcohol cabinate.
We had no idea what we were doing much less how old this tequila was.
A forgotten wooden box that fueled our adolescent weekends up on indian hill.
Three shots started a life of debauchery from the first stumble off of a misplaced rock to the wild running flowing through the streets at night.

We peed on teepees and destroyed school gardens.
Stomping on fruit tended to lovingly by children.
I’m not proud of most things I’ve done under the influence but I can’t help but feel more free when I’m drinking.
Free to call exgirlfriends.
Free to tell people what I really think of them.
Free to hit on a chick just because I want to see if I can get a number.
Free to forget a night and wake up the next day asking my buddies what happened?

This is not an ode to beer and some extended weekends I do feel like an alcoholic, But if you came from where I came from you would understand why.
Look at my family’s recycling.
Two guesses what its filled with.
I’ll take the pitcher but I’ll also take a glass to pour it into.
I don’t want to look like an alcoholic.