In Grateful Support of Artists and National Poetry Month

I’ve been trying to NOT post poetry on here, as I have plenty of outlets to do so. I’m also not one to jump into the fray of something that isn’t my business in some respects. But when a publishing company has hurt so many poets and artists, women in particular, it is no longer a situation where I can idly sit. This is especially true during a month that is supposed to honor poets everywhere.

To be clear, it isn’t my intention to rehash old wounds or open them further, as many artists hurt by this are seeking to move on and heal.

It’s just, seeing as how this is National Poetry Month, I not only wanted to honor spoken word artists (& the artistic community in general), but some in particular who have been through a roller coaster of a week thanks to their involvement in a certain publishing company which shall not be named as I don’t want to promote such an vile & heartbreaking business.

If I’m being extremely honest, at one point last year I even considered signing up with said vile publishing company, but ultimately, chose not to do so.

Even now, as an outside party to this whole shit show, I wanted to simply thank all those who have been affected by this horrendous company in some shape or form, & encourage/remind/inspire these brilliant spirits to continue chasing & dancing in the dreams of their heart. I stand by all of you. Thank you for coming forward & rising up. But more importantly, thank you all for being.

#stopuw2016


For All Artists, But Especially those Underwater

I love watching your mind
erupt in visceral acrylic fractals 
smearing across the bodies
of phantom trees. 
The way you inhale 
the transcendental electric incense
of a moment spiraling by
and tattoo it's blooming truth
into tangible consciousness 
is awe-inspiring. 
To witness your gliding hands 
whispering a holy translation 
of buzzing synapses conversing
with universes in languages of light
leaves me with proselytizing 
rippling vibrations I cannot help but sing unto others 
like some wonton prophet 
howling in tongues 
of your magic miracles 
in some abominist coffee shops
or digital windows. 
And when time finally synchronizes
to your mouth 
whispering the almighty entirety 
of your sacred revelatious golden child, 
the whole of everyone & I sigh
in rapturous organic osmosis oblivion.
One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.