sometimes i spend so much time looking for the right picture and song, i forget what i was going to write about...hah. i need to clip my toenails.


in the 5th grade, it was required for us to pick up an instrument for band class. I chose trombone, and like everyone else i laughed at the kids who chose percussion because all they got was a cowbell. in the 6th grade (after i had given up trombone because it swelled my lips) i went to a school musical where the drum team pulled off the most insane routine my soft virgin 6th grade ears had ever heard. at that point, i became maniacally jealous. 'man,' i thought, 'i should've picked percussion. now i'm too old to learn drums.' yup, just like dj'ing.

it seems that artists always long to do some artform other than the one that they do. rappers wanna be actors. actors wanna be singers. singers wanna be bobby brown's ex-wife, and so on. lately, i haven't been writing much poetry. i don't blame it on a lack of creative juice, because i've been writing more regularly than ever, taking down random lines and melodies, starting clusters of words that never quite develop into anything distinguishable as a verse or poem or rant. whether it's a reflection of the more conversational style that my shows have been taking, or my increasing distance from the slam scene, in any matter i would even go as far as to say it's been over a year since i've written what i would classify as a "spoken word piece."

certainly, it scares me...there was a point where poems used to pop out like mormon babies. it was assured that within every few days, or at the latest every few weeks, a new piece would emerge that i could add to my arsenal of material. that was during my college years, when i proudly embodied the word prolific. it was nice.

the thing is, even with all the poetry i was writing a couple of years ago, i only still perform two or three of them. i feel the constant pressure to produce new material, and in addition each one better than the last, at times i wonder if i've burned myself out with my own high expectations. do i really write good stuff less often, or has my self-criticism finally exceeded my ability to appease it? at times while i'm writing i'll find my brain racing against itself, conjuring herds of lines and wordplays while my self-judgement shoots down the weaker ones, hardly giving them time to spread their wings before i invalidate them as "too obscure" or "something the audience won't get." when i finally do grasp an idea that i find worthwhile enough to expose to the outside world, i obsessively scrutinize it, moving words like pieces in that "operation" game, second, third, and fourth-guessing the perfection of the ridiculously overfed bouquet of words. it's extremely defeating, yet humbling, when after all that, you find out that the songs that have won the hearts of millions are as numbing as: This Is Why I'm Hot.

in all honesty, i'm feening to work with music. and not just a cd player in the background, my hunger is for a full band with horns and harps, stadium audience swaying, vain on my forehead popping cuz i'm rocking out so hard music. basically, the furthest thing from being a spoken word artist whose shows have been compared to "standup" more than anything else. watching so many other poets take the music route, i've become aware that it's quite possible, yet i remember the aching disappointment as a young aspiring poet, to find out that my favorite poets of the day had quit their spoken word thing in pursuit of hip-hop, or folk, or whatever other medium that existed to present a deeper reputation of successful voyagers than spoken word (i.e. pretty much everything). i've been passively letting my creative process lead me where it wants for the past year, and the results have been revealing yet daunting. a whole lot more journal entries, short verses, punchlines, but not much like the poems that i humbly admired myself for back then, even though i think they're crap nowadays. with all of the shows i've been attending, my soul has been in conversation with music more than poetry, and it's caused its share of conflict in the realms of my creative inner-dealings. is this all really a gut indication for me to take on another talent, or just existing as another artist who wants to do everything but the type of art that he's doing right now.

the dilemma comes full circle upon this: while reading hendrix's biography, i noticed several occasions where he jotted down poems while he was at a loss for lyrics. when i first read about that, part of myself sneered, "wow, he wrote poems. i wish i could write poems." the fact is that i do still write poems, just not necessarily in the format that i've pictured myself building my legacy with.

respecting your own creative process is much more difficult than it sounds. regardless of how logical it boasts itself to be, especially while i nip at my own age heels, feverishly trying to pump my artistic immortality out like a rusty faucet. at this point, i need a muse to help me forget my shit when i'm not plugged into a computer. and yes, when i'm not spending my late friday nights journaling instead of getting jiggy to mims, like the rest of human civilization.