Murky Acreage

years

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 01:05:00 +0000

This week marks 4 years in a row that I let myself down.

Let's make it 5.

Autopsy Reveals Eyedea Died of Accidental Overdose

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 22:59:00 +0000

Not something I wanted to hear.
The more I contemplate it, the worse it feels.

Autopsy Reveals Eyedea Died of Accidental Overdose

The Misfits - Halloween

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 16:41:00 +0000

2d

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 02:45:00 +0000

How arrogant to think ourselves in control; how demeaning to think we're not.

On an unrelated note:

I am the cardboard cutout,
torn from the canvas
of artists who can't shade.
A new light source might cause glare,
and darkness still chalks the outline
of whose frayed edges even form a flattened latitude.
There, despite the density and facets,
all angles are equal.
Tap on me and the muted slap is consistent.
Right amount of wind, I'm downed or carried.
(Just make sure the brace is held tight,
and he'll stand all night!)

Rhymesayers Entertainment :: Posts

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Fri, 22 Oct 2010 20:44:00 +0000

Rhymesayers Entertainment :: Posts

More reminiscing on the sudden loss.
This is really painful.

Murkier Acreage

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 21:51:00 +0000

This is another shocker. Eyedea, rap artist from Rhymesayers records, passed on. No details yet, but I think Hip-Hop lost one of its finer talents. The two times I saw him live were incredible; his ability to freestyle was rarely paralleled by another, and my introduction to underground hip-hop would not have been complete without his freestyles.

May he find peace in the next stage.

News

Freestyle with Slug

NOW!

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 02:43:00 +0000

Excellent performance by Lazerbeak with Doomtree mates POS and Dessa, along with a few others.
POS (one of my top 5) on drum machine and Dessa (goddess) singing background.

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 00:31:00 +0000

More from Dose. , TVHAHA, seriously funny.

a cup of tea she would admit to no one

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 02:33:00 +0000

Waiting for you to pop out from behind that wall.
PUNKED!
HAH! Joke's on you, yeah?
Joke's on me, fine.

But it won't happen.
Instead, I must be stone when faced.
No polished surface with lost soldiers,
No reflection of helplessness.
Those fingers that trace letters
and names
and souls
will just point.
Just, this point?

That's never for me to answer.

(Title Quote: Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister")

My inspiration

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 14:42:00 +0000

This is my favorite group on the planet.

Themselves @ Camp Basement with livemusic.fm from anticon. on Vimeo.

HiddenOndiSplay

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 04:37:00 +0000

You
is were and ever shall be delicious
I taste your delicate sin along my forked tongue.
I hold one hum
from that gentle pursed-lip frown
and i mold a porcelain crown
for the shoebox princess to sport.
the clown at your court
the suite to your song
no wonder i don't know the words
but I can still sing along.
in this abscess of your absence
there's a hollow prolonged
across whose pulled flesh
my wrinkled digits beat out the rhythm.
I'll weave it in pagan parades
open heart, fresh blood on display
and you'll pass by
with a slanted eye
and that same frown
drawn
through which no words can escape.

theNow

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 04:26:00 +0000

nowIcheckMybLogliKemY Facebook account
but the tangled web of blogdom is that hollow downtown
overrun by the bigboXes a few blocks away
it's got that charming personality
snap a picture, move on

Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 02:29:00 +0000

"All I'd really like to do is quit all this; get a small room... devote myself to my writing, contemplation... doing whatever I wanted."
Ginsburg

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 22:59:00 +0000

There is no place for me in modernity. Seriously.
What is need? What is want? What is regret?
I'm trying so hard to keep everyone happy that these responsibilities won't let me breathe. I stab words at the sky; they bleed the sky, but no one is dyed. All I ask is some clarity. One work day of peace of mind. This doesn't exist. One action that doesn't sacrifice something critical. This is all I ask. I turn my fucking head the wrong way and I spite the other side of my neck.
Fuck gravity: the new universal law is that nothing is sacred. You can't satisfy one thing without destroying something else.
I haven't spoken to my father in about a month for no reason. I haven't spoken to my dear friends in longer. I'm so at odds with myself that I regret my own thoughts.
Words like poison. No. Words like soda, the slow decay.
Who has time when the world begs?
When picturing the enormity of every decision, who has the means to justify a nap? A day away? A day where everything and everyone is greeted with a no.

Here in the sweet afterthought of some small manifestation of my turmoil, I lie in the dust, loth to action. Shields that blind with polished faces, swords that weigh with heavy hilts.
Here I am.

My biggest fear? The severing of strings that bind me to some whole. The bindings are pulling, pulling, pulling. If I loosen my slack on one, the other become more tense and tenuous.

Slim pickings

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 00:10:00 +0000

Slim pickings, its an honor to finally greet you
 lost among the fallen plumage pawned as new age gold
 the gates fold but never open
 the page was locked shut
 the frame of mind was over-adorned with knots and spirals
 all hail the idle!
 half-asleep, ears closed!
 where the fear flows
lapping at the waists of moon burned children.
(can't you)
 hide your flesh from the night-callers’s lucid eyes 
shoulder the burdens of the euthanized who scrutinize
 the living for not giving enough?
 insisting on plush
 when the rough would’ve suited?
 tailor-made for the favored spade’s favorite hijinks-
 goodbye jinx, hello hex, run along curse ,
we’ll talk after a spell;  
read, repeat just make sure you’re well versed. 
Swell season for ideas to impregnate
 fallen from trees to spring forward when the bell’s late. 

wait, wait, wait

 was that you ringing ?
back to the artifice of egg-shell swimming.
 take care tinning, but let’s skip over hyperbole
 since none want the sum of the shedding fleece and suture. 

lips stitched shut
 but the teeth still clatter 
grinding though the cheeks blood seeps though the fabric
 let it dry let it grow brittle till it snaps
 just make sure nobody is listening when it happens.  

Inspired by whim and shrug, two good friends who, once lost, have now gone all biblical allegory on me.

gone part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 01:37:00 +0000

Shrug me that bold shoulder again,
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.

Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.

In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh
tethered there
in where.

gone (unfinished)

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 14:29:00 +0000

In the low hung rungs of summer's sun
the heat draped thin
still touches skin
and burns.

How red must read wax before peel?
How fed must fed tax before heel?
Questions floating unsung
where mere speech was shrugged for show
now rote words are sought for harvest
on the scored earth of preference and flash.

Will that light too one day burn?
Will it wilt the roses,
leaves luck plucked, thumbs unstung?
Will it brown soft patches of Whitman's words?
Will it slur sight scope in thirst's blurred search?

Or
does that same yellow that reds flesh
hold to stone our silhouettes
hung among the cracks and steps
stripped of fears, of words that left?

Would the bones of questions appear perplexed?
Bereft of context, tongue and touch?

Or would we all just be gone?
Gone of soul, of blood that speaks.
Gone of limber, snaps and creaks.
Gone of all that sun does greet.

Left is street
and aimless heat.

Re: the last few blogs

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 00:14:00 +0000

Do not fret!

I was exploring a side of anger through words. I used to be quite capable of capturing anger in my writing, thus releasing it into the cosmos as neutrality and alleviating my own harsh feelings.

I was trying to do the same thing here. If the "angry" posts pop up again, you'll know what they're for.

-g

bottle

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 01:14:00 +0000

Perhaps my flaw is that I was too selfless
And I'll probably gift away my last breaths
Half-dressed under flickering street lights
Half-confessed, half-possessed
they'll say as say they stare into the abscess

"Relax", "Don't stress" I guess I get your good intents
But intense to one, just seems to pale in others lenses
back to the sixth sense myth
emotive over-sensitive it's
"good that you should vent" or it's
"just like everyone else's"

Well this seems a barren plain of platitudes
as it's rude to neglect the help that's readily dispensed
well it's just that- dispensed
25 cents and turn
and your plastic packaged bandage
should cure from itch to burns
remove stitches and spurn glitches
spit genies from urn
in fact, if it floats, it'll cause witches to burn

which is exactly my predicament
I am just a witch in this
Malleus Maleficarum straddled best seller list
which just displaced the exodus
stakes enter rib cage, exit dust
what's next, it's trust
followed by a bottled form of regiment

sediment
sinking to the bottom, ever reticent

and then...

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 17:14:00 +0000

again. It's always the same. IS this what I'm meant to do? Is it even so deep? What else do I have to offer if not this. No other sights in my view seem to appease these thoughts of my inherent futility.
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.

And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?

Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).

because nobody reads this

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 00:32:00 +0000

because nobody reads this I can say whatever the fuck I want and no one will care. I can say the most devilish things, things that most push out of their brain I can indulge. I can say everything I feel, everything I've done, and everything I desire.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.

A review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 17:39:00 +0000

Novel vs. Film, Film vs. Novel- an epic battle whose end seems about as approximate as the end of our occupation of the Middle East. A battle which, in this humble politico's view, is just as futile. Maybe I still have college-kid cockiness because I took a few film courses dealing with this precarious relationship and understand that they are different mediums, with different conventions and different aims, and so I believe I'm an authority. Maybe I'm easy to please when it comes to something I'm familiar with. Whatever the case may be, I just can't sit around and defend the film against the argument that that it's not exactly like the book, or that major elements were cast aside.
What I can say is that it was an excellent film. In this, the sixth installment, Potter and his friends must deal with their raging hormones, and the constant threat of Voldemort and his legion. As to the latter aspect, there are various mentions of atrocities and occasional shots of Aurors (Dark Wizard Hunters) pacing the halls of the fortified schools. However, as a whole, that tense atmosphere was not well-communicated, but relegated instead to single shots such as the black whips of Death Eater trails repelling against the dome-like force field protecting Hogwarts. Whereas this could have been a detriment to the film, the director instead chose to focus on Malfoy and his quest, which remains a well clouded mystery until about halfway through the film; and even then specifics are shrouded (unless, of course, you've read the book). Here an ominous threat is cast over the otherwise bubbly landscape of the school's corridors, when Malfoy's usually boastful and angry grimaces are coupled with looks of weariness and uncertainty. Tom Felton, in a few words, finally delivers an authentic performance of substance. We feel his dilemma, we understand the internal conflict between his mission and his character, and that alone makes up for what should have been a much darker film.
Where the film succeeds is in the contrast between the solemn and the jocular. Hormones bubble to the surface, with an intense focus on potions class and the intentionally bubbly personality of its new teacher- Horace Slughorn. As his character unravels, so do the relationships in the novel- from light, humorous and airy to mysterious and wrought with guilt. The teenagers find love and, with a brazen air, wrench it from the mantle of fantasy; and like most young relationships, find it far too heavy to easily bear. Whereas Ron's relationship with Lavender is painted with humor, Hermoine's pain and heart-break is visceral. These emotions are paralleled with Slughorn, whose flighty character soon chips away to the foundations of guilt upon which his hesitance to re-join the faculty is rooted.
The film ultimately serves very utilitarian purposes: one last hurrah for the frivolity of youth; cementing the thematic motif of difficult decision making; and finally, grounding the roots from which will spring key plot points of the seventh and final chapter. As vague as my last point seems, to give more detail would ruin the film for those who've yet to read the book. And in this deliberate, utilitarian treatment of the reference text, the director succeeds in a fine adaptation. The nature of the book is intact with respect to the scope of the novels.
"The Half Blood Prince" aspect plays only lightly into the story. A bigger tale needed to be told, but it's function as part of the title is never fully served. Instead, it's presence is used as a device to find a means to an end. The "big reveal" seems to be a perfunctory revelation, more than an eye-opening point of further contention for Harry. However, this might be addressed in further detail and in subtler ways in the final films.
I won't give creedence to arguments of book vs. film, but I will say this: in an ideal world, I'd love to see a more precise translation. However, director David Yates delivered a film whose purpose and gusto do justice to the source material and, more importantly, to the continuity of the story as delivered through film.

8.0/ 10
(Random tags) Funny, lighter than the previous film, moments of sadness, mature-child friendly, inner turmoil,

Underfoot

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 03:02:00 +0000

It was a dry day in hell when I died.
The sun bore down on an autumn sky and the hardening leaves, seemed to fly
on a gust of wind
on a one more time
But time was as brittle as their lives.
And life no longer seemed so contrived
as the day stung clear in my eyes
oh the eastern sky
could never hope to hum a reply
to the red and orange sense of last night.
When we still hung about.
When we swayed in the rain
and cackled as we swelled and we rose again.
But those days are underneath us now
or we are underneath them.
Should we rise to meet them
these feet, them.
We'll see, then.
Ho, hum under the glorious sun
cracking away underfoot
we lost touch
when we got touched.
And everyday before just passed.
Just past.
Oh, now comes the dusk and the breezes
where we incite sneezes
and tell-tale wheezes
leaves out of season
leaves, out of season

New Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 16:44:00 +0000

Good morning Raleigh.

A drive-by shooting happens in an instant but the memory pierces you forever. And in that forever, the instant drags its heavy feet towards infinity. What was once a flash becomes a slow dawn rising, and at this point you're either a vampire or on your last day before a long jail sentence.
Welcome to the morning after. The drive-by becomes a great starting point for some pretentious, born-again blog entry while you smoke your own ashes. There's no more reason for a minor memory, for a flash to (enter mixed metaphor) ruin the entire roll.
Sure, a couple of pictures might have been affected, but I'll be selling them under a pseudonym and the pretense of a new art form. I'll claim they were carefully rendered and exposed just long enough, etc, etc. At that point I'll drop the guise and make millions off of a book claiming to be the sole surviving interview of a man whose true masterpiece was his deception. His art was actually the realization and self-manipulation of his 15 minute fame.
I'll use that as the dock for my writing career and dive. Who cares if the local kids push shopping carts off the edge for kicks? I'll dive in just the same.
Splash.

mad world pt 1

noreply@blogger.com (Gabriel) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 02:18:00 +0000

In these mad times, who are we but the embryos of futility, dragging our carcasses across stone lit dawn? Where haphazard circumstance bleeds viscous phlegm onto a blind god's palms, compassion is irreverent. Liquid is liquid- might be rain, might be blood, your word against mine. How then do we stumble forward, hoping at be to catch a break and not be cast off with the flow of tide? At peak hour for moratorium, the best we can offer is paltry and honest submission to our chemistry, to the science that give us sight, and the sighing that rings our plight. Never letting the effortless stipulations extracted from half-beating hearts bear the torch for the day's grudge yields only the optimal insignificance required to coexist. The dotted red lines speak truth but neglect the frenzied art of the moment, and sometimes cynicism is mistaken for reason in shaving with Occam's razor. If only half the centerfold desires of the moment were manifest in tranquil awe before our wildest imaginings- maybe then could we actually participate. Maybe then. Maybe then becomes the idealist's repertoire and, to the ears of said judge, grandiloquence.
So we spit in the gentle faces and wipe away our broken tears with a grim hope that shiver is reflex and not mode, that the humming is pretense, and not the song. Shy, shy away from the glimmer. Shy, shy away from the tremors. Never again insult or castigate the hand that blends truth in the slip of finger and calls it art.

No, no, we are not the sole surveyors of this anomaly. We instead ratchet up and ratchet down until the bolt's too tight to slip and worn of grip. In my fondest memories somewhere, a hero swarms the battlements and waves no flag. He swings no swords, he sings no chords. Just watches as prophecy unravels and reveals then turns in spite, and burns in flight.

Never give to the thicket what the tree will drop of its own accord.