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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

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Paradox rehearsals I

So yesterday was the first day of rehearsals and read through of my new play Paradox of the Urban Cliche. For me it was an excersise to keep my ego in check. By the end of reading the first act I had given up the battle and accepted the fact that I had written fire!
The actors we selected were truly professional and dare I say, they fucking brought the business! Warner Miller who is playing Ceez, the main character, attacked the role with authenticity and a sensetivity that helped give Ceez the three dimentional aspect Sarah Sidman- the director- and I had been looking for. Azariah Gunn who plays Smiles, at many times during the read pulled tears from the back of my eyes so much so that I had to keep my eyes on the page during her monologues. Authority, played by Sid Williams with what I like to call a jolly intensity, was the expected magnificence and specificity for the skilled actor that I know him to be. Sheldon Best, the young lion, is playing three characters, Dice Dude, Thug and Agent of Authority. He is the perfect utilitarian actor. I just wish I had puppets in my play for him to work. He is that skilled. I am lucky to have him because he will be a star. The design team is utterly professional and I was a bit embarrassed by the corrections of my spelling errors in front of them. Sarah Sidman has been a tireless supporter of the play since it was four poems and then an incomprehensible one-man play that prompted one mentor of mine to sum his criticism as just, "muMs, I hated it." haha.... He hates it no longer. Thank you Sarah.
I took my moment after the read in the bathroom, in the mirror, to pump my fist and congratulate myself for writing my first full length play. And it is good. Ok, now that that is out of the way let's get to work!
To the Artistic Directors and my fellow members of the Labyrith Theater Company, THANK YOU for the opportunity and mostly for believing in this play even when I didn't.

Paradox of the Urban Cliche running in rep with Greg Keller's Dutch Masters at The Cherry Pit Theater May 14th- 30th. For more information go to


Location:8th Ave,New York,United States

Monday, April 19, 2010


In 2008 I spent a month in Accra Ghana, West Africa. It was my first time on the continent of Africa. I'm not really well traveled at all. I've been to Amsterdam, Toronto, Quebec, Bermuda and just about every state in the nation including Alaska, performing. But that's about it. I'm not too far removed from the type of native New Yorker that never leaves his borough. But man, I was in Africa! That meant something to me being an African American and all. I wanted to see the motherland!
I saw the ocean, the black star. I walked with (hand in hand with some) so many people that looked just like me. I saw the statue of Kwame Nkrumah. I also saw the classism, poverty and corruption. I got quite emotional after the Elmina slave castle tour. We saw the small rooms where hundreds of slaves were held in darkness for months at a time in their own feces, that was noted to us by the lines on the wall. We saw the hall of broken glass they had to go through to get to the Door of No Return. There were some Ghanaians on the tour as well. I remember being confused by their shock as to what took place there, in their own country, to create the "African American", me.
Ghana, as a whole, is a beautiful country. The people are lively and friendly. But I waited to feel that thing, that connection to the land, the people. It never came. I could have been in India or South America. It was foreign. In the end I was more than ready to come home.
When I did get home I had questions regarding my identity. What am I? What do I believe? What is my purpose? Deep shit. I slowly detached from some normal activities, people, places. I moved to Los Angeles. I started writing regularly again. And I began to refuse to apologize for my opinion, something I had been brought up believing I was supposed to do. Only now when I look back do I see the pattern. At the time it was just me 'making moves' in my life.
The one conscious affect of my trip was that I had to find a love for my country, so to speak. A reason, besides the election of Barack Obama, to be proud to recite the National Anthem.
I've never been called a nigger to my face in a derogatory way. Well, not that I can remember. Maybe back in the 70's, in elementary school, if I think hard. But I've never had to experience anything quite like what my mother and father experienced in the early 60's when they came to this country. Definitely nothing like what Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison and a host of other experienced. And I can only imagine the hell that the triangular trade might have been.
Early on in my poetry career I was a labeled a revolutionary poet and then an angry poet because I wrote mostly from the "Invisible Man" perspective. I thought, with poetry, I could avenge the wrongs of the past, Emmett Till, the four little girls and everyone on a news reel sprayed with a hose.
"... purple mountain majesties? sounds like strange fruit/ blood on the leaves, blood on the root..."
To quote Public Enemy, I had "a right to be angry", probably still do. But on the other hand, I have no real respect for white guilt, in any form. Most black people don't. I don't need pity. But my anger over my second class citizenry sometimes can't be contained. I really just want respect. And boom there was an answer to one of my many questions coming back from Ghana. Respect. For what I do. For who I am. And NOT in terms of myself in others eyes as much as my own respect for myself.
It started with my acting. Rather than getting upset about the racism that exists in Hollywood, how could I show these casting directors that I was more than just a black actor? Be better. Be the very best. haha... changing Hollywood's perception of black actors single-handedly proved to be a daunting task but I did start to truly improve my auditioning to the point that I was up for a number of roles not intended for a black man. But that was just it. I didn't want to be a black actor or a black writer, or even a black man anymore. How about being an actor, a writer, a man? That color adjective has been the box I'd been trying to break out of. I have all the respect in the world for the struggle of my ancestors to create a better life for someone like me in this country. I am reminded of it every morning I look in the mirror, every time a cab speeds past me to pick up a lighter shaded fare, every time I watch TV. There is no doubt, I will never forget where I came from. I respect Jewish people for reminding themselves of their struggles every year and holding on to their past with strong convictions. But what is good for some isn't good for all. I am done with the anger and hate. The more I hold on to what I once was, I block myself from truly becoming who I am meant to be.
I love you Africa but I let you go. I once was African but I was born in The Bronx, raised on a breakbeat. I became who I am when the needle hit the record of Rapper Delight. It might be trivial to some. It is everything to me. I am a Hip-Hop American. That is the glasses through which I see. I shorten it to give it it's broadest meaning. I am Hip to the smoke screen that color is in the grand scheme of things. I am Hip to my own power and resolve. I am a Hip-American. Even if I am the only one.


check out my play, Paradox of the Urban Cliché at The Cherry Pit Theater May 14th-30th.

Sunday, April 11, 2010


Okay, I'm not the one to be all, "the younger generation this... the younger generation that...". I mean I remember clear walking around with my sneakers flip-flopping cause my fat laces were for show and not for holding my shell toe adidas on my feet. But this, I don't know, I can't wrap my head around it. personally my jeans don't necessarily sit atop my waist either. My belt line is on my hips, my crotch is roomy, my boxers peak out the top, but not to the point that they're seen, let alone the curves of my buttocks being completely out and obvious to the world behind me. I'd really like to sit an eighteen year old down and have him explain it to me. The purpose, the fashion of it all. I really want to know how they see it.

I had wanted to put up a picture of a monkey with a swollen red ass next to this photo but I thought that might be a bit too much by way making a statement that I'd be able to get away with only because I'm black. You cannot look past the similarity though.

As I look at this kid, I think to myself, well, your thug. I understand that. This is a fashion statement (d)evolved from the lack of belts in jail,- I'm not too sure how many 18 year olds know that- but like, what if the cops was chasing you or worse, some rival gang with guns wanting to get you cause you wandered onto their turf? How are you going to run? Really?

I see that the thing with the youth is extremes. They make up for their lack of imagination by way over compensating. A kid walked into a Starbucks I happened to be writing in the other day. He had a Kwame-styled high top fade, complete with the bleached streak up the front. He wore Run-D-MC truck, gold rope chain jewelry. He had on what we used to call Webo boots back in the early 80's but then later adopted by Madonna, with silver chain links and studs covering them. Of course this kid was clearly a New York City artist type and not the norm but the interesting part was the only thing new about him was that he wore the entire decade as one complete outfit. amazing.

This could really be pointed towards something larger like, what Jean Baudrillard wrote about in Simulacra and Simulation: that our perceived reality is only a simulation of reality. That we've lost all connection to what is real in the world all together. Maybe man has truly lived beyond his purpose. Maybe there is no more human progression. Maybe this is a sign that man is done. hmmm... deep. All of that read on the uncovered boxer shorts of a youth on the train.


check out my play, Paradox of the Urban Cliche at Cherry Pit, May 14- 30th

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.