Tag Archives: spit

On Being Bold – draft Spoken Word Piece

There is a conversation going on inside you
a discussion of where to go and what to do
the simplicities of youth
in a flurry, you are left with choices
and no right answers
no simplistic solutions canned and coined
in pre-packaged kit of do right
be right…
I say be bold
The heroes of our days gone by
are really just you and I
we, standing here, with the will
and courage to stand
against a tide of Consumerism
fogging up the conversation with
ideas like
“wear these shoes and be a star”
“eat this, drink this, smoke this, drive this, do this,
GIVE us your money and we will make you this and drip with this
and be what we think you should be cuz its what every one
wants to be…” Bullshit.
YOU are the master of your soul
the captain of the ship sailing towards the horizon of a dream
created out of the story hours and long showers
of 365 days repeating to where you stand now
15, 24, 36, 40, 65… 90
It matters NOT how many have passed the only day mattering is the one you are holding
now so
Be Bold.
Take the image of capes and bright colored lights to a new level
and be the cape and bright colored lights of your own life.
Reach out and touch the mechanisims of your being with the truth of
“I CAN DO THIS” Dedication
and breathe in the hard work of a tenacious soul
blistered hands and the truth you sought to know and
Be Bold.
I cannot walk your life for you
She cannot walk your life for you
He cannot walk your life for you
these are your shoes, canvasing a road of your dreams
Navigating a world filled with your stars, the constellations of a million creations
coalesing into the will to survive and make your world amazing
Make the world a bit more
Do not need out of greed or
lust for the snap shot moments of paparazzi no privacy
lighting up a bank account where everyone’s hands are in it
just be you and do the thing you were called to do
let the lights find their own way
let the discovery of fame and fortune be what it will be
for if you are bold in your direction
walk the path given
let no one tell you what the end looks
because they lie
they speak without having been there yet
because where you are going is yours and
you are the only one who can create it.

yeah… There is a conversation going on inside you
a discussion of where to go and what to do
the simplicities of youth
in a flurry, you are left with choices
and no right answers
no simplistic solutions canned and coined
in pre-packaged kit of do right
be right…
I say be bold
and Frost your way to ending you dream
no matter what lay in the path
no matter how many miles you must go

For the want of it

For the want of it – you spit
for the taste of it – you spit
for the gain, drain, fame of it – you spit
for the spot, the light, the silver coated mic – you spit
for the shock of it – you spit
for the hurt of it – you spit
for the heal, feel, drill of it – you spit
for the stage, the fright, the blaze mastered fight – you spit
but do you spit – for the real of it
do you spit – for the meal of it
do you spit – for the reach down into your soul and
deal with it
do you spit – with reason, season, wisdom and seed
do you spit – with fortune or greed
don’t tell me – tell it to your reflection
get it write and sell perfection
for the want of it

Carving Board

I am not

your carving board

I. am. not. your carving board!

I am not the place to hold your

hatred when it’s dull edge

needs to feel souls bleed!


I am not your carving board!

I am not

your punching bag

I. am. not. your punching bag!

I am not skin holding your

worthlessness when i’s frayed image

needs to feel like it has knuckled teeth


I am NOT your punching bag!

I am not

your garbage bin

I. am. not. your GARBAGE BIN!

I am not the bone structure waiting

for the deragatory spit you spew

when language has your fill


I am NOT your garbage bin

I am not your sale

I am not your deal

I am not your break up

slide down

lay back and un-feel

while you thrill

I am not your undo

your untrue

your reason to forget

I am not your sin

your stick up fed up

get luck – y dirty

clothes pin

holding up the laundry

you refues to hang out

to dry

neither am I your

false pride

I am not your shadow lying

your peeping eye prying

your dogma flaunting

hatred signing

standing on the corner

mocking mourners

I am not your breaking

nor your entering

nor your black and blue


no.  nO. NO!

I AM courage

though you strike me

I AM bravery

though you cut

I AM authentic

though you disparage

I AM me

though you think I’m not




so no

I am not your cutting board

Yes, even poets fear.

I have not written a ‘spit’ in quite some time. Plenty of material has landed at my feet but nothing has dragged me kicking and screaming to the door of my mind ready to slam conviction at a piece of paper and thus an audience.  I have written pieces inspired by the people who have ventured to my facebook and wordpress pages.  Words both holding messages and some simply off the cuff little miracles. Some slip over the skin like a lover’s longing and others simply warm the heart like an old friend sitting with you on a cold night.  I have been writing, just not slamming.

I have wondered, am I afraid?


Even poets get scared. Poetry exposes the author and the reader. It is one of the few ways to tap both sides of the brain and come out the other side beautiful, exposed, and vulnerable. Poetry IS the poet and hopefully becomes the reader. It is an intimate dance without touching – connected only by words and visions, painted sometimes skillfully other times not.  I digress.

So why can’t I write a slam piece? A spit. Plain and simple. I am afraid of something.  When fear happens, the pen hesitates. It shifts to safer margins. It avoids edges.  It seeks blue lined, wide ruled, pre punched holed paper, and waits.

I question, what am I afraid of?

Truth? perhaps.

Spitting is about truth. Poetry is about truth. If you really look at it. If you really dig deep there is no poem not bathing naked in a poet’s truth. Every line slips out a secret. Every period, comma, or lack there of, undresses her without care to the state of the poet at all. But that is the lure of poetry – that is the poet’s obsession. How to move, be moved, and stay one syllable ahead of the reader or audience.  We are a morphing bunch. We are a soul few who long to trip through the world, taste it, devour it, caress it, love it, flip it over and dive into it. So what the hell am I afriad of?!

What if. perhaps.

What if truth is not what I want it to be? What if, I discover some of my long standing beliefs I no longer believe? What do I do with this?!  How do I proceed?  Is this even about writing a spit or is this about finding out I am lost and traversing my way back to my path?  Is this about someone else finding me? Is that what this note is about? Would someone even look? or know where to? Who would it be…. and if they knew the truth of me, would they try?  Would I?

Why am I afraid?


I am afraid becaue I know, without a doubt, I am not being completely truthful.  That is not to say it is intentional, that is to say I am just aware.  I realize I am holding my pen to the middle of the page and hesitating.  I am not sure how I got here.  I am not entirely sure what courses of events or “lies” even moved me to this position, but it is clear I am not pursuing my passion to its fullest potential, which is Poetry in its hardest form. The hardest form of poetry is truth.

One truth is – I am afraid but I am going to figure this out anyway. I have championed #Be_____  courageous, awesome, authentic, brave…  and I must, without a doubt, be willing to do the same things I ask / demand of others.

And so I shall.

What am I afraid of?  I am going to find out.

A girl on a step

She has not

wandered yet into

the world of unwanted


or unwepted

She sits confidently

on the steps and

leans her chin into palm

so nonchalantly even the wind

sighs in her contentment

her youthful ability to see the world

just as it is at this moment

without prejudice

without care

without a hint of

overlapping layers

photoshoped and

pristine in their creation


is a girl

sitting on a step

looking out at the grass


why to a hundred

questions she’ll

one day answer

but for now

is just the envy

of the aged

and the curiosity of

passing ants lingering

near her shoe.

The Life of Bea

She walks with shuffle

cuffle and flop

in worn out shoes

and worn out tops

her hands are small

pale porcelin envy

eyes of dew drop gray

dream of anything

but life today

She lingers in the back

most hours

clinging to shade

and inconsequential hue

praying to gods

spit, spite, and throttle

forget she exists

as she dreams of anything

but this

Her hair is neat

her glasses new

ish, through which the

world is viewed

in shades of black

purple and blue

her ears are revolving doors

of not good enough

four eyes and hell-bound troll

stupid fucker and

filthy mole who should

NEVER have been born


…. there are days

when hands reach out

when voices confront

shove, bite, and anguish

and words of

it will be ok, you are loved

come out to play

be with me and

you ARE beautiful…

when you smile,

whisper on her behalf.

In those moments

she is alive

and reminded

hope exists somedays

though most days

she dreams life is

not today

this is the life of Bea.

this is the life of bea

this is the life of


Speaking Statistics

Let’s draw it

trace the lines of

faces come undone

mix their visages

with rhyme

and time

to define

our dire


in this


all the same


where voices

outside the dream

beg to live in


but instead

are left for dead



fist filled inflamation

1 out of 4


at the end  of  soles

black and blue

with the residue

of hate.

and every day

I think this

this has got to stop

how do we make it


what words

will trace the lines

of the faces undone

so they are not


what spit can be spun

what fist thrown unrung

will change


and bring us back

to prismic solutions

absolutions of


to a place where

9 out of 10 becomes

0 out of 10


160 thousand

don’t have to

stay in

where 2 to 9 times

more likely to die

becomes 10 times more

likely to stand up and fly

likely to stand up and fly

where 13 million hurting

becomes 13 million healing

and 25% giving less than 5%

turns into 100% of doing something

where every 7 minutes

turns from 7 mintues of tears

to 7 minutes of hear

ing something other than

the sound of another

kid being bulled


are you following me?

this is not some

backyard do it yourself


this is unfortunately

very realistic


let’s draw it

trace the lines of

faces undone by

the unheard crys

and the

oppression of lies

mix their visages

with rhyme

and time

to define

our dire


so the next generation

doesn’t have to.

Full of holes

here I stand

full of holes

so the sun shines through

full of holes so the truth

runs out

full of holes so the

rain of my tears will

fountain down the inside.

still I stand

at the precipice of deceit

the implications of your need

your negative nation

of who you think I am

and who you think I should be

should love,

should look like…

because I am not you

but the Gods



are never me.

Get up!

There is no better time than now

to affect the affliction of our times

with the audacity of living


There is no better time

to take of the masks

and be.

There is not better time

no better day

or night

to get up in the face of boot souls

in the face of fist throws

in the face of invisible

indivisibly caging

unilatterally scathing


and breath deeply

the audiable sounds

of our future victories

the defended youth

the battered and bruised….

becaues if we don’t

get up

we will all

fall down.


so GET UP!