Ripped Jeans and White Robes

Ripped Jeans and White Robes

Ripped Jeans
and silk-screened shirts
Do just fine
to heal the hurt.

You're going from soft water
to sharp ice in seconds
But flash freezing your loyalty
Will only get you so far
and last so long.

Given enough time, you'll melt again
But damn, if you could only see how fast you turned
To pierce your friend.

So, yeah, my jeans have a new hole in the knee
But it's just a sign that they're familiar.
I've owned these pants for so much time, I'm surprised
it took them so long
to wear down.

We better patch it up
before I skin my knee--
You'll have to try harder than that to get my blood,
It runs a deep, strong red
And we wouldn't want to stain your beloved white robes, now,
would we?

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

Thanks for reading. Go forth and do good things, my friends.

Open Mic

So, let's hear it.
This is an open mic.
I want you to tell me everything.
I want you to tell me about that one girl at work who slows everyone else down,
About that promotion you just can't seem to get,
About how no matter how hard you study, you can't get higher than a C
About the pretentious book you just finished reading.
I want you to tell me about the last time you even read a book,
Or the last time you fished
Or fought
Or fucked
Or, better yet, had sex
Or, even better yet, made love
Or made music with a stranger
Or made conversation with a stranger
Or made eye contact with a stranger
Or made eye contact even stranger.

I want you to tell me about your favorite X-Man.
I want to hear about the 3 chords you know how to play on a Piano.
Tell me about your favorite Bible passage,
Or the best place to get a burger around here.
I want you to tell me that you're a Werewolf.
And I want to hear you howl, because this is an open mic.

I haven't been able to scratch down a single word with this ballpoint pen
In the past two months, and you know why?
People haven't been talking.
Well, they've been talking...
But they never say anything.
I want you to say something.
So, let's hear it.
This is an open mic.
Just let me hear it.
Let us all hear it.

I haven't posted anything in a long time because of the holiday season, and I'm sorry about that. There's some spoken word poetry to cheer you up, maybe.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

Thanks for reading. Stay human, my friends.

Ash

I've been away for a long, long time, and I'm sorry you all have been waiting for so long. I'll be more regular in the future. (I say that, but I don't know that for sure. Oh well.)

On a previous post, Burning Letters, I posted a piece called (You guessed it) Burning Letters that I said wasn't finished. I recently fixed it up, gave it a few new themes, a new ending, and a new title and all of this plastic surgery has (hopefully) created a better piece! Tell me what you think in the comments.

Ash

I liked you better when you were alive.
I'm pretty sure you would say the same about me, but
You've been gone for so long that I would rather remember you with a heartbeat
Than with ash slowly drifting up from within your throat,
Caught by the late autumn whispers.
I've burned a few letters to send to you, but I know I won't get a reply.
Turning cinders to paper is harder than the reverse.
I remembered your name today, after weeks of forgetfulness.
I took a sip of water to wash it down, but it got caught on the knot in my stomach.
I tried to wash away the soot but I couldn’t get rid of it,
You’re like smoke from a cigarette that I just can’t exhale.
So I’ll work to sweat you out,
I’ll stamp out the butt of the cig,
I’ll strengthen my lungs,
I’ll write about you and spit about you and tell everyone what happened to you
And I'll burn one last letter for you before I wash you down for good.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

Thanks for reading. Stay human, my friends.

Community College Blues

I'm sitting here, more early in the night than late, eating instant noodles with a Bob Marley shirt on, listening to public radio.
I don't think I can get more College than this.
I say that, but a few of my friends from "real Universities"
May read that and get pissed.

Today I met two new people because I couldn't resist showing off my German skills
(which, anymore, don't actually exist)
And within five minutes of talking to them, I was already on the topic of why high school sucked.
I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.

I stopped in on an Asian Diversity Club meeting, despite being incredibly not Asian, because of the offer of free food.
And a cute chick.
But mainly free food.
I'm kind of a dick.

I hung around for 12 hours of doing nothing despite having attended classes that I enjoy.
It was a little bit tiring.
I did some philosophy readings, Emerson and Prothero
So my neurons are still firing.

This rhyme scheme isn't working
So let me change it up.
And if you like it,
Maybe drop some change in the cup.

I'm staying up late, writing about War Paint
and domestic restraint
and social complaint,
but I won't faint
I'll let my pupils dilate
As you let your hips gyrate
As I orate
And dictate
And narrate
In a spoken word Vulgate,
Like a holy book from Heaven's Gates

And just drop a clever little notion,
About how each one of us is an ocean

At least, so said a poet that I admire.
But don't forget to respire,
Because before we retire
I would like to repeat words like barbwire
So just call me a surefire squire knight,
Because community colleges are all right
And all these little nuances that I think they're having
Are really showing me exactly how to stay savvy.

I just wrote this about 5 minutes ago, a bit of freewriting to make sure I'm still exercising my brain. 

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

Thanks for reading. Stay human, my friends.

The Oneironaut

And then I looked and I saw a sky full of Big Bangs.
Each genesis lighting up the sky illuminated my path.
Sometimes I wonder if in each and every one of these new universes,
You would be there, healthy and whole, waiting for me.
So, until I know for sure, I’ll set my sails for the unknown shore
Just a few kilometers from my origin.

When the wind smiles at my back and gently caresses my neck,
I remember that night when all of the universes began again.
Sailing on the dreams of last year,
I’ve learned how to navigate lucidity and coast on the current of the subconscious.

Now I’m back again, at the place where the sky gave birth to new existences
Hoping to find breath and catch sight of our waking life.

The bow of my vessel stirs the galaxies below
As I shake off sleep, dusting bits of God off of my shoulders.
Heaven lights up again and I see you, finally, dressed in deep greens, and
Ready to take me in.

I’ve traveled through visions of longing, of terror, of desire and of nostalgia
For longer than I can remember.
I can’t remember the last dream I had,
Here’s hoping you can remind me.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too! 

Thanks for reading. Stay human, my friends.

Eloi! Eloi!

It's... A sad story. Most sad stories, you think it would be night time, or raining.
But no, it was hot and bright. A typical midday in August. A warm late-summer breeze was pushing the first few dead leaves across the pavement. I had gone out for a walk to take my mind off of Chinese studies for a while.

I saw the woman sitting, slumped on the ground. Her shoulders were trembling, and at first I thought she was laughing, but I wish that were the case.

She was wearing ripped jeans, with suntouched red hair falling over her brown-skinned shoulders and piercings in her nose and lip. Her white tank top was stained with dirt and what could have been makeup.

And then I heard her crying... No, weeping. Such bitter weeping. She was sobbing as though every good thing had been taken from her, and every loving person had either died or deserted her. I barely heard her words through her heaving and retching, and through her tears I heard her wailing,

"ELOI!!! Eloi, lama sabachthani?!"

Her eyes were shut so tightly that I thought I saw blood stream from them, but her makeup was running down her face. She was pounding at the concrete with her fists until they were bloody, with her face towards the sky, asking again,

"Lama sabachthani?! ELOI!!!"

In her words I heard years of pain, I heard the crying of children and the buzz of locusts. She was screaming so loudly that a small trickle of dark blood slipped down her upper lip, staining her teeth.

No one around seemed to hear her-- Only me. I screamed, "This woman needs help! Somebody HELP!" But I couldn't move my feet, I couldn't look away. The cars kept driving, the shoppers kept rolling their red little carts to their cars and unpacking their groceries. No one noticed-- Or no one cared.

She continued to scream at the clouds until a young man walked up to her slowly. He was wearing jeans frayed and ripped at the knees, with a black beater shirt shiny with blood pouring from his nose. His palms were dripping blood, chapped and raw from rubbing against the streets and as he knelt down beside her he left deep red hand prints on his pants.

He whispered some inaudible phrases to her before he walked away, leaving a single round, black stone in front of her.

She took the stone and rubbed it in her blood-covered palms, whispering to herself before she erupted into another fugue of agony. Again the old words spouted from her lips, and I could only watch as my own tears began pouring. After too long I couldn't take it any more and I stumbled home, breathing too heavily the whole way.

I never knew what blade had pierced that woman, but I will never be able to forget the agony in her wailing. Hell itself could have pitied her.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

Thanks for reading. Stay human, my friends.

The Trial

My friend called me up
and said that she had been attacked.
He came at her with a knife
And pushed up on her back

He forced her up against a wall,
Took her purse, ripped her blouse
And she screamed til she felt the edge
Of a knife against her mouth

And he said “Hey little girl, don’t worry now
You’re in good hands”
That’s when he licked his lips
And started unzipping his pants

You can see where this is going,
So I’ll spare you all the shit
But just know that when I see him
I’ma throw a fucking fit

!So I did what I never thought I’d do:
I went out,
And bought a gun—and tons of bullets,
Though I planned on running out

.“I’ma fill his body up with pain
The way he did to you.
Nothing you say can stop me,
This is what I have to do.”

She didn’t want me to go through with it
But I was in a trance
So I walked right out the door
To kill him with my own two hands.

And I walked out to find him
With the piece tucked in my jeans
And I found him in a driveway
Workin’ on his machine.

He saw me comin’, asked me
“Hey, what can I do for you?”
So I brought out the gun and said
“Here’s what I’m gonna do.

I’m gonna count to three, and in that time
You’re gonna say to me
How you could do just what you did
So fuckin’ easily.”

He knew why I was there
So he put his hands down
And stared at me, As his eyes crunched up
And lips turned to a frown.

It was then I saw the tears
coming down from his eyes,
But I could never cut him slack
No matter how hard he cried

.“It was fucking awful, man,
I can’t fuckin’ sleep at night.
I was drunk and angry at my ex
She was just in sight,

I was so far fucking gone
That I hardly remember shit
But I do know what I did
And I know I deserve this.”

Then an old man behind me
On the sidewalk stopped in shock.
“Young man, you do not want this.
Put it down, let’s just talk.”

But I was so far into it
That I couldn’t hear him speak
All I wanted was this fucker’s brain
Splattered against the street.

Then the old man put his hand
On top of my shoulder,
And said “Put it down, son.
This act is even colder.

What he did is awful, yes.
He was drunk in wrath
But are you any different?
Do we need a bloodbath?”

I was thinking miles in minutes
“I don’t give a fuck, Mister!”
I was not gonna listen,
Cause I know he hurt my sister!

I know he’s a terror
And he knows he’s got a twister
Coming his way, man,
Now let me bust this fucking blister!

Then the man looked at my gun
and yelled “GO ON AND DO IT!
I deserve this, and you’re the only one
To put me through it!”

And he cried and cried and sobbed and sobbed
and lost all of his shit
But I couldn’t pull the trigger
And go through with it.

I felt the old man smile at me.
“You know how strong the rage is.
But now that’s all over, yes?
It’s in history’s pages.”

I turned around to face him,
But there was no one to see.
So I turned back to the man and saw him
Staring back at me.“

You’re a lucky man, you know.
I was going to pull the trigger.
But I think it was an angel that
Told me I could be bigger.”

So I threw the gun into a drain
When I was walking back
And I realized the kind of pain
That went into that attack.

I found her back at my place,
asking, “Please, don’t say it’s true.”
I shook my head without a word
And hugged her so she knew.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter and Google+ . If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring too!

The Symphony of the Universe

Symphonium Universi

The world is singing! Do you hear it?
The world is singing. All you have to do is listen.
On this spinning globe, there is so many millions of expressions of life!
They all are singing out in a beautiful choir of existence,
That hits me like an earthquake that brings me to kneel
In reverence. I can’t help put part my lips to sing along with them.
When all the noise is blocked out, and you stop to listen
You can hear it.
The world is singing.

I sit on the floor, with eyes closed and ears eager to listen.
The familiar pat-pat-pat of raindrops on my window
Ushers in a welcome rain.
Nature is has lifted its voices too.
I hear strings and voices in the Wind, drums in the Earth,
Horns and cymbals in waterfalls, raindrops and rivers.

Now I know why sages travel to mountaintops, prophets spend months in the desert
And the wise know the value of quiet.
It’s not so they can get away from the world!
It’s so that they can get closer to it.

We are part of it! Do you hear us singing along?
Hallelujah, we sing!
Let all creation join in!
We are here, we are alive!
Let us do what is good and right
And let the innumerable expressions of life create!

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter. If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring

 and Google+ .

Thank you for reading. Stay Human, my friends.

Burning Letters

Just a rough draft of something that's been swimming in my head for a few days. Tell me what you think in the comments!

I liked you better when you were alive.
I'm pretty sure you would say the same about me, but
You've been gone for so long that I would rather remember you with a heartbeat
Than with a grandfather clock's last chime in your throat.
I've burned a few letters to send to you, but I know I won't get a reply.
Turning ash to paper is harder than the reverse.
I remembered your name today, at a baseball game.
I took a sip of water to wash it down, but it got caught on the knot in my stomach.
Maybe you needed your own Rikki-Tikki to fight the cobras slithering across your scalp,
But in the end you were poisoned by your own locks, the way you wanted.
You petrified all of the mongooses with your gaze intentionally.
So I'll burn one last letter for you before I wash you down for good.

I know it ends a bit abruptly, that's something I'm planning on fixing. This is one I'm going to be working on in the future, and I'll post the latest draft (can't surely say 'final') when I feel like taking a break from it.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter. If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring, too!

Peace and Love, thank you for reading. Stay Human.

The Dao of Being Human, Part 1

Short post today, because I'm in the process of preparing for a family reunion. When I get back, I plan on expanding on the topic of being human. Until then, meditate on this piece.

Human

Aight, people, listen. I think it's high time
We stop missin' out on what's yours and what's mine.
We are Human.

The pieces were set for White to move first,
But I was missing a bishop to keep me on the straight and narrow.
But hey, it's okay, it might have been just what I needed.
Besides, I'm a better Go player anyway.

I always wished I could take life the way I took piano lessons: Half-step by half-step, black and white.
But then I learned chords, and thirds, and arpeggios and legato and it all became too much for me.

I know now that there's no reason that black and white should be a good thing.
Why don't we use all the colors?
"All the colors of the world, red and yellow black and white" but between me and you,
I'm best friends with maple leaf green and dark ink blue.

So I learned how to be Human in this inhumane world. I learned how to be unemployed, how to sleep with the wrong girl, how to go swimming in all of my clothes, and how to buy myself a Pay Day candy bar because I feel like I've earned it.

Too many people are giving me flak and asking me to care just a bit less,
to dress up just a bit more,
to watch that movie I hate,
to be more like my sisters.

But, sorry, I can't live in a world without calling in sick (when I'm really just tired), without eating steaks I can't afford, without late night Karaoke, because man, that is Human.

Because yeah, my hair's just a little bit nappy,
And yeah, my movies are a little bit sappy,
But hell, I'll do what makes me happy.
I play Go and write poetry
and I get upset and I curse maybe a little too much
And if I've had a really tough day, I eat Captain Crunch at 2 AM because it reminds me that I am Human,
And I have my own bit of God that sparks within my heart.

I'm Human, and no one can take that away from me.

If you like my writing, you can join the site to the right of the page, like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter. If you have questions or just want to chat, I'm on Formspring, too!

Peace and Love, thank you for reading!

Interview 2: Flex

Earlier this month, I interviewed my good friend Jeremy. Today I’m writing about a mutual friend of ours, another influence of mine, and a fellow member of Random Receipts, Fidelis. I’ve most often seen Fidelis making music on a piano, djembe or goblet drum, but he’s also a talented writer, painter, and singer. 

-So how did you get involved doing creative work, and how long have you been writing?
I've been creating ever since I can remember. I recall when I was a small boy, my older brother would draw comic book super heroes and cut them out, and we would play with them. I was maybe 4 or 5 years young at the time. So since then, creativity has been in my life. That been said, I only just started to write music on the Piano Forte since the 3rd week of November, 2010. Aside from that sort of writing, I wrote my first poem in 2009 and since then I've been forming quotes and writing spoken word pieces. Before writing though, my primary means of expression is painting. I started to paint in the early half of 2007. And so I guess you could say that, I really began to take art as a whole, more seriously, since I was 17.

-So far, what has been your best memory doing creative work?
I have lots of great memories, but honestly as I write this, it is the day after I performed at 'Honey' [a lounge] in Minneapolis, and it was pretty awesome!! I also really enjoy working with my group members from Random Receipts, everyone involved, including the interviewer on this blog [aw, shucks] - is talented in their own unique way and so working alongside Random Receipts is always a great time for me.

-What piece that you’ve written do you feel best expresses you?
I'd say that my piece titled 'The Catalyst' is the one piece of spoken word that truly captures my inner truth, i.e. my inner most fear. Otherwise all of my pieces, poetry, painting, piano compositions, short stories, best express me.

-What has been your biggest influence in your writing?
Life and its experiences influence me the most in creating; as broad as that sounds.

-Any advice for people who want to get into the creative scene?
Yes. Enjoy yourself in your art, whichever it may be. Have passion for it. Dedicate your time in practice. And, share it!

-A quote that inspires you?

"In all forms of it. Our art, in years to come, will define our time. And so therefore we must create!!"

- Fidelis Odozi.

THE EYE WITNESS

My thoughts are naked as I sit amidst very relaxed trees that surround a body of water where two lovers stroll together from one end of the lake to the other.
I suspect the lagging lover to be the male because of the way in which he tails her with admiration and drinks the flow of water behind her glide every now and then.
She turns abruptly to him at the loud sound of an awaking fish.
He moves closer to her as though to say, 'I am here, do not fear.'
Far off into the distance a lonely bird stalks the two lovers and does a brilliant job staying out of sight. He or she might have been an ex boyfriend, a very protective parent, or perhaps an ex girlfriend, hell, how should I know?
Suddenly though, an even louder sound enters the air, its a human being smacking his floating device on the water.
I Shout at him. I say "Hey! You over there, you're disturbing the love birds!"
I then realize that I too am adding to the noise but it is too late, the birds by now have panicked and so they changed course and hurried down a different direction.
I felt terrible about this.
I felt as tho I played a huge role in the destruction of a lovely stroll down the stream.
But things turned out for the better, it seems, because due to them changing directions they were able to spot the stalker and so they swam even closer together
And were on a new path, one that was far off into the distance with no stalker and no human beings.
It was beautiful.
I got up and walked back home with a smile that slowly turned into laughter.
I might have looked crazy to the people driving by, but hell, I had just witnessed love on water.
I had absolutely no care at all.

--Fidelis Odozi

Fidelis is an old soul, the first Nigerian man I ever met, and shows me that he truly lives up to his name which means "Faithful". His eye for art and affinity for phrases puts a smile on my face.

If you like what you've read, want to learn more about Random Receipts or about this blog, or even just spread the word about this blog, you can like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.

Thank you for reading.  

What it Means to Have a Voice

I just want to start this post with a reflection. To the best of human knowledge, we are the only beings able to create true art. A lot of that art is manual-- Painting, sculpting, building-- But a good share of it is verbal: Singing, poetry, things like that. We have a very unique gift when it comes to having a voice. Human speech is the most diverse and complex method of communication known to man. You are in possession of the most beautifully complicated sound-maker on Earth. Isn't that something?


I have a lot of different influences when it comes to my writing. Some of it is inspired by rap lyricism, some of it by the books I read, and some of it from rock lyrics. My biggest inspiration, though, comes from other poets; One in particular is a man named Anis Mojgani. Anis has a voice, and he uses it powerfully and beautifully.

That is his most popular poem, "Shake the Dust".  I highly recommend his work, including this poem and another titled "For Those who Can Still Ride an Airplane for the First Time".


Everyone who has a voice is capable of doing amazing things with it. For me, my writing and my speaking go hand in hand. To me, they're the same art, because I not only write poetry, I speak it publicly as well. In fact, I believe that reading a piece in text and hearing a piece spoken are two completely different experiences.


As I was reflecting upon these truths in a church one morning (Yes, I know, I should have been paying attention), I began to scribble down a little something on the bulletin. This piece is what it became.

I Have a Voice

I have a voice. It’s not deep and imposing, like James Earl Jones. It's not terribly charismatic like David Letterman. It can carry a tune… well enough. Sometimes it cracks, or even gets lost, but it’s my own, and I use it.

I have a voice. I use it to laugh and cry, to scream and shout… Trust me, I can let it out, my fire within and my strength without. My writing helps me do that, like a key unlocking all of the pathos so I can speak my mind. Sometimes, though… Sometimes my voice gets me into binds. Sometimes, my voice doesn’t obey; it crosses its arms and rolls its eyes and looks away. Sometimes my voice just won’t come, won't answer. But sometimes, my voice knows it needs to be heard.

I have a voice, and these days I’m getting really good at using it. I have friends with their own voices, and I know I have something worth saying. I know that some people don’t have a voice, but still need to be heard.
The German Exchange boy, greeted every day by a high school full of jeering salutes with extended arms, like cannons from a battleship.
The girl with shaking hands and scarred wrists, retreating to rehab for the third time.
The old man stricken by thugs and muggers on his way to visit his wife’s grave.
Too many of us that have voices lay complacent, forgetting the thousands who lay hoarse and exhausted, unable to speak. We have voices, and we do a grave injustice not to use them.

I have a voice, and I will stand up in front of microphones and behind podiums, on stages, on street corners, in basements and in restaurants, and I will speak. I will NOT speak to the corrupted suits, I will NOT speak to the insurance companies, I will NOT speak to the cynical and the apathetic.

I have a voice, and I will speak to the writers and the musicians, to the speakers and to the poets. I will speak to the citizens, the civilians and the foreigners. I will speak to you, and I pray that you will listen,
Because, God damn it, I have a voice! And the only crime I am unwilling to commit for my cause is silence.

I have often been called out on being a pretentious speaker, or on being a know-it-all, and maybe (read: quite possibly) I am, and I apologize sincerely for that, but these are things that are obvious, that are great, that are important. To me, a voice is a terrible thing to waste. If you have a voice and a set of beliefs but passively and idly sit by as the changes you don't want happen, you're doing your voice, your beliefs, and yourself a terrible act of disrespect.

If you like my writing, you can like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.

Thank you for reading.

The Dog Days Aren't Over Yet

I've been getting into the local (Twin Cities) art and music scene a lot lately. I've found myself continually wanting to go into the cities. The suburbs have been driving me crazy lately. They have no personality, they have no realism. They're just one house after another after another, and they don't have any soul to them anymore.

Seriously, does this look exciting to you?

I know that an apartment in the cities would hardly be any different from that, but the difference is that I'd be able to go out and get a taste of those intangible things I love: Music, art, people, personality.

However, first I need a job. I have applied at everywhere (literally everywhere. I honestly wish I was exaggerating.) within biking/walking distance, and to many places outside of that radius. I can't pay for all of my classes without a job, so among the other obvious reasons I should get one, it's more important now than ever. If anyone has any ideas/suggestions, maybe leave it in the comments or tweet it to me or post it on the blog's Facebook page.

I wrote this piece a while ago when I was contemplating my discomfort in the suburbs.

Sorry, Suburbs

Sorry, Suburbs, we've had a good run
But it's just not working out.
I've decided I need to pack up and leave.
You're just not the same neighborhood I fell in love with.

When I was a kid, I would go exploring in my back yard,
A field of endless towers of corn
And I would break the stalks, rip off the ears
And fashion myself a Samurai's sword
To wield in gallant, epic battles against invisible assailants.

I remember finding magazines I was much too young for
In a creek half a mile away.
I remember saying out loud to myself,
"Why would anyone publish something like this?"

I rode my bicycle to No-Name Park
Dug my feet deep into the sand
And felt the heat between my toes.

Now, for me, there's too much past here, and not enough future
And conformity is on me like a downtown moocher.

Each building lies in a perfect little row, sprouting up as though sown from the seeds of real estate
And being farmed by agents with perfect Colgate Total smiles, alabaster teeth shining
Like the houses they show off.

Each of those model homes flowers into a husband and a wife,
And two children (an older sister and a younger brother)
And a small, yipping dog, and a minivan, AND a Prius,
And an above-ground pool, and a wooden deck, and...
Slow down, Smiths.
Why are you always jonesin' to keep up?

No-Name Park has had a generic title forced upon it,
The creek has dried up with barren, dusty rocks biting at the shore,
And the field has been trampled underfoot by the "New Development".

From the roof, I see lawns freshly mowed,
Windows spritzed into a perfect sheen,
Two garage doors like blind eyes staring me down.
I see this pseudo-perfection and taste bile in the back of my throat.
This assembly line of American Dreams is putting me to sleep.

The Dog Days aren't over yet, despite what Florence says. I'm still trying to get a job, trying to keep the suburbs from getting to me too bad, and trying to keep my chin up.

If you like my writing, you can like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.

Thank you for reading.

Interview 1: Jerem-why

I've started to meet some really interesting people doing my own creative work, so for my own sake I wanted to ask them a few questions about what they do. The answers I got back were really interesting, so I think I'll share them with you. Today, you will learn a little bit about my good friend Jeremy, who is a spoken-word artist like myself.

-Jeremy, how did you get involved doing creative work in the first place?
"I would have to say that I got involved in doing creative work when I met Fidelis, Josh, and Natan [other members of the group] and we started jamming out in the piano rooms at school just freestyling. I used to write a lot when I was 18/19 but not until 4 or 5 months ago did I really start to dive into writing from the depths of me."

-So far, what has been your best memory doing creative work?
"I would have to say that the best memory I have doing creative work would have to be the joy and elation of sharing my piece "My Brother" with Fidelis face to face just after I had written it. There was an immense creative energy between us that I felt upon reading that to him."

 -What piece that you've written do you feel best expresses you?
"To be honest, even though it was written while I was withdrawing from Nicotine, I would have to say it is my piece "Dear Non-smoking Friends" because before I wrote that piece I had never been so honest in my writings...ever."

-What has been your biggest influence in writing?
"My biggest influence in my writings have been [the other members of] Random Receipts. Each and every person involved with the group has inspired me in ways I cannot explain with mere words. But most definitely the sharing of creativity between all of us is what inspires my writings most." 

-Do you have any advice for people who want to get into the creative scene?
"My advice for people who want to get into the creative scene is to stop trying to get into the creative scene. You are already a creative being who creates every moment of every day which means you are already in the creative scene-- you just don't realize it yet. Try and find wonderful people who's ego's aren't too inflated, try and find genuine people who are accepting of others works and share with them everything you've ever written even if you're scared shitless to do so. Either that, or, come hang out with Random Receipts!"  

-A quote that inspires you?

"The answer is never the answer. What's really interesting is the mystery. If you seek the mystery instead of the answer, you'll always be seeking. I've never seen anybody really find the answer. They think they have, so they stop thinking. But the job is to seek mystery, evoke mystery, plant a garden in which strange plants grow and mysteries bloom. The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer."

-Ken Kesey

The reason this quote inspires me is because it reminds me of the Dao.


Creativity is flowing through my veins, step to me and you'll get love filled words 
that will destroy your ego more quickly than clinched fists will damage your physical body, 
consider me something similar to godly the way I create something out of nothing, 
so I ask you...to the plate, what is it that you bring? Do you draw, paint, sing? 
What is it that you have to offer the world around you? 
I ASK YOU, what is it that you do? 
You must answer this question before I allow you into my temple because my inner realms are sacred, 
there's only room for love, not hatred. 
I'm not down with fake shit or a quick fix, I'm not here to listen to your clever words the way you play tricks, I'm in the moment so consider me present, 
if you're searching for a guru I have nothing to share with you, no life lessons, 
I'm over the endless nights of self created stresses, 
I have left anxiety begging me for more but you should've seen how quickly I shut that door. 
Goodnight to the fear of night and good morning to the love of day, where sun filled skies, and the chatter amongst birds guide me along my path and show me the Way.

--Jeremy Kemp 


I had a lot of fun contemplating Jeremy's answers. He has a lot of insight into the world around him, and he oftentimes isn't afraid to share what he's thinking. 

If you like what you've read, you can like Speaking with Storms on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.
Thanks for reading! 

"Cannot be Reconciled with Wisdom, Justice, and Love."

DISCLAIMER: If you are easily offended, easily angered by opposing viewpoints, overly conservative, ridiculous, war-mongering, or overly militant, DO NOT READ THIS POST. This post is more for myself to organize my thoughts than for any one of you. This post WILL make you angry. This post WILL cause controversy. This post might just cost me viewers, and frankly, I'm happy about that then. You are more than free (in fact, you are invited) to disagree. However, I will not tolerate any hateful messages in comments, and I will not abide infighting on this blog. I have stopped it before, I will do it again. You have been given your fair warning.


In case you didn't know, faithful readers, I am an American. Therefore, I naturally have my fair share of political views when it comes to my country. Today, during Independence Day, the birthday of our nation, I keep in mind those issues that I know affect me and my fellow Americans.

I do not truly hate very many things, but there are two issues I will be discussing. The first: War. I hate everything about it. The expenses, the motivations, the fighting, killing, raping, destruction, pillaging... I cannot abide any of it. My beliefs are strongly against war. I believe that all weapons are abominations, and good people detest them. This oftentimes puts me at odds with people who are either serving in the military or have loved ones who serve.

I'm going to say this right now: I do not support war in any context. I do not support the idea of soldiers (for I believe there should be no need for them), though I do give respect to anyone who feels a sense of duty towards protecting what is important to them. Granted, in the world we've created for ourselves, the military does provide certain usefulness. That being said, however, there should be other ways for us to get those things done.

I have friends from Vietnam who told me things about the war my country had with them that I would never read in a history book. I have met Koreans who taught me more about the Korean War than a single class I've ever attended. I have met Japanese who want Americans out of Okinawa. My only conclusion is thus: No wonder America is one of the most hated countries in the world.

On April 4th of 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke these words outside of Riverside Church in New York City:

"I come to this magnificent house of worship tonight because my conscience leaves me no other choice... A true revolution of values will lay hand on the world order and say of war, "This way of settling differences is not just." This business of burning human beings with napalm, of filling our nation's homes with orphans and widows, of injecting poisonous drugs of hate into the veins of peoples normally humane, of sending men home from dark and bloody battlefields physically handicapped and psychologically deranged, cannot be reconciled with wisdom, justice, and love. A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death."

Martin Luther King, Jr. and my biggest influence, Thích Nhất Hạnh, at a peace conference in Paris.

I will not write any more on the topic because all of my thoughts agree wholeheartedly with that excerpt. Indeed, Martin Luther King, Jr. took the words out of my mouth over 40 years prior to this day.


The other topic I want to tackle is something I despise almost as much as war, because they are, in fact, very closely related: American Exceptionalism.The term refers to the belief that America is exceptional in every way, and that it is simple "better" than other countries. Most Exceptionalists believe America is the best country in the world; So much better, in fact, that God himself smiles upon America and America alone. Naturally, most people who believe this are Christian and therefore practice a religion that states very clearly that God loves everyone equally and beyond measure. The contradiction is obvious.

Barack Obama spoke to the people of Cairo, Egypt, on June 4th of 2009 and said

"Given our interdependence, any world order that elevates one nation or group of people over another will inevitably fail."

However, he then contradicted himself in a State of the Union address by calling America "the light of the world". America is unique, yes, just as Korea is unique or Uzbekistan is unique or China, Ethiopia, Germany, Romania, Chile, or Canada. However, that does not mean we are better. Our differences are what should bring us together, not tear us apart. I believe in a unique America, but I will never stand for a sovereign America.

I know this seems like a lot of anti-America anarchist high-school bullshit, but please understand this: I like America. It has done good things. Sure, I want to live outside of it, but I am an American (whether I like it or not) so I will wear it as a part of who I am... But I will not stand for warmongering and hubris.

I wrote the following words watching the Independence Day parade with my family.

Oh, Say, Can You See?

Oh, say, can you see?

Today parades will toss sweets to energetic, ecstatic young children.
Today, polished brass blasts Sousa as they march to the drumming.
Today, old men drive go-karts, filling the air with the buzz of 2-cylinder engines like a swarm of Fez-donning hornets.

Oh, say, can you see?

Today, thousands of Americans will have their hands blown off, intoxicated by paroxysms of American Exceptionalism.
Today, one of the most powerful people in the world will speak to his people and tell them that the soil they walk upon is the Promised Land, that the Mississippi flows with milk and honey, and that they were Chosen by God to be His People.

Oh, say, can you see?

Today, old bombers, tanks, and jeeps will run in remembrance of holy war.
Today, the bombs bursting in air will bring smiles to the faces of thousands enthralled.
Today, the crimson blood is encouraged, the white noised turned full blast, and the bitter blue tears of unspeakable loss perpetuated.

Oh, say, can't you see?

Being patriotic is not a bad thing at all. It can only be beneficial to acknowledge and take pride in where you are from. When this leads to arrogance, however, it leads to division. It leads to misunderstandings. It leads to petty fighting. It leads to anger. It leads to stereotypes. It leads to war. I am American, but I do not stand for this America. I stand for the right America--The other America.

What you win in the immediate battles is little compared to the effort you put into it but if you see that as a part of this total movement to build a new world, you know what cathedral you're building when you put your stone in? You do have a choice. You don't have to be a part of the world of the lynchers. You can join the other America. There is another America! --Anne Braden

Definition Kills

Hey, readers. I know I haven't posted anything in about a week, but that's because I've been quite busy.

First, I went with my family up north to a place called Gooseberry Falls. It's probably my favorite state park in the whole of Minnesota, because of the forests, rivers, and wildlife there. I really enjoyed it, even though I was without a shower (willingly) for four days. Those who know me personally know that I had long curly hair, which is somewhat a pain to deal with and make sure that it looks fine. Therefore, four days without a shower pretty much rendered me out of the game for finding ladies up in Duluth and Grand Marais. That being said, I wouldn't pursue any ladies there anyway because it's just a mite too far north for me. The commute to see her would be brutal.

Anyway, speaking of my hair, it used to be nine inches long-- I've cut it down to one inch. My head feels a lot lighter and I'm enjoying the change of pace.

Also, I just the other night attended a little get together where I accomplished a lot. Normally, I'm fine with people reading my material when I'm not in front of them. As soon as I get in front of people to perform, however, I get a typical case of stage fright. At the party, though, I was able to get so into the moment that I didn't care. I was so focused and energetic that it was the farthest thing from my mind. The people there were so supportive and open minded, so being there was something I am grateful for.

My friends and I came up with a few big ideas that night, and I just want to jot them down before I forget about them. So, what better way than to share it with you all?

1. The "Greater Good" centers around selflessness. A "good" person is simply a generous person who puts her own benefit below that of others.
2. Definition Kills. We only know what Beauty is because we label other things as ugly. The key to real wisdom is to refuse duality.
3. This world is not real. 
4. Everything that is, is Alive. 
5. Everything that is, is Art.

I've been writing a lot lately. I know I use that sentence a lot on this blog, but this is actually more true than ever. I have been spending time with a lot of creative people and that creative energy is doing a lot of good things for me. I'm going to go ahead and share something I wrote on my trip up north.

From Highway 61 Overlooking Lake Superior



I see the Superior Gitche Gumee.
The clouds slowly descend after a lazy drizzle fills the air with grey.
From atop this hill I look down,
Upon the steely blue-grey waters
Churning with eagerness to throw themselves upon the rocks of the shore.
As my eyes trace the horizon covered by a soft cloud curtain,
A soft smile sneaks up on me as I realize
I can't tell where the skies meet those waters
As they drop off the edge of the earth
Into nothingness.

The determined flowers stretching up from the bushes press upon me
A scent unfamiliar,
And as I walk away, I look back to see one lone rock
Staring back at me from among the waves.
Across the highway, where the drivers speed past
(As they presumably do every day),
 I view the mist-covered forests pouring over the hillside
Like some great verdant blanket.

A pair of older men stand along the rocky shoreline below,
Swapping stories and secrets
As they skip stones.

I saw that scene as we stopped to look at the fog rising up from the lake, and I felt this surge of ideas coming into me, and warming me from the outside in, into my core. I had no choice but to write.

I always love writing, and I am happy each time I am able to share that with people.

Untitled

I have the willpower of a torrential flood.

I have a tongue like a bolt of lightning.

The drive of an ardent wildfire

With the serenity and Zen of a lake’s mirroring surface,

When the sun is just shy enough to hide away from the world five minutes before dawn.

I have traversed the Atlas and soul-searched in temples and nightclubs alike.

As I navigated skyscrapers and mountains of mass media with a wrought-iron compass

I meditated and prostrated and repeated my Ex Corde mantra,

“Om mani padme hum, our Father in heaven,

I pledge allegiance to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth will set you free.”

These old words resound in the Information Age with feigned harmlessness,

Amplified with the subwoofers of today’s youth, screaming, “The only true victory is peace”,

Screaming, “Rise up, daughters and sons of Forever”,

Screaming, “Next stop, the Greater Good!”

Why?

Why did you do so much for me?
I talked down to you and spat insults at you.
Why did you give so much love to me?
I used you for my own gains, and left you cold and deserted in my wake,
With pain in your belly and blood on the ground.

Why did you go against your better judgment, and the advice of your loved ones
And give me so much of your soul?
Why did you let me ravage your self esteem, rob you of your freedom and assassinate your trust
When you were a resource to me?
Why did you trade so many pieces of your heart with me,
So I would always have a bit of you with me?
Why did you let me do the things I did?
Why did you love me?

Why couldn't I see what I was doing?
Why was I so blind to the tears, so deaf to the heaving sobs?
I had no rhyme or reason to the rampage I wrought.
I was rolling dice
And stacking bets with emotions.

Why do you still give me this love?
Why am I shown such grace?
I don't deserve it now, just like I didn't deserve you then.
Why?

Why did you whisper to me, "You're a good man"?
Why did you tell me, "I will do anything for you"?
Why did you give me so much so soon?
Why, out of all of the ones you saw, you chose me?

Airports

I have mixed feelings about airports. When I'm traveling, I love them. When I'm at home, I'm fascinated by them. When one of my friends leaves, everything about them makes me upset.

Today, I said goodbye to one of my best friends. She's going back to her home, in Ethiopia. Thousands of miles away. There have been a bunch of gatherings of friends to sort of ease the blow, make sure she goes out with a bang, and give her good memories. Something tells me it only made it harder on a lot of us, having that many goodbye hugs.

I woke up this morning knowing what was going to happen. Saying my final goodbyes to my friend, making sure I only shed (at absolute maximum) TWO manly tears, out of one eye, not both. After that, a job interview at 2:45. Two big events that I was not (and am not) prepared to deal with. On top of all of that, when I went to the airport, I had completely forgotten my wallet. That, however, offered something to cheer me up.

I sincerely doubt that all of you responsible readers would  forget your wallets, so I am going to assume that none of you knows what happens when you are unable to pay for parking at an airport. The nice lady asked me to move my car off to the side of the road, which I did. I waited for an hour-long 10 minutes for someone to come talk to me. I explained that the only money I had on me was the 100 thou Vietnam đồng-- only about 5 dollars-- I kept in my small notebook for sentimental value. The man who came to discuss what they could do just sighed, smiled, and said "Well, get back in line for number 15. I'll see what I can do." I smiled, bowed, shook hands, and thanked him, obeying his instructions.

Instead of being billed for $10 ($5 for parking and $5 for being a dumbass and forgetting my wallet), the man lowered the fee to $3, swiped his own credit card, had me sign a small form, and wished me safe travels. Now, $3 is by no means a lot of money, but he did that for a complete stranger. A scatter-brained kid who he didn't know the name of. I drove away, crying for the second time that day because of the undeserved kindness I have received from friends and strangers alike.

For Rebka


Every time I’ve gone to an airport
It’s begun to rain.
This time, it’s no different.


When I heard that you’d be leaving
 I didn’t know how to react.
Will you leave soon?
Will you come back?
Will you keep in touch?
Will I ever see you again?
I felt these questions hit me like a waterfall to the top of my head.


Every time I've gone to an airport
I've felt like my stomach was made of stone.
This time, it's no different.


I remember days of smiles
Days of tension
Days of injera and phở
Days of learning
Days of forgetting.


Every time I've gone to an airport
It's been for a goodbye.
This time, it's no different.


You say, “I’ll be back”
But I know you’re reassuring yourself, not me.
I know I’ll see you again
On this soil, or on Abyssinian ground.


I kiss your forehead and wish you safe travels.
Only now, through tears, do I clearly see.
Sometime soon, we’ll live in the days of forgetting again.