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muMs is an award-winning New York City based Poet and a member of the Labyrinth Theater Company.


muMs the Schemer ===> Schemer: fiend, foe, friend, fear, /swallower of your fear, /blasphemer, /dreamer…. /to hold, to have, to be in a condition akin to, to victory he prevails! /A mathematical or philosophical diagram representing the astrological aspects of the planets, emotions and intellect on scales, /teller of your tale /in a letha-phorical outline, /a concise examination crafty and secretive in sign, /a systematic and organized chaotic plot. /I am muMs the schemer and you, are not. ===> The first ‘m’ is lower-cased /concerned with race /and small manipulative matters of that sort: /the things in our face /that bleed into our heart. /The ‘u’- also small- leads me to look to the sky, walk there the edge of a shore equating to particles of sand, stars, the moon. To be under all that which is bigger than me lead’s to the second ‘M’ capitalized for the manipulation /of that that from which all shall begin /and again /from when /we least expect. /The ‘S’ is the trick: the hush of it all. /The control over what we discuss, beckon or call /or plural to represent the many that know /or just that the path is a windy road? /No matter, it also is small. ===> muMs, the schemer and echo-er of it all.

welcome to a new day --goRealer

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


When I first started going to the Nuyorican Poets Cafe from my house way up in the Bronx the train ride was a killer. Approximately 53 minutes from the moment I step on the #2 train at 238th street in the Bronx until I step off a D or Q train station somewhere in the east vill. I'd use the time to write a poem to perform. I'd be pen in hand, pressed into my journal, writing, writing... I still have those journals. I look through them from time to time.  There were some gems.
I sat in a Cafe in Brooklyn the other day to get some writing done on my play, PARADOX. I sat next to a guy who was writing full into his journal in long hand. He was in so hard. I'm not sure if other writers notice this but there is this look a writer gets when he is in hard, kinda like a runner's high. He doesn't look up from the page, isn't aware of his surroundings and can't write the thoughts down fast enough. Dude was there and I was jealous. I'd have to find a power source, turn my computer on, fiddle around with Facebook, gmail, twitter, my bank account, my blog stats and the NYTimes before I'd even open up my document. Then I'd read back through what I had already written and start fiddling in a place I hadn't intended to. I wanted to just then chuck it all and go back to that fiery artistic place I was when I had that hour long train ride, for poetry. Then it dawned on me, transcribing is a f'n waste of time. I flipped up my lappy and killed them keys.


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