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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

Monday, September 20, 2010

The Clockwork of Calibrated Fate

I am product for a coroner on the corner gambling my life willing to throw to die. I've got rope burns on my neck from noose knots I've knotted myself tight, twined on tattoos. Cotton cuts under my fingernails I refuse to let heal. The scowl on my self-burdening forehead is permanently etched. My subconscious is vengeful enough, inclined to survive through diamond shackles, platinum whips and crack vials that beget little pittances I like to show off like show and tell me, me, me, me, me, me. I sit in a rock and hard place state, festering hate in the bowels of my abdomen so evil that only harm to myself can ease the pain. I even reject my name. My dream is a concoction of ceaseless conquer, recycled wisdom, higher existence and black consciousness; Through me, fiction. There are DNA imprints of a survival tactic that even Darwin gets. It is in my mind, my emotion. It is at times my very inherent function, my under-sensed purpose. But my answers to the questions concerning my truth reside in blatant misunderstandings till the disrespect of me is all I'll hear, then I'll fight like there's oil here. I flail helpless in a sea of misplaced blaming. Any self-discernment causes cold calculated diversions from what is actual. Only really understood well, head cupped in hands, elbows on knees, sitting in cell. Shifty and un-still. Still I call upon this reasoning pointing me towards that diamond- laden lynching swinging from a neck sported at some hood party. I smack a fat ass five pound with authority to somebody who'll probably soon be dead or in jail, over sneakers, over a jacket, over a girl, over words. The complacent shrug of my shoulders gets to the very essence of things. The very testings of things. I say, 'that's how it gets sometimes in the center belly of the beast'; 'I ain't do nothing your honor... I ain't seen nothing officer' because the everyday tragedy that goes down in the everyday spaces is something I am capable of; cognizable of. So stand back from the edge. just a warning.


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