Harlem Night Song - Langston Hughes

Harlem Night Song

Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.

I love you.

Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.


-Langston Hughes

Tyler, the Created.

Tyler,

I made this listening to Yonkers on repeat. Keep creating.

Thanks,
Rob Gibsun



P.S. Music is a hellofadrug. 
http://gibsunrising.tumblr.com/post/7752289046/i-made-this-listening-to-yonkers-on

CountDown

Somewhere,

in the dying hours of night,

Dracula sits in the driver's seat,

recounting all the necks he kissed in vain.

He lights a blunt laced with garlic,

knocks back 40 ounces of holy water,

bats his eyes at the rearview mirror

damning the nobody looking back.

He sharpens a wooden stake

with a silver-plated knife, carves 

a cross across his bloodless wrist

and prays for an after-afterlife.

In the vanishing minutes, he challenges 

the day to one last game of chicken,

revs the engine, picks a religion

and crashes into sunlight. 

-r.gibsun

Khary Jackson (6 is 9)

I met him beside a church across from a park filled with Charlie Brown sculptures in St. Paul, MN at the 2010 National Poetry Slam. I remember seeing him working the scenes in the venues and sparked up conversation. We had a casual quirky conversation about art, theatre and performance poetry. I ended the conversation with "You're a cool dude." And he strolled down the street to mentally prepare himself to compete. And that was that.

Next time I see him, he's on final stage telling a compelling story about two african slaves in a fiery love. I couldn't hear all of it because the words were drowned out by the audience and the funky sound system, but the passion he performed with and the conviction to his character blew my mind. In that moment, there was no question that he was a slave speaking to the audience. When I returned home, I scoured the internet to hear the whole poem and came across "Carolina":



Khary's work inspires me to keep learning, writing, performing, and ultimately creating. Thus, here are quick paintings I created as a thank you for his hard work and diligence:

Khary, I thank you! Live long and prosper.

-r.gibsun

"What Do You Stand For?" Project

Project Description from Art 180: We are in week 2 of our summer 2011 public art project, “What do you stand for?” The youth at Boushall and Henderson middle schools have begun to paint their large format self-portraits! A total of 30 youth, 15 from each school,will work for a few weeks, once a week, to complete 4′x8′ self-portraits on plywood depicting their personality, dreams and beliefs. These unique works of art will have a public unveiling at October First Fridays, travel as an exhibition for 8 months and then be installed across the city through 2012! And it looks as though Virginia Currents MAY do a piece on the project and ART 180 too!

 

"Griot" close up

 

*All 6 of the other program leaders works. Top (left to right): Lizzie Gray, Rob Gibsun, Jess Norris. Bottom (left to right): Stanley Rayfield, Julia Scott, Hamilton Glass.

I am excited to be working on this project and hope to guide the kids to a place of expression, awareness of identity and a personal sense of freedom.

Audre

Lorde,
please forgive me
for I  have penned.

-r.gibsun

The Weeknd

My brother-in-rhyme Marcus (duce of Get Well Soon) put me on to The Weeknd's House of Balloons album. In me, the music evokes a feeling of riding through the city at 3AM with the windows cracked open and the alcohol still buzzing in my body. The whole album radiates smooth, sexy, post-party vibes. Though all nine of the tracks are cohesive, "What You Need", "The Morning" "Wicked Games" "Coming Down" and "The Knowing" have been on repeat. 

So in return for The Weeknd putting his slow-burning soul on display, here is my visual thank you:

Check out his music at:

http://the-weeknd.com/

*As of now, "The Morning" is my favorite! The imagery in the first verse so vivid!

Metaphor

*Written in the voice of a man crumbling over his crumbled relationship.

Metaphor


This is
the relationship she gave up on
the something inside saying “Don’t go”
the close friends outside saying “Let go”
the loneliness I feel—
the lazy wheels carrying my weary mind
the GPS failing to detect my dissected soul
the idea of closure on the curb with a flat tire
the wrecked thoughts
the reeking feelings—
the alcohol punching down my esophagus
the liquid burns racing for the finish line
the brain tallying the 1st 2nd & 3rd degrees
the liver failing to detoxify my memories
the ignored drunk texts and phone calls
the clogged inbox
the aborted response
the interrogation of my hammered savior
the nail the coffin
the jail the coughing
the plug pulled from my god’s respirator
the lines of communication turned off
the switch on my heart turned off-beat
the love                  smacking concrete.

This is
the eroded smile I wear nowadays
the plaque painting over my teeth
the brushed-off dental appointments
the greedy decay drilling nerve-deep
the money shutting up and walking
the bullshit slowing down and talking
the mouth—martyred into a septic tank
the languished language
the wretched stank
the compost I compose to exhale fresh prose
the cons of the odds evened out by my plague
the history of my people’s undying Dark Age
the memento: the shadow shackled to our souls
the soles weathered flat by life-laden bones
the bacteria teeming under my feet
the smell of vinegar crawling from my toes
the fermenting socks and drawers I’ve worn all week
the cemented nails I haven’t clipped in months
the pungent hairs where my inner-thighs meet
the shower head’s holey grin and sacred spit
the water laughing at the genetic sin in my skin
the stain
the shame I can’t seem to scrub off
the cuts the clots the scab-like pain
the broken valves the open veins
the gagging shower drain.

This is
the reflection in the mirror avoiding eye contact
the bums not even asking for change.

-r.gibsun