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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 24, 2013

Single take Lo-Fi Lacerations to the Existence of Digital

Lo-fi lacerations to the existence of digital. Low-fi lacerations to the existence of hi-def classifications and resistance to critical ipad thinking, a breathe-hard's distance to staring, probably evolve to not blinking and a resistance to caring. Think u didn't know how to talk to a girl now? the cause of infinite short time processes of what the World Wide Web will allow applied to the head will bestow fallacies in the microscopic specifics of pixels and visions like sad clowns on black unicorns smoking crumbled rainbows rolled in dreams carrying death just same. maybe change your screen name and password and the daemon wont track back to your email. We caught in simulacra-styled (hashtag) #wefail of the soul. But here's a website that says there ain't no such thing as a soul. We just synapses across the sen-sor-e-all spectrum, a sign, perhaps of grandier deception. Who shot who in massa chu, who to say what exactly the CIA do? who put that tree in the center of the garden in the first place? who hustled who for the first taste. who needs who in their place? this is a low-fi laceration to the existence of the spiritual, that momentary truth just outside the womb. smacked into sense of the self. The truth, gone like a mist, amidst the fear. The politics. The wealth, the greed. Close all other applications for optimal speed. Stay connected to a landline of mankind cause we're not sure what happens in the air, in the cloud. can't remember before rapper's delight and section eight. or the reason why we wanted the crowd loud. maybe I gotta whisper this shit you. DJ, Can we turn up the time? Make it loud for me for you. But... Time doesn't fit in your pocket but this mini connection to your so called friends do. The yang to that ying is a lo-fi analogue monologue of love whispered to an ear from the heart, every ounce of it true. What do we want? The future. When do we want it? Now. low-fi lacerations to the existence of digital. self-set incarcerations, insistence is pivotal now for our health we'll vet, persistence is critical we need to use our brain power!!!!! we need to take a sanity shower sit for sane hour forget what we've been told and think.

fear is a warning and I'm scared I wake in the morning not sure about how and where. what and why. living to live prepared to die but I'm scared and I don't know why maybe I'm ill prepared for every days how the earth move stay with me, maybe I just go gainst the grain. that's what the birth do me me, that live in the fear. FUCK yo know what, I'm sorry I didn't mean it like that, there. I'm afraid…. you took me wrong like I'm hooked on a bong fight over a wrong look, a song A book... be gone. sing me the wind, son. sing me the discourse of the force to be with. but I came across a sea on a bed of broken glass somebody close the window I'm cold, and losing faith fast. who too put organic voodoo invention in condensed apprehension eyes closed to the tension. lies. the night time news is an up to the minute invention. the prime time views, based on numbers of no limit, the only intention, with no disguise. I'm afraid to say something. I drink a glass a water bend deep over my cereal peep people crossing past my window in my peripheral I turn on the radio. instead I see the golden ratio everywhere I aint had no liquor no beer no tree. All I see is spiraling circles and in the center is me. Fear is a warning and I'm scared I'm shook to the bone bout whats going on. theres definitely fear in the air. I should just probably sit hear in my chair click open my face full of friends and pretend like I care. my ends is bare. leave my house for what? I'm riddled with fear. only motivation, no job no chair so I spit all of ladi-dadi from out of the air jump in the shower. brush my teeth comb my hair jump on my train, be kinda late again That Rakim playlist bouncing my ear I live for this or this is for what I live why isn't this bliss, its just fear of the limits of what I can give the cat cross me right there. I wonder if he feel the fear I wonder if his thunder got rain showers near do the powers that be care about me, that lives in the fear. me, that hides behind a tree afraid of what I see

Talk hot off till its all shot off. every thought caught in the vault of the shiny show off, off. Take all of your belongings off All these things we gotta have halved and infinite of nothing worth all you can carry on the train platfom in a bad part of town, blind, alone, in the night. your 7inch Loubotins'll get stuck in these cobble stones head tangled with booty bounce poems in the headlights. dance to celebrate! Sweat to the spirt of beats. I told my lawyer true deeps ain't got nothing to refer to nothing to think on when that mind race and the heart beat all u you feel is the now The wave pattern got u thinking on now. That repetitive action ain't the distraction. It fills the now. tomorrow and yesterday don't measure to the pleasure of specific feelings calculated down to the ceiling of a second. Weapons of destruction flow from those who hold onto the constructions and dealings of the past. Talk hot off. How do we make them good feelings last? By walking through the woods across the broken glass to a tomorrow defined by the deeds of today. and hey, if that bag u pass in that window makes you throw you head back and feel some relief, if that blinged out case for your iPhone5 help you to survive, if that Bourghati lease help you to further understand peace, then you need to cop that, now, no matter the cost, no matter the how But talk hot off to the bare essence of what the spirit will allow less you love it but don't love it cuz of how you look in it look good in it cuz o how you love it. keep the sanity above it or you gone revolve to rage, devolve a stage sending garbage to a deeper state of thought mending the wounds around the diamond harness from whence you was caught. till hence we was bought. till the brain density was wrought with the intense religiosity of naught the haute couture of the future is the new black the paradox of wack the paradigm shift to uplift a stack to somebody pocket while you cop cheap fabric from the retail up the block who get his from the outlet who get his from a can off a boat on the dock that came from China, who devalue they dollar to make you holla 'gottdamn the shit is hot. but talk hot off till its all shot off. every thought caught in the vault of the shiny show off, off.

time after time I pen rhyme after rhyme digging deep into the deep confines of the mind looking for the perfect beat the right waveform to think on the feet while the music is blasting the sacrifice of passion time after time I pen rhyme after rhyme searching for that universal sign I aint got no qualms with how the universe go all I see is circles and thats all I know. time after time I pen rhyme after rhyme time after time I pen rhyme after rhyme time after time I pen rhyme after rhyme looking for the perfect beat: an expedition to seek and define the picturesque purpose, seeking the sword falling worth from end back to birth found the infinite curse in the garden scarring the ignorance with the truth I never wanted to know now I know, the proof of the said truth and it's existence in the infamous infinity, to pinpoint, like an epiphany, the life span of a flake in the snow. but the brain is finite Life standing in the middle of nowhere nowhere to the left nowhere to the right. life is a question of what you are supposed to do the purpose and wrath to defend the day and night from who? survive to strive to make a step towards nowhere in a prada shoe nothing goes and nothing stays this is life's have. this is the worth of our time. time after time, after time i pen rhyme after rhyme.