My photo
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, May 25, 2011

Precious Desirable Nothing

Behind the door of passion, lust, infatuation lies an even darker place
where few choose to venture.
A place, akin to unselfish loyalty, cemented with desire,
yet more sinister, more angelic.
Love is the misguided thought yet it's truth is a sugary sweet, teeth clenched facsimile
of said thought
that will knock you down to get at your heart.
The energy of this dark is the wrath of all of what it is to truly want, crave.
Here, the earth stands still.
Moans and sweat represent serenity  and tranquility
as dancing cells of self worth  circuit themselves about you.
In this cold, treacherous place, the acquisition of lustrous trinkets,
to express what can be expressed with a simple kiss,
is acquired with a dangerous fervor.
None are immune to its pull and perceived beauty such as this.
Engulfed in this dark, the instinctual energy, to protect what is fragile in us,
is diverted away,
pulling with it sense and logic,
pride and integrity, concept and function.
All that is left is emotionality and the need  to make this feeling last for as long as it can.
Oh to have. To trade shiny ornaments to have.
To step away and to see all that we have: grand beauty. a frozen moment. a bribed smile.
Precious nothing.
In that is the weakness.
That frigid steely want that clenches the spine.
This dark deception invades and destroys the delicate tenderness we long to share.
Be weary frail heart. true love cannot be bought.
You cannot grasp at it to hold.
It opens itself up for you to fall into.
It is not in the sweat of bodies yet it embodies the sweetest nectar that is the joining of flesh.
It is child-like freeing laughter not the clenching disruptive jealousy of an absent instance.
Feel with caution
 so that you can love with reckless abandon.


Friday, May 20, 2011


at the MET in NYC
one of those cold NYC mornings when I was was over it.

I got a thing for pretty flowers

especially roses...

aim high...

burn like fire

who'd a thought the price'd go higher.

Rich Pierre and Julian in LA during Shoe Story

there is no end to the scheme


Sunday, May 8, 2011

TALES FROM THE MOETDEGA part II. Beauteous, the crack smoking heroin afflicter: in three

         Beauteous, who was full of herself,
sat upon the Moetdega stage
lost in the greatness of she.
The struggle of her bones with each movement,
was score to the beauty of her presentation.
Her frail body lay upon a bed of sunflowers,
each, more lively and vibrant than the next.
She hummed popular songs out of key all the while cooking crack rock.
her blood cooked.
and often times her heart stopped.

Oh Beauteous, Beauteous, you are our prayer of the afflicted.
The art of the addicted.

         In the Daily Personal Delving[1]
she would say,

         I walk the way
of the free…

Beauteous was witty
and deathly pretty.

On any given night
her performance
would get standing ovations,
rousing reviews,

         she brought the crack pipe to her lips with the elegance of a swan.

As was quoted by the mortality critics
in the entertainment news.

         On stage,
she would rise to her knees
throw back her shoulders as
her eyes rolling gently
to the back of her head.
She took in pulls of smoke.
The smoke would exit her,
engulf her mind as it did her body
comforting a frail nakedness.
Tugging at a frail will.

The people in the audience would stagger
watching the smoke wrap itself around her head,
pulled into the large ceiling fans,
pushed about the entire Moetdega.
Their raised nostrils, their connection to her.

For Beauteous, all is spiritual, non-material,
life’s captivity is one from which to escape.
The body is a corrupted vessel
seeped in evil,
the capitol poison we all make.   
The purity that children once were born into is a distant dream long gone. For nothing in this life is ever better than being born.

One night
Esai Produku, designer and ceo of the triple 6 soulless
sat front row with the fab-leratti in tow
toasting to takeovers
and millions made in seconds
from the sweat of underage workers
in countries whose governments take kickbacks for weapons.

Beauteous was on a small stage
playing a lullaby rendition of electric ladyland
when she sang,
         Electric woman waits for you and me

Esai wept, enthralled for all to see.
Moved by her five-foot-six, seventy-two pound frame,
the absolute fragility of it all.
He then gave her the name,
Beauteous, the most, loveliest fear.
Afterward she would become the muse
for the collection of the fashion year,

BEREFT OF BEAUTY: the delicateness.

A collection of the most rarest of fabrics,
hand stitched with the finest thread.
As quote from Produku himself, with emphasis,
         The clothes to wear when life is shed.

The mortality blogs are abuzz
over her collection of works, life on drugs.

         Her pipe is Produku
         her needles, Produku
         and the rubber strip she ties around her upper arm
         is a neodymasitc polybutadene blend
         inter-woven and bonded with a Malaysian lace.
         Produku’s finest creation.

This night
might have been the night
Beauteous had so longed for.
to overdose on stage would bring tremendous fame.
The slow disintegration the drugs took on her body
would guarantee all would remember her name.

At this point, she could not see nor ingest anything but narcotic.
her hands shook as she fixed.
Odors emanating from her orifices,
combined with the chemicals used to contend
left the audience euphoric.
The perfect state to witness her end.

Many stars were in attendance
in addition, there were many cameras.
The fab-leratti and the glitterrazzi,
Produku and his many handlers
but as the show neared it’s end
and the coutdown to her demise was to begin
a commotion formed outside.
and many, whom already
had had their complimentary carrot[2],
ran to the front to see what was going on.
Or out the back to hide.
A bouncer, who had secretly fallen in love with Beauteous,
rushed to make sure she was all right.
         What has taken the attention of the crowd so?
she asked.
         I do not know, beauty.
He said. There is something in the air tonight.

Several gunshots were heard from outside
The bouncer held Beauteous protective in his arms.
Patches of Beauteous’ hair relinquished into his palm.

In the ever infinite in between the split of second,
a bright, soundless flash exploded in from the front
onto her final faint grasp for beauty in this realm,
bathing her in the softest, celestial glow.

Beauteous, the road of degradation to eternal bliss.

A smile came across her as
Whatever strength she had
gave way to achievement.
She fell limp.
Nothing averted the bouncer’s gaze into Beautous.
observed by none but themselves.
The two of them together, a heavenly image.
A vision of where both beauty and grief dwell.

The light
slowly faded as the life
slipped from Beauteous
The bouncer sat beside her
after laying her back into the sunflowers.

[1] The Daily Personal Delving- A critics magazine

[2] Fresh produce is complimentarily given to every patron who pays full price to enter the Moetdega.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Post-racially p'd off -sorry

So I posted something on facebook a few days ago after reading about all this crazy Birther stuff. Marilyn Davenport, some crazy republican tea party lady, forwards this in an email and says she didn't think it was racist, just funny:

Then Mr. I'm a billionaire Donald Trump, who, by the way, is "about as sharp as a sack of wet mice" (had to quote Foghorn Leghorn on that one cuz Trumpy reminds me of a big talkative chicken) had to throw his way more than two cents in and I got really pissed. 

Then, on top of all that, late night procrastination from writing lead me to this guy with this nonsense:

I lost my shit, if I can speak frank.

I've got to say I have not felt anger in my adult life, at something I had to control over, the way I felt it that night. I mean, clearly this is a bait video. I fell right into it's trappings.

this is what I posted.
To all my White friends (Caucasion, Jewish, Irish, Italian, German, whatever) out there, I must say that if I know you I appreciate you beyond your color but with all this veiled racist teabagger birther bullshit lately, all the racists remarks and pictures of monkeys and shit, I'm really not feeling white people right now. don't say the wrong thing to me. for real. (responses) 
Well, needles to say I got a lot of responses. A huge majority of them were positive. There's no surprise there, my people are even keel. I got more than a few off-Facebook responses as well. They also were positive but way more serious and ripe with concern.
I feel regret. Not just because the POTUS shoved Osama Bin Laden's head up Donald Trumps ass. Not even that I may have offended some. I feel regret because I stated something that just wasn't really true about me. ( I should have said I'm not feeling people right now)
It is a beautiful rainbowy fruit basket of gobblygook to say you don't see color. It is the first thing we notice about one another. If just between Blacks and Whites. Our subconscious makes judgements based on it. But we, because we are all human and have cognition, can change even the processing of the subconscious. I believe.
The truth about me is that I do see color but, color only reminds me to look beyond it. My life experience comes from growing up in New York City during the 70's and 80's. It gives me more commonality with a Jew or an Italian or any other ethnicity from New York City than with black americans in the south or the midwest. And I have more in common with those in the south or midwest than I do with say, Scandinavians or Africans.

A few years ago I spent a month in the city of Accra, Ghana in West Africa. It was a trip that basically changed my life, rerouted my thinking about race and myself as a black american. I visited a slave castle, saw a few soccer matches, met some wonderful and talented people. But I also encountered classism on a level a kid from the bronx has never seen in his life.
I came back thinking, these are my people, but "they not like, my people people, ya feel me". That's how I tried to explain it on the block.
Americans are my people. All humans aught to be my people.

This is a an official retraction of that post on Facebook. Though I wont delete it because I think the discussion afterward is valuable. My friends are my friends because we have experienced things together and have mutual respect for one another.

 My friend Kristina posted this on her page the next day:
To all people of color in these United States i apologize for the shameful racism running rampant through this is despicable, and embarrassing...that we white people continue to over and over again find new ways to exhibit disrespect, thoughtlessness and fear is despicable and embarrassing. we who perpetrate and we who stand by and watch, shame on us. Shame. On. Us.
I still don't even know if she had read my post. I thanked her.
But really, should she have to apologize for the racism of people who she only shares a color of skin with? Should I take personally every racist offense thrown at the POTUS?
who knows. I do know that the fuel for war, since the beginning of time, at its base, has been tribalism. True peace on earth can only happen if we can really, consciously and subconsciously, see all of humanity as brother and sister hood.
(with a cool DJ and some models to throw off the corn factor)

Not taking anything away from my own ancestry and what was accomplished by the people who gave their lives for the rights of black people in this country, I'd love to see a post-racial America. I am sure that was the dream of many of them as well. But it's not going to happen by us wishing it into existence or getting mad about the racist crackpots out there that want to stir up emotions. We have to become proactive in changing the way we see each other and most importantly the way we see ourselves. For instance, the labels of "Black"American and "White"American are antiquated and have to go (in my opinion). If not, the little kids will always pick the "white" doll as the good doll.

I am sorry my friends, for airing my frustration with this veiled and blatant racism in MY country. My emotions got the best of me. I also appreciate all those who understood where that frustration came from.

So, with all that said, I hate to get all P-diddy Puff daddy on ya and change things up again, but for me, no more Afro, African or Black American boxes will I be checking on forms. I will check 'other' and fill in NEO-AMERICAN.
This is my country as much as it is some flag sweatshirt wearing, gun toting, nut job who calls himself a real American.
I am a 'New' American for all those who don't speak the Neo-AM dialect just yet.
Are you with me? All you gotta be is cool and forward thinking. Yeah?
No? it's all good, I can be in a category all by myself.

with all the love I can muster,