Rob's been cheating on me with some trick named Tina Tumblr.
If you see her, tell that ho I'm looking for her: gibsunrising.tumblr.com
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
A Telegram to George Zimmerman from Mother Earth
Son,
if it were up to me,
I wouldn't bend you over my knee—
I’d express mail you an earthquake
to crack open the doors beneath your feet
and give you a tour of the hells the Black community often toils.
Rivers of blood boil. Tears sting as well.
Do the names Emmett Till, Oscar Grant or Sean, ring a Bell?
For 28 years, I taught you how to dress for the season,
but you wore too many layers of pride to change.
They gave you too many times to change
the battery in your neighbor/HOOD/watch.
It was sad to watch you move from Manassas to Sanford,
only to become a self-appointed anchor to the cops.
Forecast: mostly cloudy, chance of discrimination: 100%.
Even if my hurricanes erased race,
the squeaky-clean recordings don’t lie:
From the second you false-started,
after the dispatcher said stop following
you should’ve been disqualified.
I’m curious, George,
when Trayvon screamed “HELP!” “HELP!”
did the 9mm sway you to satisfy its sweet tooth?
When your finger licked the trigger,
did his flesh tear as easily as a bag of Skittles?
When only the red ones poured out, could you taste the rainbow?
Did the guilt ache like a cavity?
Did the pain grow?
When he died, did the criminal injustice on your tongue
taste like 23 ounces of Arizona?
Did your White-half wrap barbwire around your heart
and detain your Hispanic-half for crossing the border?
No, No, this ain’t no’ race thang;
people gotta stay civil, right?
Change the channel or play the game
Your father would say "Forget race,
this is more of an NBA thang:
And in this court, we cannot defend your offense;
you took a foul-shot at Trayvon with that Miami Heat
and rode the bench back to hide under your shell.
Quote: "These assholes always get away" End quote.
It's ironic, you did; stop talking about yourself.
You ought to be prayin’
You ought to be reading your King James,
You ought to join Dwayne and wade in the water--
Because the rock can’t hide you in its shade
if the Devil’s got your name in his order.
Son, you ought to be prayin’
‘cause Trayvon made it to heaven, met Nina Simone,
rewrote her song and started sangin’ together
“Oh, Zimmerman, where you ‘gon run to?”
And where ever you choose,
you can't escape my gravity,
so, we’ll always be in touch.
I told you to keep your hand to yourself!
but you stole Tracey and Sabrina’s son.
But the day will come
when Fathery Sky, pull out his loaded
sun and shoots light
to tear through the clouds
as easily as a bag of Skittles
only then would justice and righteousness
roll down like a mighty stream
of Arizona Iced tea.
Sincerely,
a mother who gave you the ground to stand on
and loves you enough to take it back.
if it were up to me,
I wouldn't bend you over my knee—
I’d express mail you an earthquake
to crack open the doors beneath your feet
and give you a tour of the hells the Black community often toils.
Rivers of blood boil. Tears sting as well.
Do the names Emmett Till, Oscar Grant or Sean, ring a Bell?
For 28 years, I taught you how to dress for the season,
but you wore too many layers of pride to change.
They gave you too many times to change
the battery in your neighbor/HOOD/watch.
It was sad to watch you move from Manassas to Sanford,
only to become a self-appointed anchor to the cops.
Forecast: mostly cloudy, chance of discrimination: 100%.
Even if my hurricanes erased race,
the squeaky-clean recordings don’t lie:
From the second you false-started,
after the dispatcher said stop following
you should’ve been disqualified.
I’m curious, George,
when Trayvon screamed “HELP!” “HELP!”
did the 9mm sway you to satisfy its sweet tooth?
When your finger licked the trigger,
did his flesh tear as easily as a bag of Skittles?
When only the red ones poured out, could you taste the rainbow?
Did the guilt ache like a cavity?
Did the pain grow?
When he died, did the criminal injustice on your tongue
taste like 23 ounces of Arizona?
Did your White-half wrap barbwire around your heart
and detain your Hispanic-half for crossing the border?
No, No, this ain’t no’ race thang;
people gotta stay civil, right?
Change the channel or play the game
Your father would say "Forget race,
this is more of an NBA thang:
And in this court, we cannot defend your offense;
you took a foul-shot at Trayvon with that Miami Heat
and rode the bench back to hide under your shell.
Quote: "These assholes always get away" End quote.
It's ironic, you did; stop talking about yourself.
You ought to be prayin’
You ought to be reading your King James,
You ought to join Dwayne and wade in the water--
Because the rock can’t hide you in its shade
if the Devil’s got your name in his order.
Son, you ought to be prayin’
‘cause Trayvon made it to heaven, met Nina Simone,
rewrote her song and started sangin’ together
“Oh, Zimmerman, where you ‘gon run to?”
And where ever you choose,
you can't escape my gravity,
so, we’ll always be in touch.
I told you to keep your hand to yourself!
but you stole Tracey and Sabrina’s son.
But the day will come
when Fathery Sky, pull out his loaded
sun and shoots light
to tear through the clouds
as easily as a bag of Skittles
only then would justice and righteousness
roll down like a mighty stream
of Arizona Iced tea.
Sincerely,
a mother who gave you the ground to stand on
and loves you enough to take it back.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Kendrick Lamar: VCU Homecoming 2012
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...
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Esperanza Spalding @ University of Richmond
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
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
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Naked
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
-r.gibsun
Friday, August 26, 2011
RUN BLACK BOY RUN!
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
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
Monday, July 18, 2011
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
Come,
Let us roam the night together
Singing.
I love you.
Across
The Harlem roof-tops
Moon is shining.
-Langston Hughes
Sunday, July 17, 2011
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
Saturday, July 16, 2011
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
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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
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:
-r.gibsun
Monday, July 11, 2011
"What Do You Stand For?" Project
"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.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
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:
*As of now, "The Morning" is my favorite! The imagery in the first verse so vivid!
Monday, July 4, 2011
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
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
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Moon Medicine
"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
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
Saturday, May 28, 2011
R.I.P. Gil Scott-Heron
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
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
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
"College Grad: Indentured to serve"
"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
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
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
tragedy of the english, man
"a tragedy of the english, man"
watercolor x ink on latex-coated fabric
(detail)
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Loneliness
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
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
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
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
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