The He(art) of Rob Gibsun

Kendrick Lamar: VCU Homecoming 2012

2012-02-07T20:15:00.000-08:00

So in late January, I found out that Kendrick Lamar was coming to perform at VCU for the Homecoming concert on Friday Feb 3rd. Though I was scheduled to be out of town for the weekend (Region 5 Poetry Slam Competition at VA Tech), I proposed to the Homecoming Committee that we have artwork waiting in his dressing room as a welcoming gift. They accepted. So as Rigamortis ricocheted off the walls of my studio, I created this piece, mounting Kendrick's head on a shield inspired by the Oakland Raiders logo. After I finished, my friends James Patterson and Christina Edwards put the legwork behind it to deliver the work and made it happen. Thus...

Amen.

Esperanza Spalding @ University of Richmond

2011-10-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

I saw jazz-bassist Esperanza Spalding play at University of Richmond, Wednesday October 12th. It was truly a great show; the intimacy of the Jepson Theatre enhanced the sound and the lighting technicians were very effective at capturing the moods of each song.

Upon discovering her work in 2010, I was inspired to do a compilation of artworks and poems for her. So I compiled them into a chapbook along with a bio and mission statemnt, and brought it with me to the show. Since there was no meet-and-greet or album signing after the show, I reached out the Stage Production administration and gave them the booklet to deliver to her.

The lady I spoke with, said that she would deliver it to her management when she could and advised me to follow up with Ms. Spalding's management via email. I neither know if or when the work will reach her nor when I will be contacted, but I have hope that something will workout. In the meantime, I will push forward and keep creating as Esperanza has done and is doing with her art.

Here are some of the pieces I included in the booklet!

Enjoy,
Robalu

Naked

2011-08-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

We are born naked. Over time, we crawl, learn to walk and then are taught to cover our bodies—out of fear that the next person will judge our nakedness. But in reality, under all the shit we wear, still—we are all naked. When I crawled into poetry, I learned to walk back to my natural nakedness, fully robed.

-r.gibsun

RUN BLACK BOY RUN!

2011-08-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

Run, Blackboy, Run!

When dads run
away, black boys run
crazy—before tying their shoes.

He trips to school in the rain
with an open back pack. His mama yells,
“You forgot your hat!” But Blackboy
doesn't look back. Blackboy runs
mad. Blackboy runs late.

Every classmate knows black boys show up mad late.

“Stop! No running in the hallway”,
Ms. Whitelady says in her head “Black
boys are mad, black boys are crazy.” She says,
to his mama at the parent-teacher conference
“Your boy—needs counseling” and mama
only wants the best so Blackboy goes. Crazy
counselor lady says “Stop—running.
What were you thinking? Use your head!”
Blackboy says “Okaaaay”
but does not understand.

Confused Blackboy goes out to play—
in the rain, he cries out to his boys
until his eyes go red but hears “Stop—
being a cry baby.” He says “I’m not!”
but they do not believe. He leaves. Not
in his right mind, Blackboy proves them

wrong. Blackboy walks to the end
of a rainbow and finds a colored girl
with lonely gold coins in her eyes.
He scares off the leprechauns
and promises to never leave. He lies
her down in a bed of four-leaf clovers.
Inside, she’s raining. But he forgot his hat.
she opens the door, he runs through her hallway
and makes her cry out “Baby” instead—
Her eyes roll back. He doesn’t look back. They make
a baby that cries out “ga-ga”s and “goo-goo”s;
counselor didn’t specify which head to use.

Blackboy needs a new place to live ‘cause
tough love is the only thing mama can afford to give.
He jumps fences with child support nipping at his knees,
Blackboy needs green. His boys say, “It don’t grow
on the trees, it grow on the streets” so black boy goes
out to play—when his baby cries rainstorms,
Blackboy runs mad. Blackboy runs crazy.
His colored girl baby mama gets moody
and sad, ‘cause black boy forgot his goals;
the toilet is the only pot he be filling

with gold. Blackboy rolls—like a big kid now,
but ain’t saving enough money to buy baby’s Huggies.
So Blackboy runs—late, he stops—showing up.
Blackboy doesn't look back. Blackboy runs

colored girl mad crazy. Herself, she pulls up
by the shoe laces, walks over pothole puddles
filled with rainbows that committed suicide.
She goes up to the storefront window, gives
her gloomy reflection one last silver smile,
and then pawns in her eyes—
for just enough gold coins to buy a month’s
worth of food for the leprechaun-sized baby
with a mouth like an open back pack
who grows up to cry out,

“Mama, where is my dad?”

-r.gibsun

Harlem Night Song - Langston Hughes

2011-07-18T18:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-07-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-07-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-08T18:57:00.001-07:00

Lorde,
please forgive me
for I have penned.

-r.gibsun

The Weeknd

2011-07-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

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!

ngh sonnet: the ritual

2011-07-05T01:39:00.000-07:00

ngh sonnet: the ritual

my DICK is a broom; a refuge for WITCHES.

my PENIS is HUGE; i leave WOMBS in stitches.

my SKIN is BLACKER than two PICKNINNY shadows.

my NUTS hang lower than two NGHS in the gallows.

but FUCK WATERMELONS and finger lickin’ CHKNS.

i EAT platefuls of MONEY to SHIT RICHES on my NGHS.

i’m CONSTIPATED with benjies; i don’t give a BUCK!

NO! NGH! i’m stingy; i don’t give a FUCK!

i toke GRASS and get SMACKED; still BLAZIN’ swishers.

i’ll whip yo’ ass then CLICK CLACK; i’m AIMIN’ missiles.

my NGH! You don’t wanna FIGHT, I’ll CRACK yo brain.

i like my women OFF-WHITE, like CRACK COCAINE.

Don’t gamble with your life; there’s no beginner’s luck.

Yea I’d cram my dick in your wife, but my zipper’s stuck.

-r.gibsun

Metaphor

2011-07-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

*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

Moon Medicine

2011-06-19T16:56:00.000-07:00

"Moon Medicine"

Moon,

I’m a lonely coyote
with a cactus-needle cry
dragging my body across
the cold-blooded corpse of night.

I was born with a vagabond heart
and never had a back yard,
so I buried hope under my skin
with the rest of my bones.

Like you, my heart is a sun-scorched mirror
a distant stone clothed in craters and frozen seas
a bowl of wavering emotions
a home for fettered footprints and memories.

In my ribcage, there is a death-sick vulture
pecking! picking! at the carcass of my love.
I lie to myself, and convince my ears
that the sound is the voice
of my deadened heartbeat.

And I’ve choked-up
every time a beloved left me,
so my stomach is a desert
of discarded goodbyes.

But tonight,
I sit in the belly of a canyon hell/low
though you are my heavenly hi(gh).
My blazing eyes lift off,
and explore your glow with lust-laden sight.
The silence softens its scream,
and my hushed thoughts
grow wilder than naked sunlight.

Just step out of the sky and kiss me.
Kiss me to magnetize my howling blood.
Carry me from this dead cliff of loneliness
and fill my empty nights.
Claim my waning pain.
Scratch my waxing appetite.
Consume me like a flock of fleas
and free the love leashed in the dungeon of my heart.
Damn the ever-foaming mouth of morning
and the knifing teeth of its rabid sun!

Oh magnificent and ripening satellite!
You swallow the hours with your brilliancy.
Open your arms like swinging doors
and wrap my body like a blanket of wind
Ensure my drifting heart is anchored
in the timeless waters of your soul:

You are
an ocean of twilight kisses,
a bay of endless verse,
a river of healing laughter
carving through the canyons of my despair.

-r.gibsun

R.I.P. Gil Scott-Heron

2011-05-28T13:01:00.000-07:00

O Say Can You See (Ode to Gil Scott-Heron)

My friends,
when a poet speaks of revolution
do not be confused or afraid.
Revolution is change.
And the most natural thing in the universe is change.
And we all know it is what it is. And the revolution is no rerun;
the revolution is live.
Turn off the television, put down your remote and step outside:
Revolution doesn’t come from Super Bowl 45, Survivor, American Idol or CSI.
but still see that I’ve
arrived to speak in rhyme scheme
to describe the crime scene:

O say can you see—
the flag’s drowning stars, bloody bars and seams?
My country ‘tis of thee—
Land of lactose-intolerance, deadly diets and diabetes;
Where any rebellion-to-be
is an unsweetened tea party.
Your mascots truthfully speak:
The Yankees stole the homes of the Braves
and Eagles caged in coins will never fly free.

O say can you see—
Students pledging “one nation under God” from K-12
though the lesson is never heaven in when education is hell.
So they skip class and hop-scotch over knowledge
and end up having to pop lock and drop out of college.
They missed the shot coming up,
now they live and die by the BUCK! and buck—
And the GREEN has yet to rust so in GREED they trust;
some eat the whole pie and some feed on the crust.

O say can you see—
Money-hungry hogs pigging out on spoiled milk and honey—
The toilets are clogged and there’s no-doubt the people are plunging.
So we support political campaigns to claim, “Yes we can change!”
but end up voting for warfare and hypocritical campaigns
and the metal shards from exploding bombs
aluminumb our emotions and can pain inside our hearts.

O say can you see—Our Mother Earth aching?
O say can you see—Our Mother Earth quaking?
Children, Hurry! Start running! Hurricane Tsunami’s a-coming!
The showers are drumming! The Powers are mumbling!
“The towers are tumbling!” And the hours are crumbling!

O say can you see—
us walking out from the under rubble of the past
forever standing, hearts together, hands clasped—
lifting every voice and singing something
because we know the revolution is coming!
And revolution is change and change is money and money is time
so, the revolution is a time that cannot be filmed or televised
simply because, the revolution first takes place
when we wake up and change our minds.

-robalu

"College Grad: Indentured to serve"

2011-05-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

"College Grad: Indentured to serve"

I walked out of high school
with 13 years rolled into a diploma.
I was a young black male on the rise,
groomed, shirt slightly unbuttoned,
sporting my suit neither noosed nor tied.

After the graduation caps rained,
that thunderous applause came to a fade
and I knew I had weathered the storm.
So I folded all of the pain from my gain
into a paper plane, found the closest garbage can
and aimed.

I stood on the shore of my success,
calling out to that sea of scholarships and grants,
waiting and wading, just jumping and waving at the tides.
Sadly, that glass bottle with the letter inside never replied.
Financial Aid was a lie; it couldn’t even afford to buy me a free ride.

And just my luck, Uncle Sam pulled up to my house
in a dented Chevy Venture with a taxi sign on the roof
that spelled out: “C-O-L-L-E-G-E”.
So I forgot my best interests, listened to society,
packed my bags, opened the side door and stepped on in.

He threw his arm over the passenger seat,
looked back and spoke with a grin:

“And you don’t think you can afford to roll with me?
Well, for a fixed rate on your liberty, I will loan
you thousands of dollars you have never seen.
With your degree, you can get a high-paying job
and make so much money your wallet will scream.
You’ll be swimming in waves of green from sea to shining sea.
Then you can buy you a nice car,a big house,
and find you a wife to pop out 2.5 babies.
You can diet, straighten your nappy-ass hair, dye it,
and then bleach and brace your crooked off-white teeth
to get that picket fence smile like the stars on TV.
And forget bonds, you can invest in your wants and neglect your needs.
Then, as you sleepwalk in the chubby smog of your American Dream,
you can cough up the money—to pay back to me. All you gotta do
is sign on the promissory dotted line. Come now neph, we family!
I WANT YOU to trust in yo' Uncle Sammie.”

So I looked him dead in his dollar sign eyes,
and told that drug lustin' love rustin' oil slick talkin’
outta his gas guzzlin’ elephant donkey ass mind
relative of mine, "Fine, Now shut up and drive!"

Three years passed, and I’m teary-eyed, wallet dried,
in the driver’s seat with my hands shackled the wheel;

I’m shackled to steer
this taxi of government taxing
and I drive like a road-raged
slave tryin’ to escape his fate.
But after 4 years of speeding
through subsidized red-lights and fines,
there is no mo’ Moses conducting the ride,
no mo' boarders to cross to get off the plantation,
no mo' Mason-Dixon line.

It took me until my senior year of college to learn
how to be a wooly-eyed, black sheep lost in the herd.
And after all of my diplomas and degrees burn,
I will still be a field nigger, indentured to serve—
for the rest of my cottonpickin’ life.

-r.gibsun

tragedy of the english, man

2011-05-17T04:25:00.000-07:00

"a tragedy of the english, man"

watercolor x ink on latex-coated fabric

(detail)

Loneliness

2011-05-10T09:50:00.001-07:00

Loneliness is
two spinal hands
all fingers and no wrists.

Loneliness is
an invisible of set ribs
caging the heart in its clench.

-r.gibsun

Soular Savior

2011-05-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

To any concerned Who, I am the solar savior;
Mr. Coolest of Cool, peep my polar behavior:

I see—icy, frozen ponds of prose in bonds.
Got no time to dispute over pros and cons.
POOF! ABRACADABRA! I chose my wand…
BOOM! Shattering matter; my flow’s the bomb.

Roll stones from the tomb, son, I rose the GOD.

-r.gibson

Shopping for something new

2011-04-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were two 24-hour department stores

and I was looking for a new pair of shoes.

Her lips were two automatic sliding doors

inviting my tongue to mosey on through.

-r.gibsun

Word Doctor

2011-04-11T11:45:00.000-07:00

Heartistry

2011-04-11T02:30:00.001-07:00

Sweet Honey Dip

2011-04-10T09:36:00.002-07:00

Message to the Elders

2011-04-10T09:36:00.000-07:00

Club Scene

2011-04-08T12:57:00.001-07:00

"Soul is/Soul Are"

2011-04-07T09:09:00.000-07:00

Fishes and Kisses

2011-04-06T07:03:00.000-07:00

Blank Page

2011-04-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

Starry Night

2011-04-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

"Starry Night"

Like a swirling star,
love fell in me
from van Gogh skies.
Cupid was jarred
and compellingly
shot 2 angels in the eyes.

I got drunk off a pot of gold.
Now I’m throwing up leprechaun
laughter and fiery rainbows.
Inside my undoused mouth,
a drumstick tongue. My t-t-teeth
rattle like cymbals when silver syllables come.

The midnight moon croons as the stars rock.
Daylight presses SNOOZE on her alarm clock.

-R.Gibsun

April 1st.

2011-04-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

And when March
marches away
the days of April
come to stay.

-R. Gibsun

"Railroad Eyes"

2011-03-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

“Railroad eyes”

It’s noon. I am riding on a train for the first time.
I pull out a pen and pad from my bag
And soon, I’ll be writing on a train for the first time.

Out of the window, my railroad eyes peer.
My train steers over steel through valleys of ruined trees;
their splintered hearts probably art in heaven, hollowed be
thy wooden communities. Empathy comes truthfully
because I look at my skin and find their hues in me.

I place my pen on the pad
and give the muse some room to breathe

The conductor speaks “We are currently moving..”
Twenty-five miles per hour glass hot tornado sands spilling
Filling the half empty alleys of my brain is a sponge
absorbing sound waves ebb and fade ebb and fade

Tonight, the moon will be
the closest she’s ever been to me—or not to me.
I strap on my headphones and rock in peace.
Then I hear her lullaby and rock to sleep.

Wake Up!
I am the— Amtrak insomniac, heed my ding-dong-dinging
But don’t stop, join me at the railroad crossing song singing
I am the horn and the flute that the Moon’s blues blew through!
Get up and groove to this! Lose your cool like a lunatic!
TICK—TOCK TICK TOCK BOOM to this!
Move your hips, to this Music!

But my muse is sick; I feel lunar eclipsed.
I’m a writer sentenced to a mental cage
Barred behind barbed wire, I stare for days
and dream of black unicorns and night mares that graze
on green in terror because I pluck their hairs
not to confiscate their DNA, but
for the sake of making a paint brush
to pull words from the dark wells of creation.
And my ability to feel is trapped in tin plated steel,
But I think I can, I think I can, so I think and can-open my mind.

And words stream like hot steam
from my Coltrane of thought,
Trailing back, Wailing Jazz.

I wake up and follow the path of my ink,
my hand floating down the page like a falling leave.
And the poem wrote itself as I slept to the beat
of Blue O’clock and night-colored calligraphy.

Ides of March

2011-03-29T09:49:00.001-07:00

The Ides of March

The Ides of March
are eyeballing me.
From my highest arch
to my crawling feet.
I see the silent march
of sky scrawling seas.
Is it Caesar’s spine
or the bloody knife calling me?

THE ERIC STANLEY PROJECT

2011-03-28T23:32:00.000-07:00

Be on the look/listenout for my good friend and a master violinist, Eric Stanley.
Here is the artwork I created for his upcoming project, "The Eric Stanley Project".

Check out his music! www.ericstanleyglobal.com

Peace [in your inner east].

I know why the caged quetzal sings...

2011-03-25T13:28:00.000-07:00

* These pieces I created last year after my spring break trip to Guatemala. The Mayans and Guatemalans that spoke to my class really emphasized the importance of honoring ancient Mayan culture and keeping that culture alive through educating the youth. Known for its rarity and stunning colors, the Quetzal bird became a Mayan symbol of freedom soon after the Spanish Colonization in the 1500s. Since then, the older generations believe that educating their children will bring unity within the Mayan people as well as free the people from the cookie cutter dependency that globalization has brought Guatemala; thus, the poem and the painting. Enjoy!

"I know why the caged Quetzal sings"

I know why the caged Quetzal sings
Its feathered helmet is a crown of Kings.
A blood breasted bird with wondrous wings
Those brilliant blues and gracious greens;
its elegant tail feather is long and sleek.
The caged Quetzal sings to be free.

The Bassist Sings

2011-03-02T11:04:00.000-08:00

The Bassist Sings
for Esperanza

Catch the groove.
Her tongue tickles the top tooth
and scat slithers out smooth
like unsullied sooth.

Her voice harbors the harmony
as the bass melds the melody.
Strings translate the finger's speech;
her hands are thinking wild and free.

Contradiction in ME

2011-02-24T06:15:00.000-08:00

I wake up.
To a dream of liberty.
In Libya and the Middle East.

There,
mercenaries kill.
Mercilessly.

There,
the protesters die.
To live free.

© 2011 R.Gibsun

main chick...mistress...

2011-02-22T10:35:00.000-08:00

Visual Art is my main chick.
Poetry is my mistress.
Been with "P" for a while.
'Bout time to pay "Vis" a visit.

Start

2011-02-22T09:40:00.000-08:00

My thoughts've incubated long enough—

My body’s ready to go; I am strong enough.

And the world can’t pass me by—

I’m living ahead of my time.

The Break-up

2011-02-13T20:01:00.000-08:00

The Break-up

When you said

“Our love is made of lead”

a brainstorm formed in my head.

Thoughts thundered—the rumble

tumbled down my throat

and lightning lyrics left my lungs.

I wish its strike

could’ve shocked the life

back into your Lazarus heart…

Soul at Sunrise Video

2011-02-13T18:22:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Yb7ACb0vZg

Soul at Sunrise

2011-02-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

* I wrote this poem in the Winter of 2009 in my bed surrounded by two dictionaries, a raggedy thesaurus, and an anthology of Black poetry. In so many words, my computer died so it was the first time I literally wrote and revised a poem on paper in a while.

Soul at Sunrise

Seek solace in silence.

Learn the music of your past:

Listen as the genius jargon of Jazz scats

like baaalooo ayeeeeee ya diggy diggy—

for the dames and gents keep jonzin’ for a hit

of horns and drumkicks, guitars and trumpets

just Miles and ‘Trane and Monk and Getz

The muffled buzz of Bossa Nova skips

on vinyl like some smooth stone skimming

the lips of a swooning sea—

for the needle keeps grooving

into grains of thought; the downbeat

conversation of crackling fire

Warm and worn as a back-pocket poem

nestled in darkness but brilliantly scored.

And God says “Let there be spotlights,

and audience and stage and poet and mic!”

The air rips into a rhythmic rift,

rapid runnin’ rapture rushin’

Revolution is coming! Revolution is coming!

Word is Born goddammit

And even God can’t damn it;

He’s too busy jammin’ to the jive of June,

jiggin’ wit the gems and jewels

dreamin’ to a dissonant tune— the Cool:

the bullied Blues of Billie and Hughes

buried above trombones and tombs.

It’s the heavy hues of Suthun’ strange fruit

beaten to a pulp, lying in its own juice,

life fresh-squeezed out, freedom bleedin’ from the mouth

hangin’ like heartache, bro ken ‘til heart break.

The Art of snapping a spirit flips— into Soul:

A virgin-eyed, nostrils wide, mouth pried open tone

A funky cold, solid-gold, mocha Motown moan.

Velvet voices unravel like curls through a hot comb,

not vengeful, just strong

like tired old black ladies on Sunday mornin’,

old bones bumpin’, just clappin’ and stompin’ and loud

giving praise and shouting over somebody’s grave (Yes Lord Jehovah!)

in no shoes, no cares, and no pain— well, at least not until service is over

Four-hundred years of struggle on your back and shoulders ain’t light.

This music—is the fluttering feeling

of finally finding your fire

then letting your lips

revolt against each other

and loosening out one long, impossible note—

a sound so shaky and bleak,

so uncorrupted and sweet,

so powerful and meek,

that you will stand face-to-face

with the dark raspy, rib-rooted truth

only you know so well.

And you will rise

from the madness of this age,

a rare beacon of beauty,

with your head held to the heavens

howling your hymn—in the hem

of tomorrow’s history.

-R.Gibsun

Secret Santa Gift

2010-12-27T22:25:00.000-08:00

An illustrated poem
for my Secret Santa
and Jamaican friend
Shotta Sue! Booyaka!

Kadir Nelson Interview

2010-12-22T23:57:00.000-08:00

"Wish upon a star, but do your homework too."
Illustrator Kadir Nelson gives an genuine interview of his life as an artist.

(Video Link) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0irzICuorQ
(Transcript Link) http://www.readingrockets.org/books/interviews/nelson/transcript

Exhibit Jay

2010-12-13T21:07:00.000-08:00

Jay Electronica's writing ability is supreme. This is my thank you to him.

Journey of Babaloo

2010-12-13T14:02:00.000-08:00

This is a piece
from a storyboard project
in my Concept Drawing class.
It's entitled "Journey of Babaloo".

Wonders of Wordplay

2010-12-09T02:33:00.000-08:00

So I definitely had these poems on repeat for a week. Saul and Brook kill it. The wordplay is ridiculous. I love it. Thus, here is the ripple effect of their poetry on me:

Saul Williams:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ei4iI-dWWXE

Brook Yung:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0ZaD3irxmU

Robaloo (Me):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3OnFHmuK2k

crimson wisdom

2010-12-03T12:27:00.000-08:00

crimson wisdom

though slow to erupt
the volcanoes know:
"for healing to come,
our feelings must flow."

-r.gibsun

Poem: Fishy Things

2010-11-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

Fishy Things

We collect intellect
from surfing the internet
but some minds enter nets

and get trapped—in cans like sardines,

thrown on a shelf and sold with pork and beans.

But it’s all too fishy to me: I see Pisces

drowning in the Milky Way Galax-sea;

no wonder fish are so rich with protein.

And I’m a poor Aquarius that pours aquariums

of H2O that transform into glaciers when it’s cold;

so I pray that the water won’t bury us

because we make deals to drive hot wheels

to carry us— when Greenhouse Heat is nefarious.

I'm dodging waves, wishing times would change

but we still let the color of our scales vary us.

One fish, Two fish, Black Fish, Blue Fish

Red fish, New fish, I read that the truth is

we didn't evolve from fishes with dividends

but we all got pockets that the government is fishing in.

And the government is gassed and bills don’t get passed

because constipated bigots can’t give a shit. Yes, it’s a stinky

shituation. So buy some Ex-lax and mix it up with the facts,

to get a batch that’ll loosen the lumps in any lower back.

Spliggitty Splash! Stand up! Wipe your ass! Flush …

and let the oppressive systems slip out of your system.

Realize that the past of your future is the present tense

so whether omnivarian or pescatarian,

take the die out of your diet and live.

And if you lose faith, then phone a friend.

And if you F up, then never fail to think again.

because that’s the real meaning of repen-tance.

Use your pen to unpin the ideas within;

and speak salvation with every sin-tence.

-R.Gibson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMc7ysfC6Pg

Stage Directions

2010-10-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

Stage Directions

I place you in the fairytale in my head

and hope you don’t stray from the script:

Meet me center stage, under the spotlights

and let’s have an undressed rehearsal.

Take off your mask and tear from the scene

because my heart is tired of wearing cufflinks.

-R.Gibson

Laundromat Livin'

2010-10-24T12:35:00.000-07:00

Laundromat Livin'

And emotions stay open
even if the door is closed
but I can't stop hopin'
my naked eye is clothed

in a clean layer
of lavender lint
to soften the stares
and scatter the scent.

And my wallet has heartburn
but my legs'd hate to retire
'cause it took twenty years to learn
how to dance like a dryer.

I mixed the lights with the darks
but still I ran out of quarters
and the piles have grown large
and this life is out of order.

In search of Lady Luck,
I always seem to find
my wishes washed up;
and tumble low dried.

-R.Gibson

Poem: Nightfall

2010-10-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

Nightfall

Autumn creeps into my room,

blows its breath against my body

and I fall into my bed like leaves.

I drift into a delicate dream

under waves of silky sheets,

as cars sail across asphalt seas.

Shade-sipping cicadas sizzle

until the sinking sun signals

the sky to turn black and blue.

The moon bruises the broken streets

with a bone-white hue. Nightlights ignite

fluorescent fantasies and smokescreens.

I can’t sleep. My city keeps coughing cacophony;

choking on smog, it curses the stars for sitting snug

in their solitary silence. The city-slickers are senseless;

some seek to be saved, while others singe their spirits

with suicidal shots of liquor. The slow burning liquid licks

the lungs to drown out the dissolute dogmas of day.

In darkness, the bitches and dogs come out to play.

And dogs bury sticks and bones between hips for moans

but a bitch’s dirty words will make a dog come clean.

Junkies can’t flee their freeloading fleas—so they claw

across concrete, and scratch up enough change

to float around with their monkeys on a leash;

Addicted to the scent of this citrus-tinted city

the commoners are too cold to sip vitamin c;

the spin of this cyclical system is sickening.

The food-deprived dumpster dive in anorexic alleys

that ache between bulimic buildings that binge

on bodies and vomit out souls onto the streets.

But the people choose the tools to skewer life.

So their ghosts gather on graves and gamble grief;

shootin’ craps and talkin’ more shit than sewer pipes.

The haunted howls and toxic tones infect the sky;

it sounds like the undying echo of genocide.

The mentally enslaved shackle their brains to a train

that lugs their load across an underground railroad;

but the train tracks are a spine of human bones

and Tubman stopped conducting a long, long time ago.

With another day to bruise and break; the heavens

peel off the band-aid of night. The murky mirage recedes.

People rise and open their eyes but still lose sight of their dreams.

But I’m too ran-down to rise and too distraught to dream.

I can’t sleep. Leaves fall and fall leaves.

I think, therefore I stand on the edge of my sanity

but my mind already jumped.

-R.Gibson

SAVE MONROE PARK! SAVE OUR GREENSPACE!

2010-10-21T09:37:00.000-07:00

What would VCU's Monroe Park campus be without Monroe Park? Imagine a1-2 year "renovation" of a 9 foot fence abruptly cutting off the park from the Richmond community. There would be no place of fellowship and restoration for the homeless in-need of help, the regular park-goers and the majority of 1st year students housed around the park. Doesn't sound considerate or ideal for the health of the community. This $6.2 Million makeover seems like a cover up for Councilman Charles Samuels' plan to weed out the already-vulnerable homeless population and cut off programs like "Food Not Bombs" that offer healthy, vegetarian meals for the homeless every weekend. Don't allow them to remove what little support is left. Save the feeding programs. Save our green space.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJiq5yzlmTk

Get more information and sign the petition here http://monroecampaign.wordpress.com/.

"Ice Pick/Iron Grip"

2010-10-17T08:19:00.000-07:00

"Ice Pick/Iron Grip"

You stabbed me
in the heart with a key
that unlocked something
I cannot explain. It welled up
and shattered inside. The ravine you cut
crusted over like the crevice of a sleeping eye.
I wish I could pick away the memory like a scab.
But I won't heal unless you crumble off
with friction. I cried as I held on
to the iron hands of time,
but they only entrusted
a rusty constriction.

-R.Gibson

For Black Boys....

2010-09-18T13:20:00.000-07:00

So this past May, I was in a play titled "For Black Boys Who Have Considered Homicide When the Streets Were Too Much". I believe Keith Antar Mason, the playwright, really aimed to give a voice to all of the Black men who have been taught by society that expressing feelings emotions is a "female thing" and suppress so much in fear of being seen as soft or sissie. So his play can be seen as an invitation into the Black Man's Mind. It was a really challenging process that helped me tap into the well of my emotions and experience the vast terrain of my imagination. I am so grateful for my directors: Kim Exum & Crystal Johnson and my cast: Shawn Griffin, Chad Ramey & Jude Fageas for their hard work and dedication to resurrect the play from it's pages.

Here is a clip of one of my performances the cast dubbed "The Virginity Piece":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAmOqRhyM_0

"hiding love"

2010-09-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

it's fun mixing up mediums :)
marker x staple x watercolor on canvas

poem: no place like home

2010-08-29T17:26:00.000-07:00

"no place like home"

Mom returns home from work,
washes her hands, turns on her soap
and prepares the boys an early dinner.

Drawers and doors are shutting,
the smell of fish grease creeps up the stairs,
beneath me, the kitchen is bubbling.

Dad creaks out of his daily deathbed
takes a piss and thunders down the stairs
like the load of his life is too much to bare.

Mother calls me down to eat.
But I am trapped in a brilliant story
about a desert storm in Castle Valley.

Silverware
clanks and scrapes
across porcelain plates.

The sink water and fan keep running.
The word “Bitch!” is flung through the air
beneath me, father is erupting.

Lips tighten. Fists curl.
I want to say
something.

No I can’t come down to eat
and be trapped in that storm
of words that strike like lightning.

I am tired of acting like we are okay.
He has problems. She has problems.
And I have problems with their problems.

I have been locking my door
since I was six and still can’t stop
their words from breaking in.

So I leave it open and listen
to our picture perfect peace
shatter like a forsaken dish.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wDXfPYiLL4

download track here
http://www.mediafire.com/?g0qbrjjb2092j3j

"that day"

2010-08-23T09:27:00.000-07:00

"that day"

you flip to a fresh page

and describe that moment

with that newfound friend

and those fluttering feelings inside:

that day, the sky was in full-gloom

until the sun fumbled through

the clouds a few hours before

dipping into the dark of the earth

you were lost in that city

at 3 o’clock that morning

‘cause those sparks lit a flame

too stubborn to die with day

you felt her focus flicker

from your eyes to your lips

you spoke softly, leaned in

and peeked while you kissed

in that park on that rock

when those sprinklers went off

and that silken stream flowed

coolly beneath your feet

you skipped across an emerald sea

as fearless as two thrown river stones

and then surrendered your doubts

to a late summer’s night dream

you write about stars fading

into a brightening blue morning

and delicately tuck in that moment

like a child on the cusp of slumber.

so i missed...

2010-08-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

so i missed the erykah badu concert in richmond
only to compete in the national poetry slam in st paul
so i missed the corinne bailey rae concert in richmond
only to compete in the national poetry slam in st paul

here are my dedications to them both:

erykah evolve.

tuberose in the sea.

done.

2010-07-30T04:59:00.000-07:00

1. do not try to control them, no one can.
2. do not take over his or her responsibilities.
3. refuse to be a victim.
4. refuse to be an "enabler".
5. think more about yourself.
6. do not protect them from the consequences of his or her addiction; pain is the biggest gift.

ThatGreenGuy.

2010-07-26T18:59:00.000-07:00

ThatGreenGuy.

His favorite
color is green.
By night he is a guard
at the Botanical Garden
and by day he shops at the Dollar Tree;
He recycles everything; it’s safe to say
that he knows what it means to save green
(his favorite color). He’s never traveled overseas,
but he likes to buy the Exotic Island Girl calendars
not for the girls but for the beaches and palm leaves, that are green
(still his favorite color). Every morning before he goes to sleep,
he walks up to the calendar, grabs a green sharpie
and places the tip in the top left corner of the date,
carefully marking an x in the spot
so that he’ll never forget
to treasure the day.
Holy Guacamole.

-R.Gibson

WALK ON BY

2010-07-14T18:29:00.000-07:00

Diana Krall's beautiful cover of Dionne Warwick's song "Walk on By" (1964). Props to Burt Bacharach for writing lyrics SO heartfelt.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sxK8ghb9PU

But I cannot forget to mention the track that led me to all of this: the heavily hip-hop sampled version by Issac Hayes! The instrumental is sickkk!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5tqAbrZeX0

Mos Def - Umi Says

2010-07-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

"I ain't no perfect man. I'm trynna do the best that I can with what it is I have."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsihHoyqwWY

Corinne Bailey Rae - Closer

2010-06-30T22:13:00.000-07:00

aaarggggh so I have accepted the fact that I will NOT be able to see my love Corinne Bailey Rae perform at Kanawha Plaza in August... BUT it is only to compete with my team Slam Nahuatl at the National Poetry Slam in St. Paul. SO here is the video for "Closer" (my favorite off of her newest album The Sea). The video definitely compliments the 70s-disco-love-funk vibe of the song. See for yourself!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJ-IegCdFnI

*Her songs Are You Here, Love's On Its Way, & Diving For Hearts are equally beautiful; the lyrics are elegant and profound. Pure poetry. Go buy the album and enlighten yourself, fool!

"I Need You"

2010-06-30T08:44:00.000-07:00

A piece from the silver sketchbook

I have enjoyed filling up this summer!

"I Need You"

marker x pen

-robalu

"Medium: Oils"

2010-06-25T19:05:00.001-07:00

"Medium: Oils"

It’s raining! It’s pouring!

Evacuate your homes!

Hurricane BP is a-coming!

Wh-where are the college students?

Oh No! College kids don’t watch the news;

they are adults but still children at heart!

My God, look at them in the park:

splashing in puddles barefoot,

catching raindrops with their tongues!

The air reeks of Mother Nature’s blood.

The winds whip up a slick sea spray,

the sky takes a sip, then a gulp;

levees in the clouds crack, their bellies burst open.

Oil spills down the students throats—

the petrol poisons their purified souls.

An old man in his car saw it;

said the children were vomiting rainbows.

It’s raining! It’s pouring!

My inner child curls up

in the comfort of my ribs,

shaking my heart like a rattle.

-Robert Gibson Jr.

Cracked

2010-06-23T22:12:00.000-07:00

"Cracked"

The cloud of crack smoke layers
thick and sweet enough to decay
the strongest man into a yawning hole.

You are a zombie chasing a ghost;
sucking on glass chimneys, smoking out
your soul from its once fleshy home.

The man in the mirror is a mirage
and your loved ones are coin machines;
insert a few false promises, and your fix will flow.

-R.Gibson

06/21 my father's birthday

2010-06-21T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dad's birthday is the day after Father's day;
the phone is buzzing like an insomniac insect
and all he wants to do is sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

"America" by Henry Dumas

2010-06-21T06:31:00.000-07:00

*This is one of those poems that make you say "Damn" because you respect the poet for describing just enough imagery to help you see their exact observation and understand how profound that observation was.

AMERICA

If an eagle be imprisoned
On the back of a coin
And the coin is tossed into the sky,
That coin will spin,
That coin will flutter,
But the eagle will never fly.

by Henry Dumas

moments single

2010-06-11T12:17:00.000-07:00

CLICK LINK TO DOWNLOAD :)

http://www.mediafire.com/?ohz2zhgdryk

amtrak insomniac

2010-06-04T02:10:00.000-07:00

"amtrak insomniac"

the train leaves its station at 3:15 am
a mile and a half away from my home
it sings and shuffles the after storm air

dad snores like a car that won't start
he barrels around in a king size bed
it bellows under his broken in body

he fights flying monkeys in his dreams
swings like lion with the witch's broom
cusses them out in their world and mine

through my hollow bedroom door
i hear cowboys shooting on the tv
they are probably robbing a train

i love pens and prismacolor markers and colored pencils and watercolor paints

2010-05-26T11:29:00.000-07:00

THE BLAST

2010-05-20T07:33:00.000-07:00

I was going through an old stack of burned cds, my Rob G Mixx Volumes, and I came across this track I remember vibing out to in my room back in '04, when I had just started finding the jams that kept me sane! And the song, "The Blast" by Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek had the craziest instrumental with the rhymes to match...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scZ0y82zGFY

such a beautiful song

2010-05-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

Alicia Keys "Un-thinkable"

Music Code Provided by MusicVideolife.com

http://www.musicvideolife.com/alicia-keys-unthinkable-im-ready-video_78542e2a7.html

grand-mammy strong-neck

2010-05-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

something about this stands out to me... like a giraffe on stilts.

Smells like hunger

2010-05-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

“Smells like hunger”

the robins run red-breasted

in the jagged yet bending grass

the layered greens hide the food

for the children in the trees calling:

twi twi twi

chip chip chip

twiddle di twiddle di

they are hungry

the 1 bus hauls its heaviness

back to broad street

lugging the weight

of those who carry

the weight of children

who sit in wooden cribs

calling in another language

but crying in consistency:

wah wah wah

eh eeeh ehhhhh

wah wah waaaahhh

they are hungry

the piercing pitches

the abstract shadows

of sound i cannot see

the sun, the heat, its rays

wrap rainbows around

the out-of-focus eyelashes

that protect me from this vision

the sweat of a barking stomach

slipping into emptiness

the plastic smell of fire pit

running its doused tongue along

the roof of its upper palette

quetzal kid

2010-05-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

the quetzal bird represents freedom in the mayan culture.

after leaving guatemala, i realized that i never saw

a quetzal bird, but through my teaching experience

it seemed like the children represented that freedom.

so i combined the beliefs in combination with some of

the techniques i used in my sketchbook down there

to create this piece "Quetzal kid".

to be continued...

2010-05-01T12:00:00.001-07:00

It was 3 AM
on someone’s clock,
and Time hid behind
an Oak tree in the Park.
I was arguing outside
with that trifling-ass Wind
because he stole my tears
and I wanted them back.

Right then, Winter ripped into my clothes,
ran her tongue clean over my bones;
I get jacked the one time I leave my comfort at home…
I knew it was either drying on the canvas
or lingering on the toilet seat.

So I’m cussin’ and spittin’, duckin’ and kickin’
All of a sudden, I see a shimmer in the distance.
There she was, a steady, night-colored stone
with stardust in her eyes and moonlight tied around her waist.
Believe it or not, she glowed in the snow some kinda hot.
So I told Winter and Wind, to kiss my Timbs.

And it was only her and me.

white-throated singfisher

2010-04-28T13:19:00.000-07:00

“White-throated singfisher"

1.

shhh
the storm air smells
like a sleeping creek
a bud cracks open
and leaks out the sun
like a broken egg
if you awaken the dew
the morning fog will file
off its fingertips and write
a poem about the pain
a soft swirling wave of shade
breaks into a curling clang
on the surface of a silver-skinned bay
it’s black wings failed, dipped,
tipped into a rain-stained race
of lusted legs and unloved limbs
dash, dark as a flash that came in last
crash, the lash of a cackling clothes rack
the rapid winds are menacingly mundane
they collect the collarbones from her frame
and toss them in a tightfisted tangle of sticks
as a placebo for their prescription bottle emptiness.

2.

a golden blaze
sings of summer
in the careless linger
of doves in a ditch
the standing stench
left from open faces
smashing at sidewalk
the clatter of collisions
the sullen sun is shooting
starlings from a bare bow
they all fall down as arrows
the bleeding light burrows
burning in her auburn eyes
reds run rich like roseblood
all until innocence is undone
twitching sight, fleeing flight
the twisting touch of needle tip
patterns pricked in the ghost print
stitching the landscape with silence.

just bobbing around

2010-04-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

the air bears water
for the feathers to preen
the reflections fragment
into wandering winds
the broken-boned breeze
is a bending stream
of thoughts from the voice
long nestled in me
there is no dead fruit
in my trashcan’s teeth
there are no flies
that fuck in the furrows
and flee like careless clouds
when the weather is welcoming

Unlife

2010-04-19T12:41:00.000-07:00

The last prayer
The last tear
The last second
The last step
The last thrill
The last breath

“It is with deep regret
that I inform you
that VCU
and Richmond Police
are investigating
the death
of a student
late Sunday night…
as the result
of what appears to be
a suicide.”

It’s chill lingers
in my chest:
Uncaged
Uncaring
Uncanny
Unclear

Postparty Depression

2010-04-17T16:24:00.000-07:00

“Postparty Depression”

You threw the party of the century!
Lights, loose dancing and loud music
overshadows all the internal injuries.

How did your wallet get in the toaster?
Just look at your mother’s coffee table
with condensation rings beside the coaster!

Shhh, stop singing the Swollenwood Blues;
you might wake up the passed out stranger
in your bed that you forgot YOU screwed.

Head throbbing from all the confusion,
you question why the jungle juice dumped
into each crimson cup was a stagnant, stinging solution.

"The Shadow Speaks Truth"

2010-04-09T15:16:00.000-07:00

I know those papers are fraud,
I hear the distrust in your reply.

An unfavorable feeling creeps
when you speak of Liberty.
Your tales of tyranny travel
a hallowed hall of Hypocrisy.
This land is polluted by Savages
pregnant with Vanity, perfumed in bloody Death.
And you mock me?
Well, I mock the mockeries:
The joyous Offerings, the humble Prayers,
the proud Parades, the boasting Orations
are all a deception so cold.

A thin veil hides the Guilt in your benefits.

But no, We are inhumane,
a shocking inheritance of Starlight and Stripes;
the abusing irony of the New American Slave.
Allow us a Day of Independence.
Free us from this Nation of Freedom.
And we will rest where the shackles rejoice,
where the last layer of earth reveals your gross Injustice.
We will commit sacrilege in your illuminated temples
for we know the pattern of your ways:

You will come from your Land of Despotism,
rifle-up and creep in from a distance,
searching to save our Charred Souls
from the Hell we already know.

And when your footsteps soil our soil,
we will swell from the shadows and swallow you in Silence.
This very hour is not ours, now be a slave to your own Salvation.

-R.Gibson

*This poem was inspired by an excerpt of Frederick Douglass's "Fourth of July Speech, 1852".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_SRaa3IaY-8

ALLERGY & COLD RELIEF

2010-04-04T12:27:00.001-07:00

she is piercings and poetry

snapping fingers like string beans

induced by words that linger

in clothes like cafeteria air

or cigarette smoke

her city has a whooping cough

just curdling phlegm and bless yous

that skip to the other room

where another girl believes

that a sneeze can revive

her sleeping heartbeat

in a graveyard of fairytales

and happy endings

one flatline brushes off

the bugs and bone dust

to bend back into meaning

First Assignment for Tin Salamunic's Design Class

2010-02-01T10:11:00.000-08:00

"What is Design?"

     I believe that design is a part of everything around me: the alarm clock that wakes me in the morning, the label that hugs my bottle of orange juice, the chair that supports my body and disperses my weight to the ground, the golden lamp that stands tall on my desk, the room I come back to after the day is done, and the laptop computer I type this paper on. Every material thing that I am dependent on began as an idea and was designed by someone who intrinsically brought it to life. In the Bible, it is taught that God created the Heavens and the Earth. In that sense, God is the Supreme Artist, and all of the universe and it's entrails are apart of God's grand design. Within the range of phenomena I have witnessed on this planet, design begins with Nature. The tectonic plates of the Earth's crust, the cycle of the seasons, the anatomy of plants, and the genetic makeup of animals & human beings, all combine to compose the living, breathing Design of Nature.
     Design in relation to architecture, has been synonymous with humanity on Earth. Each time-weathered block of the Great Pyramids in Egypt, the Doric columns of the Parthenon in Greece, the Gregorian style White House in Washington DC, the Eiffel Tower of France, the Guggenheim Museum of New York, the Frank Lloyd Wright houses, the bulging domes of the Taj Mahal in India, the astonishing newly renovated Cary Street Gym, and the Franklin Terrace Building are all marvels of architecture that shape the world around me. Design is aesthetically the thought, the action and the result.
     The branch of fashion design has been with me ever since I thought I had fashion sense. Back before I knew how to dress myself, my parents would be the ones who picked out my clothes. Looking back on my baby pictures, I was a hip youngster with my high-top fade haircut, my blue corduroy Osh-Kosh overalls, and my colorful selection of dress shirts. From elementary school to the middle of high school, I was heavily peer-pressured and influenced by the fads of that day. When it came to fashion, I found myself struggling to fit the styles: either I dressed like a thug (long colored or white tee shirts, a pair of shoes to match each color, baggy jeans, and fitted baseball cap) or like a “preppy white boy”(extra-snug polo shirt, some moccasins, and fitted straight leg jeans).
     My concept of fashion was very limited to what my peers opinions were but after my 2nd year in high school I noticed that buying more clothes was getting expensive and that most people didn't care about what they wore. And being that I fit the “artist” stereotype, I began to experiment with various color schemes in my wardrobe. To my surprise, nobody condemned me for wearing an outfit like: a black logo tee, blue jeans and red shoes. To this day I am still in awe. I don't quite understand how random articles of clothing can work together in agreement, but being at Virginia Commonwealth University I see it everyday. Design is more than just matching clothes by color; it is a product of incessant experimentation and alchemy.
     I have come to believe that design is the sea of controlled chaos that people knowingly and unknowingly submerge themselves in on a daily basis. As a Communication Artist, I hope to learn more of Design beyond its dictionary definition. I want to be able to see it the advertisements tattooed across the places I go, I want to hear its genius in the music and poetry of our times, I want to taste it at that quaint restaurant hidden in the quiet of Richmond, I want to think it when I am kicking out a thumbnail sketch for a future piece of work, I want to feel it in the steaming lights of the galleries of First Fridays, and I want to live it until my rusty soul is done with my body and checks out into the Great Art Studio in the sky.

-Robert Gibson Jr.

Aerodynamic - Daft Punk

2010-01-30T18:03:00.000-08:00

This is a funky jam. Get your butter knife and toast.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14xgbeHsJXI

i am in love with this woman...

2010-01-06T08:39:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZfp7Txyk_Y&feature=related

her sophomore album "the sea" will be released in early february of 2010, what an excellent birthday gift for me!

First Snow

2009-12-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

December 19th, 2009

This house is a new mind; a fresh mine
for memories. The snow outside fades footsteps
of early day. The children played
before the blizzard powdered Mama Earth’s face.

“So what we ‘gon do?” Badu sings to me.
We ‘gon remain a blank sheet. Innocence
is coming back to me. These new beginnings
envelop me, a signed and sealed delivery.

Snow scatters in every direction. The flakes
are too fast to identify. Clouds come steady as a train.
Full Steam! Frenzy. The tree nods at me heavy,
Storm on its shoulders.

It holds
everything:
sun, leaves,
snow, me.

Flakes visit my window like children in a zoo.
I am tamed by lies, laws, sayings and school.
I want to feel, express and create. To grow and be,
just how Lowdown Loretta Brown told me.

Now I am so happy.
Everything is new to me:
this snow, this home, my family, these feelings.
I am a bird jumping out of its tree to take wing.

Ah!
This is how it feels to love God.
Free, with each attachment
as heavy as a feather.

Robert Gibson Jr.

Shy Days Come Away

2009-12-22T11:23:00.000-08:00

*I was browsing through the R&B/Soul section in Walmart, and the album covers of two CDs struck me: Sade's Love Deluxe and Norah Jones' Come Away With Me. Something in me wanted to buy both of them, but only one was in my budget. I chose Norah only because the album was printed on recycled materials and because it was cheaper than Sade's. But to honor both artists, I wrote down the tracklistings of both on the inside of a envelop I found at the Photo Center. The next day, I looked at what I had and composed it into a neat little poem. I reccomend you to listen to both CDs because these musicians have amazing voices that could make anyone's heart melt.

" Shy Days Come Away"

This love

deluxe is nothing ordinary:

I feel no pain because I couldn’t love you more.

Like a tattoo, I wear your kiss of life permanent on my lips.

I cherish the day your pearls of thought penetrated my bulletproof soul.

Like a mermaid, I don’t know why I drowned under seas of sorrow

for seven years straight. You got my cold cold heart feelin’ the same way.

I appreciate you, so come away with me. Let’s lay in cerulean meadows,

shoot the moon and keep missing. Turn me on, light up this lonestar.

I’ve got to see you again wearing your skin. You are this painter’s song.

We are only one flight down from heaven. Let’s fly, my nightingale;

the long day is over. The nearness of you

frees me.

Robert Gibson Jr.

"Forecast: Unseasonably cold."

2009-12-08T16:48:00.000-08:00

You, you are the gargoyle engraved
six feet into the Cathedral's skin;
fixed, overlooking the scenery of Monroe park.
Fools are rushin' rushin' around;
the weather weathers them down,
you sit silent and watch.

Their umbrellas dance to the sound of raindrops dying.

A midday sun escapes from its cloudy cage
and every shadow holds its breath.
Petals bow and a stalks sway;
the wind knows no death.

Ancient trees wrestle the sky
as hardened humans heave heavy souls;
too enslaved to chisel down their lives
they fight over fool's gold.

Their umbrellas die to the sight of raindrops hiding.
Still, you are not Sunnyside up:

If only they would rotate their free wills well
and dispatch into life, leading.
If only you could escape that stifling shell
and hatch into a heavenly being.

But indulgence is a discontinued sale; they never will, you never will.

You, the monstrous yet marvelous, grudgingly gaze
as their eyes, now swallowed by sunshades,
skim over the beauty of this scripted day,
ignore the position of each actor onstage
and forget that life is but a play inside the Playwright's Play.

Even so, you know the sparrow
will sing its redemption song
as bones descend at dusk.
Spirits will ascend at dawn
as humans keep building up.

Their buildings may fall
as the earth absorbs it all.
Yet your building will fall
as the earth absorbs it all.

Trees

2009-11-28T08:17:00.000-08:00

We are trees weathered by the seasons of life;
Rooted in earth, always reaching for sunlight.

Our relationships bud, flourish and fall,
but memories are evergreen decoration.

Heartwood dreams leave us gorgeously scarred;
living for Life is the richest sensation.

We are trees polished by the seasons of life;
rooted in each other, always reaching for starlight.

-R.Gibson

Heavenly Attractions

2009-11-21T14:20:00.000-08:00

(A dream I had on September 20th)

I was standing in my grandmother’s backyard when I saw another moon eclipsing our moon. It happened second by second. I told Matt and Tristan to look. But they couldn’t see it. I tried to take a picture through my camera but it was unreliable. The eclipse was over; the second moon slipped into a hidden pocket in the sky. I pondered on this bizarreness.

I wanted to go to the root of this nonsense. Tristan, with his know every human being on Earth self, referred me to a lady that could take me to outer space. Matt, with his overly curious and adventurous self, tagged along. I remember the process being quick; we hopped in the ship and within 5 minutes we were up there.

She dropped us off into a beautiful sight. We were above everything. Earth was the same as my elementary school depictions: a carefully drawn sphere circled by a necklace of dotted lines looped through the moon. Right there, I saw the other moon I saw from earth. What was it doing in our orbit? I reached to take it down. I tried to touch it but it pushed me into a spiraling frenzy and spun away into the abyss.

Helpless and silly, I twirled into the orbital wires connecting the earth and moon. I messed everything up but wouldn’t witness its affects until I got back to Earth. I was tangled in the wires, holding onto a half-opened manila folder with pictures of myself and an empty CD case. There was a blank CD in my back pocket.

I remembered I was in space so I knew I wasn’t supposed to breathe. I panicked. I started taking shorter breaths but I didn’t die. I kept breathing.

Suddenly, Matt appeared again. We were floating about the atmosphere. We were right above the last layer of clouds covering the Earth, but far enough to see it in its entirety. Maybe it was heaven.

I swam towards the pole sticking up out of the clouds that held the Moon up from the Earth. I reached for it with my right hand and caught hold to it. Surprisingly, it was cold enough to grip like any other pole in the wintertime.

He told me to hold onto my stuff or it would get sucked into Earth’s gravitational pull and rain down like hellfire. I asked “If I leave it up here, will future generations find my pictures and music as artifacts?” He answered, “I don’t know.”

We looked away from our conversation, astonished by the scenery. Beyond us, to my left and his right, was a horizonless field of red stars and meteors. We kept turning. The moon was a light hanging perpendicular to the pole I clenched. Next was the Earth: a swirl of green and blue, powdered with clouds, sided by a cold blinding sun.

We froze to a wooden bench under the pole. Matt pulled out his iPhone. He called up the lady; it was time to go home.

some type of sketchiness

2009-10-08T13:49:00.000-07:00

So. Word is that the artwork artists upload on the internet is automatically stolen and stored into a super database for iRobots to eventually randomize styles of every artist who has stepped foot on this earth to make super masterpieces in a matter of seconds; thus, the role of "visual artist" will be made obsolete. Until that day, I will keep posting mine. Enjoy!

Dont think.

2009-09-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things."

--Ray Douglas Bradbury

"HOLD UP"

2009-08-09T08:22:00.001-07:00

"Caits (Caitlin) Meissner is a poet, performer, educator and graphic designer with a BFA from Pratt Institute.

And that was all I needed to know.

rawkstar!!!

2009-07-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

ink x digital coloring=mus(e)ic to my eyes

Starstruck - Santogold

2009-06-29T09:47:00.000-07:00

Starstruck - Santogold

Lyrics:

Do it again
And I'll see you tomorrow
I want to get it
You've got something to borrow

Can't make it feel right on my own
That's when I turn you on again
I buy it but it don't measure up
What is the missed ingredient

Chorus:
I, I see you fade
I, I see you fade away (2x)

Under the skin
It's not so easy to swallow
Don't reel me in
To find my dreams are so hollow
What is it you got I don't get
I watch you fumbling again
Look dreamy behind your cigarette
Know it ain't true now

Chorus

Oooh wee ooh wee oooh
We all find you easy so amuse us
Don't get too heady you might abuse luck
You're starstruck

She was...

2009-06-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

No, she wasn’t a dream;

She was a stream of breath
falling
down a spine

She was a taste—a tongue’s wonders
She was a sound—a rumble of lightning
She was a sight—a strike of thunder

She was a touch of glass
torn
along a fragile soul

She was a smell of daffodils
drowning
like a drunkard’s destiny

She was a kiss
too late to heal
the beatings
of a heart.

So again I say No
as you know
we have not yearned the right way yet.

I lust for love
to eliminate lust
for love

to thrive
in my mind
because
the organ in my chest
has become
just that—the organ
with 4 divisions
that she played
with her hands and feet
pulsing blood through my pipes
but blaring it all out religiously

I just hope
that two-faced phantom of my mind
can make up his mind
before it is time
for this opera
to begin.

"Hopeless Attachment"

2009-06-10T10:39:00.000-07:00

I was a dislocated football player

who fumbled love

to a hyper-extended cheerleader

on the sideline.

I didn’t mean to,

but just like listening to a song on the radio,

it happened.

I didn’t like “Blame it on the Alcohol”…when I first heard it…

but I kept hearing it, so I grew tolerant of it.

I opposed everything that song stood for.

Yet, I knew about every damned word to it!

I even laughed at how ridiculous it was!

Still, I chose to listen.

And with no other selection of song to hear,

it turned into the only tune I could turn to.

It became a hopeless attachment

that I couldn’t see myself living without.

So in essence, I began to love it.

Now, I am hyper-extended

from yelling on the sideline

because she dislocated that love

and limped away.

Our time together was everything

but the scoreboard was always broken.

So by the flip of a coin,

our everything was already nothing.

And if nothing is everything and everything is time

than time is nothing.

This song is out of tune.

Reset the scoreboard if you must.

Skin is a distracting wrapper...

2009-05-27T11:51:00.000-07:00

"Skin is a distracting wrapper to the flavor of a person’s soul."

(Directed to the Black skin versus White skin theology)

Imagine humans being able to eliminate the distraction of the physical skin and just be “gray” humans walking around on earth. We would then focus on an individual's true personality and characteristics. As a result, we would lose the concepts of black versus white and beauty versus ugly, but it would only be fit as karma to our historical affairs involving the discrimination based off of them.

So in essence, we would all start from zero. Everything before that point would be history. Then we could coin the issue of the black race versus the white race as an inferior and a useless level of thinking as a whole. Unfortunately, there would be no more significance for having pride in one’s race; cultures may still exist based off of location of a group of people and their trends, but race would no longer be a driving force behind that.

Note: I say “unfortunately” because I as an individual enjoy celebrating my race and culture. It is healthy to be involved with people you share common ground with to meet a common goal. Most of us feel it is necessary in order to function and collectively progress in this world.

On the contrary, I don’t believe in taking it to the extreme of saying my culture or race is better than someone else’s, because that would only lead to war. But the world would be boring without war to oppose peace, right? If everything was “good and peaceful” on earth, the thrill of media would not exist. So I do believe in the concept of yin and yang; it is necessary in order to keep balance in the world. But the historical matching of opposites to other opposites: positive=white and negative=black, has led us to our current way of processing everything. And personally I’d rather be an advocate of the peace found in totally denying that theology.

But back to the response of us “thinking gray”: After the shift in thought, we in our inquisitive nature, would dissect the matter and strive to find the root of that mentality to ultimately lead us to an answer or solution. At the same time, finding an answer may not be beneficial because if the human mindset remained the same when we switched from “black and white vision” to “gray vision” we would still want to find someone to blame and punish or shun to the death; causing an immediate divide in the thought of us starting from zero. But if we blamed ourselves as a whole for the problem we would not shun ourselves or go to the extreme of killing off ourselves; it wouldn't make sense. We would want our state of humanity to excel.

It is possible that we could press refresh and have a new beginning but only if we scrap our flawed ideals of the past while at the same time use them as a basis of what not to become again. Once fixed in that mentality, we humans would see each other’s souls for what they are, establish a mutual respect for each other’s diversity and finally know how to wear our skins correctly.

Nature in New York

2009-05-06T18:47:00.000-07:00

Last Month, I performed along with Slam Nahuatl and other features at an event called "Nature In New York". It was a talent-packed show with lots of energy. Well the story behind this one was spur of the moment (like everything else in my life) but beautiful.

I was listening to a new found friend Chris Dunn perform a piece that he had 'no words for'. I listened to him perform the song and something moved me to read my poem to it while he was playing. I discovered that if I slowed down the pace that I read it at, it matched his rhythm. So I approached Chris after he got off of stage and asked if he would play that behind my poem while I recited. He happily agreed and we even got our friend Jamie to play the drum with us. So it was complete, his wordless tune finally had lyrics to make the song complete!
Here it is. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSVnG7-Hmv0

(Jamie, get well soon brother, you have more music to make with us!)