Project:ROAM

Duo Slam 2009...

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 16:32:00 +0000

The Dynamic DuoSlam 2009 is a 2-day Poetry Slam Festival being held December 4th & 5th in Durham, North Carolina.

20 Teams consisting of two to three poets will compete for a Cash Prize of $1500 for the first place competitors.

Registration is $75.00 per team*
*no refunds

Other festivities will include:

A Writing Workshop
Youth Slam
Open Mics
Raffles
Special Guest Features
And more.....

visit duoslam.com for more details

More info to come.... Subscribe to get the latest updates:

Subscribe in a reader

Email duoslam@yahoo.com for questions and concerns.

Tell a friend!

National Poetry Slam

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 03:40:00 +0000

This is the blog administrator, Naturally Alise, stopping by to let you know Elliot Axiom will be travelling to West Palm Beach, FL to perform as a part of the Bull City Slam Team in the the National Poetry Slam. Please keep him and the team in prayer for a safe trip and to do well in the competition:

More than 300 slam poets will descend upon West Palm Beach August 4-9 to battle for the heavywrite crown. Representing 64 teams from 54 cities across the United States and Canada, these ferocious performance poets will spit fire on molten microphones during five days of lyrical combat in front of roaring audiences and randomly-selected judges. Only one team will win. Three days of preliminary competitions will be held Aug. 4-6 with simultaneous bouts held at 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. at West Palm Beach venues. Four teams will compete in each bout. The top 16 teams compete in the semi-finals Aug. 7. The top 4 teams make the finals Aug. 8 at the West Palm Beach Convention Center at 8 p.m. Throughout the National Poetry Slam there will be day events (Haiku Head-to-Head, Hip-Hop Showcase, Nerd Slam, etc.) and late night events (Comedy Showcase, Erotic Poetry Showcase, etc.) For more information on all the event times and locations, please visit the official 2009 National Poetry Slam website at http://nationalpoetryslam.com.

The ROAM continues

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 22:33:00 +0000

At the request of several subscribers as well as me missing blogging; I'm back! There will be a more interactive format and connections with/to other great bloggers, but primarily here we will focus on journeys and poetry. We will revisit some events (Southern Fried 2009) and preview upcoming events (NPS 2009). So, any suggestions and ideas are welcome. Stay tuned the new format will be set up this week and once again, in different ways, we will begin to ROAM together once again.

The Road Calls me

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 06:15:00 +0000

A poem inspired by, and which may define, the Roam:

She asked where and why I was going?
What was I running from, looking for, hoping to see?
Why, she asked tearfully, why do you have to leave?
Leaning back I let go the key
Then I answer
The road calls me
A lover’s whisper in my ear saying
Come to me. Follow me.
Ride me like I’ve never been ridden
Position yourself between my guiding lines and
Push
Harder than ever
Don’t look back
Keep your eyes on me
Move faster than the speed of thought
Cause if you think…you wont
But take your time
Cause if you don’t, you’ll miss the purpose
Don’t’ fly through the journey
Taste me
Lick asphalt. Kiss concrete
Suck exhaust till exhausted
Then rest your weary bones in my median
Never leave me
They say your running from your demons but you see them, Face them
Everytime you look in the mirror, do you see him?
Not a demon. Your father
Gone 13 years but still here you look just like him
I started smoking at his bedside beside him
Watching him die of cancer
Lit 2 cigarettes
1 for him, 1 for me
having found the answer
of how to commit suicide
slowly

The road calls me
Like a father
Teasing a child that’s too scared to jump off the high board
Who starts to walk back but instead moves forward to face the teasing
“Daddy watch me” he says before leaping
as feet leave safety for uncertainty
Faith overcomes Fear becoming Bravery
And now he’s happy that he’s falling
Free falling
Feeling free for the minute suspended as water rushes up to meet him
Will he smash or splash?
No one knows…so
Daddy watch me
I’m leaping
Falling horizontally toward a horizon I’ll never reach
Wind whipping passed me at furious speeds
Will uncertainty pull me to earth to smash?
Or can I fly faithfully into the sun to splash?

The road calls me
Like a mother
Trying to teach lessons only experience can make you learn
Teach me mother
Teach me love
Teach me tired
Teach me fear
Teach me while I’m here
Why I’m here
Teach me to reach
Teach me to teach, no better
Teach me to learn
She says
The lesson’s of the road aren’t elusive my son
You will learn at every turn
Teach yourself!!!

The road calls me
Like a bully
Like a child curiously
Like a stranger dangerous with the danger of strangeness
Like chocolate served on lava
A fiery sweetness
Or shy Amazon
Uncertainly massive
An unrecognizable song
Beautiful but deadly
Medley too clear for foggy morning air
Coming from over there, nowhere and everywhere
Don’t know if its damnation or salvation
Worse
Don’t know if you really care

The road calls me
Like it did at 16
when I left behind all family and friends
The road calls me
20 years later
and I answer
once again

Now she understands
So I turn the key
And leave...

Elliot Axiom 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 05:01:00 +0000

In Retrospect by Request:

Request by Tiha scene stealer (IDK just sounded cool when I wrote it.)

Taking pictures while driving

DISCLAIMER: DO NOT TAKE PICTURES WHILE DRIVING! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT’S DANGEROUS MAN!!! DON’T DO IT.

If you take pictures while your driving, in the words of Tiha “…you might fail into the guard rail”

So I did take pictures while I was driving in the safest way that I could. No cars near or close (you tend to swerve when doing anything besides just driving as evidenced by cell phone users being 4 times more likely to have an accident) So I made sure I was as close to being clear of all vehicles as possible. Second I never, ever looked through the viewfinder OR at the display screen. The first pics I took from the car were when I was parked or standing still at a light. This gave me a perspective. I knew what I would most likely capture with the camera and at what positions. When I saw something, and if I had time to catch it, I would turn on the camera and, without looking through the view finder on the display screen, slow down and snap several photos by placing the camera in one of the pre-determined position. I kept my eyes on the road, a hand on the wheel and only checked the pictures when I stopped. If something was interesting enough and I missed it I would stop, or turn around to go back and get it. I made sure my camera was set to take action pictures otherwise all I got were blurs. Not to mention that many times I didn’t get the picture I wanted and a lot of times all I got was the car.

Note: Even with all these precautions I damn near ended up in the guardrail several times (and the rumble strips kept me out of the woods a couple more) so again.

DISCLAIMER: DO NOT TAKE PICTURES WHILE DRIVING! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT’S DANGEROUS MAN!!! DON’T DO IT.

So there you go Tiha…oh and here you go.

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 03:58:00 +0000

In retrospect by request

During the Roam there have been some events and other miscellaneous happenings that I didn’t think were blog worthy. I guess that aspiring to be a writer/poet I tend to write about tings that inspire me to or I think are somehow significant for one reason or another. With all of that said I have had some requests for blogs about some of these events from others (one in particular being the queen of pragmatism Tiah) and so here is the first in retrospect by request.

Request 1. From Naturally Alise also filed in the Goals and Dreams section.

Bury Me @ Midnight is a poem that I was inspired to write, as many poets are, by several muses. One of those inspirations was Miguel Pinero one of the founders and premier poets of the Nuyorican Poetry Café. Pinero’s poem “Spread My Ashes on The Lower East Side” is one of the most inspired pieces I have ever read. But I’m strange like that. This poem along with the chorus from the Biggie and Pac song Runnin one particular line “I wonder if they’ll laugh when I am dead” and a combination of mythology, religious doctrine, personal preferences and poetic wishes combined to form this poem. I wanted desperately to perform it at the Nuyorican, the Mecca of spoken word poetry, more than that I wanted to slam it. On a Wednesday night we slammed. Me and 19 other incredible poets at the Nuyorican. The format for a Wednesday slam there is 2 poems per poet. All 20 poets slam in the first round and are scored by 3 judges in a range of 0 – 10.0. The café itself is nothing special, as it shouldn’t be; poetry is the reason people line up around the block to get in not the Nuyorican. Bar to the right as you enter bathrooms to the left wood floors and exposed brick walls in many places. Stairs to the left next to the sound booth lead upstairs to the balcony. Mobile stage was in the rear of the club that is moved as necessary and chairs lined on 2 sides leaving an aisle to the stage. The chairs were full of poets and spectators. The first round was long and full of fire. Poets spit fire and ice. Love and hate. Discussed tender touches and brutal. When the round was over the 3 judges had selected 4 poets to continue. The poet who won the final round would have the chance to compete for a coveted spot on the Nuyorican Slam Team the coming Friday. 3 of the 4 poets, S.L.A.P., Tongo and me were within a point of each other. And all happily nervous. I had the highest score after the first round so I went scheduled to go last. The first poet spit and received an incredible score but not high enough to overtake the rest of us. Then Tongo went and spit a poem with of fire and excitement that sent the crown into a frenzy. His score reflected their enthusiasm. 29.4 he now had the lead. S.L.A.P. (something like a poet) another NC poet in NYC took the stage and was in rare form. Her poem built on the energy Tongo had evoked in the crowd and her poem was magnificent in content and performance. Again the crowd went wild. 29.6 S.L.A.P. had just taken the highest score of the night. I had to follow her. I was told by a the coach of the Bull City Slam Team which poem I should perform in this situation. The one that had received my highest score in the past. Not necessarily my best poem but the best received. That poem is entitled Pictures and is one of my favorite pieces on social commentary. It is my best received and highest scoring piece. I performed Bury Me @ Midnight.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlLjd3ck3Dw I tried to remember the feeling I had when I wrote it. I tried to recall inspiration. I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat. It immediately turned into butterflies in my stomach. I moved back from the mic, remembered to breath then fulfilled a dream, which I believed was mine but in all likelihood belonged to the poem. I spoke the lines…

“even though I said you couldn’t.
Please lay my legs in Brooklyn
that’s where I learned my stride

And even though they shouldn’t.
Every now and then they’ll walk in…
Pinero’s ashes spread on the lower east side”

…and felt a chill, connection and completion of a personal quest. The judges liked it. They gave it a perfect score of 30. It’s not about the points it’s about the poetry and I was blessed to grace the stage with true poets, incredible poets. I am glad that this poem was well received. Oh by the way I went on to slam that Friday to compete for the chance to compete for a spot on their slam team. I was the lowest scoring poet of the night. Fail! LOL but as I said earlier it’s not about the points it’s about the poetry and the request for this blog and the fulfilling of a dream.

So tell me, no matter how small or big it seems and with no reservations, what dreams have you fulfilled. Think hard sometimes after we fulfill them we forget that they once were dreams.

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 05:56:00 +0000

Goals and Dreams:
Timeline: Roaming south along route 321 after performances in Columbia, SC

Subject: Burying Ghosts

What are the things that make us human? Depends on who you ask. Scientist might say that it is anything from our opposable thumbs to our ability to reason. But what do those suckers know? They used to prescribe cigarettes. Theologist might call it a soul, a spirit something divine imparted to us from God. Can’t and don’t want to argue with that. Philosophers would cite the very asking of this question as proof that we are “above” the other animals of this planet. You ask me…I don’t know. One of those things, I believe, that does make us human is our memories. More importantly how we interpret and act because of them. Do animals regret passed mistakes, at least the ones they survive through? (I knew I shouldn’t have drunk from that watering hole! Damn alligator nearly bit my nose off) or lust for lovers who rejected or ate them? (“She said she wanted some head but this is…” thought the praying mantis to himself before he couldn’t think anymore) Do animals write poetry? Speaking of poetry a poem read in the movie G.I. Jane about an animal. I paraphrase:

I have never seen a wild thing feel sorry for itself
I have seen a bird fall frozen dead from a bow
Without ever once having felt sorry for itself
Ever feel sorry for yourself? Ever regret or lust? Ever wish or miss? When I began this trip I knew that it was more than a poetry tour. It was a search. A journey whose purpose was and is the journey itself. A cathartic journey meant to do many things one of which is to lay some ghosts to rest. What ghosts? Would be the next logical question. Well not everything is for the eyes and thoughts of others. Let’s just say that not everything happens in the T.V. show formula of buildup, event, quick resolution and fairytale conclusion. That loss does lessen over time but neither loss nor time give a damn about length. I went to bury a ghost, some ghosts, in that small town I moved to from the big city. Unlike the valiant bird on the bow above I felt sorry for myself and needed to. I regretted, missed, and even wished all to no avail. Eventually I moved on but don’t know if I really did.

conflicting emotions

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 05:39:00 +0000

In Retrospect: 2
Timeline: Roaming south along route 321 after performances in Columbia, SC
Subject: Conflicting Emotions

How do these picture make you feel? Do they elicit any emotion at all? Why should they? They are just simple pictures of an agricultural product grown in the south taken on a cold dreary day. A field of something that is in all of our closets and probably on our bodies right this moment. It’s just cotton…right?

Greensboro

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 06:00:00 +0000

There was a magnificent event at the Renaissance Jazz Cafe in Greensboro. Hosted by the lovely ladies of Nubian-Empire. Some great poets, an exceptional band and food. Here are some of the pics from the event.

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 05:34:00 +0000

In Retrospect: 1
Timeline: Roaming south along route 321 after performances in Columbia, SC

Subject: Mocking symbols.

Tony Soprano, Mr. Pink (Reservoir Dogs), and/or any other number of gangster types in any number of movies will denigrate any number of ethnicities. This is not exclusive to those of African descent although the example I will use later is. Nikki (Joe Pesci) used Sam Rothstein’s (Deniro) religion like a damning curse of damnation in the movie Casino “You Jew motherfucker!” not to mention calling the Middle Eastern fences he sent stolen diamonds to “Sand niggers”. Spike Lee’s characters have used every racial slur ever conceived in his patented montages in several of his movies although to me it’s not quite the same but deserves a mention before I get to the next dude. Tarentino. He uses the word nigger in his movies more times than Dave Chappell and that’s hard to do. These movies all have a couple things in common. One is that they unapologetically use racial slurs, that is what it is, and two they are usually loved by the ethnicities that are slurred in them. How many black people love Goodfella’s even though Ray Liota jokes “you know who goes to jail? Nigger stick up men. You know why they go to jail. Cause they fall to sleep in the getaway car” I can only speak for me and those I know but a lot of black men love these and most mafia type movies despite the fact that the “heros” of these movies consider them less than human. LOL but I’m not going to go into tirade mode on this I just wanted to outline how common place and in many ways accepted the use of slurs and stereotypes are in our modern media. Nothing new mocking symbols have been employed in other mediums throughout history. Which only serves to illustrate why something like the below picture is/was acceptable enough to display out in plain all day everyday open sight. As I headed south along Route 321 this was one of the features that rose from the side of the road to greet me.(see pic)

cant see what I mean? Here’s a closer view.

See him in the red shirt and blue pants across from the gray clad confederate soldier? That ladies and gentlemen is a Lawn Jockey. I’ve never been called it and didn’t really know how the slur connected to Black people but now I do. I would actually like to think that maybe the lawn jockey was a mistake or oversight on the part of the owner/dealer. But there was some evidence that it wasnt such as the lawn jockey’s little cousins for sale less than 20 feet away and the conversation that I had with the proprietor concerning her wares. She was a heavy set white woman with a deep southern accent who walked out of the screen door onto the porch as I snapped these photos. She wanted to know why I was taking pictures. I told her that I was writing a book and that her collection was very interesting. She stared blankly at me after having me repeat myself several times. My attempts at talking more about the statues in order to work my way up to the significance of senor lawn jockey weren’t met with resistance or malevolence. They were met with silence. The woman walked back inside her home as I was asking questions but since she made me repeat myself earlier she might have been hard of hearing. Or even simpler she knew I wasn’t buying and so paid me no further attention. Either way I didn’t force the issue or try to guess at her feelings on lawn jockey significance. I took the pictures and decided to let those who view them to formulate their own opinions. So…when you see these pics what do you think?

Hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 05:28:00 +0000

First off apologies for not adding any new blogs or information. To make a long story short I have had to stop Roaming…at least for the moment. The recession, too much fun, bad planning, gremlins or any other reason you might think of or can imagine have for the time brought my all out Roam to a close. I would love to thank all the readers (Roamers, Cubers and everyone else who took the time to stop by), supporters (too many to name who have shown more love than can be expressed), and subjects (from statues to “drop it like it’s hot” dancers) for roaming with me. What happens now? Well two things. I will be posting an “In Retrospect” series, which will be comprised of posts that I couldn’t post due to 2 computers failing on me during the Roam. I will share with you the pictures taken during that time, poems that resulted from inspirations on the road, insights and events that occurred but I never noted. The posts will be dated so you can see which part of the journey they are related to and will follow me up to now. The other is that I will be ending this blog (don’t want to false advertise and I am not Roaming anymore) and starting a new one. That one will be strange, lol and have a year running life. You will have to read it to know why. I will inform readers of when this blog will end and give information for the other one for those interested Anyway, again I thank you all and hope that I will be able to come back to this blog in the very near future for a new and longer Roam I don’t want to stop but…hey here are some pictures of the road.

The Next New Deal

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 14:19:00 +0000

"Have we learned anything from the past?"

"How long is the memory of a country?"

Answers: NO and between 20-80 years apparently. I am tired of economists and politicians saying we are in the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression...that means we are in a depression. But you know that. The way we got out of the last depression was the New Deal put in place By FDR who used over 3,000 executive orders to combat that financial crisis (So yes Mr. President Elect pull out the pens and get to work). I could tell you how this crisis affects us all, even and especially wandering poets now looking for a job, or even how cold it is in NY as milk, transit (they raising the price of a Metrocard Son!), cigarettes ($9.00 a pack) prices are raised. I could do that...kinda like...I just did but instead I would like to ask you to join me in making suggestions for the next new deal. I'm not an economist but these seem to be common sense to me but we all know that common sense isn't...well lets just get to it.

American minimum wage (or whichever countries is highest:-) globalized which would eliminate a lot of exploitation of workers, countries and keep jobs in house in most cases.

Create jobs for those unemployed (like myself) building the infrastructure of this country updating it to the 21st century+80years till our memories get foggy and we have to have another one of these financial crisis depression things.

Obviously make those automakers we are going to bail out concentrate on building hybrid and electric cars for the environment (I like trees and breathing) and eliminate our dependency on those terrorists...rich people.

Put some people in jail, not the usual suspects, CEO's, CFO's, politicians (I can think of at least 2 who would look good in handcuff bracelets) and continue to put them in jail as the screw up people's pensions and lives speculating in the stock market

Eliminate the stock market and all speculation (oil, currency, etc.) and value commodities at what they are actually worth in today's dollars...radical I know

Base the currency of every country on something of value and not those eliminated stock markets. The currency would then become money again worth exactly what was backing it and not the whims of old men and old money who wake up and think the price of concentrated orange juice is going to go up. (think Trading Places:-)

but enough from me (and I have made light of some of these obviously)

What provisions would you put into The Next New Deal?

Retraction

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 05:00:00 +0000

In my over zealous effort to ge to the point of my blog I denigrated the African American Memorial on the SC Capital grounds. I have included several pics of this beautiful and powerful monument in effort to make up for my characterizing the monument as a table thingy. No excuse I just remember the emotions that were tied into the monument and the brining down of the confederate flag (a compromise that very few liked myself included) it does not excuse me belittling the magnificient work of this monument.

Traditions and Superstitions

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 19:46:00 +0000

"dont sweep my feet with that broom boy!!"
my mother used to say this everytime I picked up a broom. She believed it bad luck, that if I swept her feet she would go to jail. A supestition that she passed to my family and which took me decades to break along with my belief in "most" of the superstitions I believed in. There was an anti-curse though if you were swept. Spitting on the offendomg broom 3 times would cancel any ill fortune plasticized straw could manifest. I've heard of different consequences for being broom swept. Some believe if you sweep them it means you think they are garbage or worthless and you have to kiss them to show you value them...ok I made that one up but it sounds like it could be true doesnt it? seriously some people believe being swept with a broom means you will get married. This is probably tied to jumping the broomstick an African American tradition that dates back to slavery where slaves banned from traditional weddings jumped the broom as their wedding ceremony. Superstition: Hand itches your getting money. Ear itches someone is talking about you (lotta itchin superstitions) dont put your hat on the bed its bad luck. dont split the pole or you will be separated from who you are walking with ( I used to get the fire slapped out of me for this one) Tradition wise of course the Pop (or is it hop) and Johns on New Years Eve for luck and Collard Greens on the same day for money. One that is both. blowing out birthday candles - tradition and you have to get them all to get your wish - superstition. Superstitions and Traditions. Two things that tie us to our pasts and out beliefs and which are not mutually exclusive of each other. Why do we need them? Are they as strong as our other beliefs? Is it comfort of continuity for us? Perhaps our link to the abstract or supernatural connections to our ancestors and future desires?
What superstitions did you grow up with and do you still follow them? If so why? (I ask a lot of questions answer any all or none as you please. lol and special thanks to Naturally Alise for providing input into this blog)

Superstition Tradition

I don’t remember
But I have the memory
See I was told by those who were there to see
And remembered for me
So this story
Is a second hand memory of their memory
Needless to say the recollection’s a bit fuzzy
But my roots know exactly
It’s a scene they’ve seen throughout my ancestry,
my family tree, my 1 true history
That slavery tried to make void
But couldn’t destroy
I said all that to say this
I was a baby
And this is the story
That family gave me as they raised me
He was 8 and lanky
Hair kinky
We call it kingly
Nose snotty
Butt stinky
Raised in the projects where the poorest are forced to live
In a city notorious for destroying kids
I’d let you guess which
But sadly now a days
You can take your pick
But he was a prince
The crown prince
The king, our daddy, wasn’t there for us and rarely would be
So mama called him and handed him’
Me
And said
“Show God that baby”
it was our families superstition tradition
reminiscent of “pop and john’s” in a new year kitchen
or at weddings jumping broomsticks
and looking for money when your hand starts to itch
for us it was your birthday morning
everyone remaining silent moving in silence
till u woke up and gave ‘birth’ to the first words of your ‘birth’ day
just our way, and
firmly engrained in the brain of an 8 year old
who so he wouldn’t break his mothers back
used to step over cracks in the concrete
a difficult feat
considering Brooklyn streets
but I said all that to say this
He believed
and he took me in arms trembling barely able to support the weight
he steps back with an uncertain gait and mama asks
“Is he too heavy?”
then she calls for the others
John-John answers
“He’s not heavy’he’s my brother”
and pulls me to his chest
I wrap my arms around his neck and lay my head on his shoulder
As he grasps the hand of our other brother
Who clasps the hand of another brother
And those 3 wise men and me go up to the east - stairwell
And in bare feet climb stairs of concrete
Avoiding crack vials, urine and feces
Big brother reaching back pulling up from behind
Lifting as he climbs
Finally reaching a blue metal door
Put up by the government to keep little black boys off the roof
And falling
Written in warning red and white letters is
“If door is opened. Alarm will sound!”
he clutches the handle
pulls it down
Silence
The 3 wise men venture out into the desert like heat of August
All this to peer into the heavens
Almost as black and as beautiful as their homeland
Or black hands raised in gloved fist by barefoot gold medallist
Who would lose those medals after the Olympics
Did they ever get those back?
Anyway
The 8 year old man
My big brother
The lanky prince
Who wouldn’t live to see 12 more Augusts
Lifts his arms
And shows God that baby
The other little princes are bare fisted
Want to do the same
They’ve been here before
They know it’s our way
So they raise pacifiers and bottles and join big brother to say
In blasphemy
“Behold! The only thing greater than Thee!”
And they wait with trepidation
and with hesitation
and while their eyes were watching God big brother changes the saying to
“Father! Look! Your greatest creation”
And finally satisfied pulls me to his chest
Then heads back west
Its more than 3 decades later
And I still have no clue, of who
Held my big brother to God
And if it was God
Or our father
He was talking to.

You have earned your puppy girls (random euphoric musings)

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 13:01:00 +0000

A paraphrase of something the President Elect said to his daughters. Among all that happened this was as significant a statement to me as the acceptance and concession speeches. A daddy talking to his girls. Michelle Obama, such a beautiful supportive sister, I think that she has inadvertently started a trend. Maybe...just maybe many and more sisters (not saying that many dont right now) will look at their man, son, brother, uncle, father, etc but mainly their mate and ask themselves "could he be president?" and if the answer is "no" will demand more from their men. How beautiful will it be when we can say...President Elect Michelle Obama...or Oprah Winfrey (but like I did with Obama I will still need to know her politics:-) I'm cautiously ecstatic here in Brooklyn it was insane in both good and bad ways. A sister stood alone on the corner talking with her mother on the phone and broke down while telling her Obama was elected. I watched her almost guiltily not knowing if I should turn away or offer her a hand/hug. She watched me watch her and smiled. It was ok. Car horns blared the dorms/building windows at Pratt were filled with college students screaming, cheering as loud as those in the streets. The liquor store was packed (they close @ midnight here) and there was some real ignorance in there I wont touch that right now but a future blog is in the works. Someone celebrated with the wrong kind of "fireworks" and groups of revelers stood on corners and roamed the streets. It was magical here. I wonder what their thinking and feeling in places like South Carolina (where I went to college), North Carolina where the battle was/is so close that to my knowledge it was 50/50. And I dont ask this in gloat I really wonder if the hurt of McCain supporters is equal to the elation of Obama supporters. How did you celebrate (or mourn) the election of Barack Obama and let me be the first to ask...Where were you when Barack Obama was elected President of the United States of America?

So where should I be?

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 16:13:00 +0000

Unfortunately I will not be able to be in Toronto for this Election Day. I wanted to watch our process through the eyes or our sister nation and get the reaction, international reaction, of a country that will be directly affected by our election almost as much as American citizens. I wont be able to be there I will be in New York. So Roamers, Cubers and visitors where in New York should the wondering poet watch/wait for the results of the election? The two prime candidates for location are Times Square the home of excess or The Schomburg in Harlem. The Schomburg leads for my purely sentimental reason that if Barack wins I would like to stand on the corner where Malclolm X Blvd and Martin Luther King Blvd meet. So Roamers where would you like me to go?

Supplies and such.

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 14:00:00 +0000

So exactly how am I ROAMing? My supplies are mainly can goods with me buying perishables as I can. I try to cook as many meals as possible although every now and again I have to The vehicle is packed carrying the necessities I can cram into them. The vehicle, Blackjack is what I named her, also serves as bed, shelter etc. I have been using public facilities (this is Lake Warren in Hampton County, SC) to shower, use bathroom, etc. As for right now this is how I'm Roaming. I have friends and supporters who have given me places to stay but the majority of my time is spent alone in Blackjack.

I have been told that the hardest part of this trip will be the aloneness of 3am when I'm cold and it's raining and no one I know even knows where I am...so far this has held up to be true. If you were Roaming what would be the hardest part to you?

Supporters Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 21:18:00 +0000

Simply stated my journey could not have started or continue without the support of others. In fact the very blog your reading is the creation of one of my biggest supporters (Thank you Ms. Alliteration:-) I just want to extend my thanks to all of those who have supported me. For the continuation of our Roam I will use Sundays to recognize supporters of Project:ROAM. As this is the first Sunday there are many people to thank many of which I have given nomenclatures of endearement. You know who you are:-) So I would like to thank all who have assisted me:

Ms. Alliteration - blog designer, cheerleader, cutest spellchecker ever:-)
Tia-mat (think dungeons and dragons) curser outter of doubters
Mama Bird - who reminds me in no uncertain terms to take care of myself
The Elf - who trouble shoots and who got sick taking care of me.
The Bruhz - too many to name but who have provided such support as can be given to a dreamer
My poet family - again too many to name who have done too much to name and continue to.
A very special thanks to Empress K who's gift material and spiritual have injected new courage in me. All given after speaking to me for less than an hour. In fact so many have given so much I cant chronicle it all but please know I will try and that I am extremely grateful to everyone of you.

Culture in the Carolinas

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 15:53:00 +0000

Performed at the Wine Up in Charlotte tonight. It is amazing to see a cultural/artistic community flourishing as it does here. I truly feel that I am witnessing the birth of a Renaissance when I visit Charlotte. Not to take anything away from Bull City and the Triangle, but this area of NC is a cultural explosion in the realms of art and culture much of which is homegrown but some international. (i.e.the world famous Durham Blues Festival among other things) The movement is growing in NC in general. Venues and events abound everywhere from Kinston (Hey Inkstress!), down to Fayetteville, to Wilmington and I'm sure places I don't know but more important than venues is that the integrity of art, and not just spoken word poetry, remains intact. Venues like Mansion 462 in Chapel Hill, Wine Up in Charlotte, Hayti Center (home of the Jambalaya Soul Slam), events like the Royal Slam in Raleigh (C.O.R.E) and Downtown Live ( I think it's called), Spoken word Wednesday's at the 4030 club in Raleigh (not sure of their status right now) as well as the incredible Black Poetry Theater troupe who perform everywhere! (Sup Church?!) exhibit how much art is a part of culture of the Carolinas and it is one of the reason's I am glad to call Durham my home... when I get back that is. As I am traveling and may wind up anywhere the inspiration blows me I would love to hear from the "Roamers", "Cubers", (Shouts to Tiha and Alliterally Alise) or anyone just passing through. What are some venues, events, lakes, mountains, deserts, (u get the nature theme) or sights that need to be seen in your city? (good, bad, ghetto, or majestic....)

Do you know...

noreply@blogger.com (Elliot Axiom) — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 13:14:00 +0000

...right now at this moment without peeking. What kind/color underwear you have on? Now if you are going on a date later it doesnt count. If you are matching your underwear to your outfit ( I have seen it done enough that I have accepted it) again doesnt count. If your planning on being in any type of situation that may cause your underwear to show or have to be shown (this is mainly for the drinking game/truth or dare clique...or again date night:-) Basically if you chose underwear because you knew someone besides you was very likely to see them and this is why you know what kind of underwear you have on it doesnt count. Now, with those cheaters out of the way do you know what kind/color underwear you have on? Why do I ask? I'm looking for Co-signers:-) Because I didn't. As I was getting into the shower at the campground, undressing as efficiently as one can in a stone building with no heat and cold water spewing at you, I looked in the mirror and paused because instead of the green underwear I thought I was wearing I had on black pair. And this freaked me out, not because I had an extra shower somewhere along the way I'd forgotten about, but because of...well...how can you forget something that close to you? That intimate to you? I contemplated the reason I didnt know and why you might not know is that those things that are closest to us (in more than just a physical way) are not things that we think about when venturing out in our everyday, not taking a shower in a cold bathroom world. We hurry up and get up, dressed, and out the door with not much thought to the closest parts of us. Just on how close we live to work and how long will it take to get there. But we definitely know what we have on the outside - even those who refuse to abide by the dress code of their job or the social compact. Do we feel that what is part of us but no one can see is not as important as what others see because this is how they define us? Do we define ourselves by how others define us? Maybe I just forgot about a shower and should shut up...but do you know what color underwear you have on? (Dont Peek!)

Route 321

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Leaving Columbia tomorrow. Heading South. Going to be riding through small towns I have seen many times before as a tween but feel like I will finally see them for the first time. Obstacles and barriers have presented themselves as expected. Did 2 shows in one night, a first for me, sold barely any product. Both venues loved the shows and I was meet after by many who told me how much they enjoyed, were inspired, were touched, etc by the poetry but…well we are in a recession/depression. Money, the quintessential barrier that I have to and God willing will overcome. My brother told me today that I have too much pride (if there is such a thing) and that I have to learn to ask for help. I know he’s right and I have to come to grips with it. Just one more character trait I have to adjust. I remember as a child growing up in the projects in Brooklyn having to go to the store with a note from my mother asking for credit and bearing a list of items. I used to play the dumb, sweet kid acting like I didn’t know what the note said. But I did. The answer wasn’t always yes and I felt like a failure when I had to come back to the house empty handed. The emerging man in me. My pride derives from this and other experiences of poverty. Nothing particularly special just having to swallow pride to survive…and knowing it way too young. We all have similar stories, even those who never wanted for anything, they too have had their trials. My story is nothing special it’s just my story and how/why I came to be who I am. I don’t’ excuse the behavior of rappers/ athletes/ entertainers but I can understand how suddenly having an excess when you previously had nothing could make you act. Anyway, it’s off South. The road calls me.

The road calls me (1st stanza)
The road calls me
A lover’s whisper in my ear
Saying
Come to me
Follow me
Ride me like I’ve never been ridden before
Position yourself between my guiding lines and push
Harder than ever
Don’t look back
Keep your eyes on me
Move faster than the speed of thought
Cause if you think
you wont
But take your time
Cause if you don’t
You’ll miss
the purpose
Don’t fly through the journey
Taste me
Lick asphalt
Kiss concrete
Suck exhaust till exhausted
Then rest your weary bones in my median
Never leave me
They say your running from your demons
But you see them
Face them in the mirror every time you look
Do you see him?
Not a demon but your father
Gone 13 years and yet here
You look just like him…
I started smoking at his bedside beside him
Watching him die of cancer
Lit 2 cigarettes
1 for him, 1 for me
having found the answer
of how to commit suicide
Slowly.

Random Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Do I want to discuss race, heritage and hate?

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Not really but whether or not you want to sometimes your forced to. Example: the picture below.

To your right: Confederate War Memorial (big thing w/ the guy on it) behind it (on the pole) the confederate flag behind the flag a truck (integrated work force of city employed landscapers…too easy) behind the truck the South Carolina State Capital Building shelled by Sherman and still bearing the scars. To the left, you have to look hard, it’s blocked by the walk sign The African American Memorial (I’ll take more pics but it’s a wall and table thing put up in the 90’s). In the center 2 white guys waiting to cross the street. Are they racists? Klansmen? Sons of the confederacy? Or liberals who want nothing more than social change and equality for all people? Do they give a damn about any of this race shit? How would you or I know? The answer is we can’t but in the context of this picture what do you think? This is how symbols separate people. Supporters of flying the confederate flag on state grounds (although since the confederacy tried to secede from the union/USA wouldn’t that make the confederate flag a banner of treason flying, by state law, on government property bought with the tax dollars of…awww you know what I mean?) say it is heritage not hate. What’s the heritage? I’m biased of course as a descendant of those who toiled, died under and in twisted turn of events died for that flag. I would not honor those black confederate soldiers by flying it. I would burn it in effigy for a mistake we can never forget as long as it flies. Something so divisive it brought the NAACP down and rallied 50,000 protestors to converge on the capital building calling for it (confederate flag) to come down off top of the state building, which it did, to 15 feet from the ground so we could see it better. Heritage not hate? I would simply interject that to some the Swastika is heritage.

Memories of a Dislocated Yankee

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 12:00:00 +0000

Memories and Heartache

Being in South Carolina brings back ghosts and memories of greatness for me. I moved “Down South” when I was 16 from New York. I’ve been back and forth ever since. A year in NY here 2 years in SC there back to NY for a couple more then to NC for the last 3. I love them both. And hate them both. Brooklyn gave me my swagger and street smarts. SC my common sense and independence. I’ve fought and been shot at in both places. Witnessed pure altruistic love and unsolicited hate in each. It took both to teach me the difference between a lady, a woman and a ________ (fill in the blank) but neither North nor South has satiated my wanderlust in fact the opposite. They are so different from each, not opposite just different, that it makes me wonder what happens West, NW, way north, SW, beneath the border, across the pond, etc. When I lived here I held several different jobs all in the social services field. They all have their own ventricle but one brings back the most vivid recollections. Now I didn’t say pleasant I said vivid and anyone who has worked with bad ass kids knows exactly what I mean…and that I use “bad” in pure endearment. A group home is a strange place. An intermingling of victims and predators. Kids coming from correctional facilities trying to be made ready to successfully re-enter the world. Kids on their way to those same facilities if they don’t get their shit straight. Survivors of you name it that have no one but the hired shepherds to care for them and protect them from dysfunctional families and above said kids. Till they’re 18 at least. It’s not all gloom and doom (I know I sometimes am a bit pessimistic) many of these kids learn and go off into the world as prepared as any hormone charged teen. Some head to college, other’s home, some to the streets. I would bet that statistically we did the same as an inner city high school’s graduating/senior class. There are some stories though that you wouldn’t believe and I cant tell you because 1. HIPAA would hunt me down. 2. It’s not my place. 3. It’s not your business. LOL but as a writer I can attempt to convey the sentiment of the situation. I wrote a piece that seems specific but actually incorporates several incidents, children, and staff members’ stories from my time at the group home. It’s a work in progress and needless to say no names are mentioned.

Counselor
There’s a frame
Hanging on the wall of a counselor’s office and it…is old
Old as Methuselah’s baby clothes
Old as the echoes of the big bang’s boom
Old as babies tapping mother’s chest, to get at mother’s breast and their nourishment
As old and as ancient as this
The frame is chrome but tarnished
The whole right side is rusted
Half the glass’s been busted and removed
The parchment inside is ripped, wrinkled and bruised
Yet somehow, remains whole
It reminds him, of broken children
It reminds him of broken parts of him that he tries to mend
By finding broken children and fixing them
It rarely works
It always hurts
But it’s his work chosen for them
“At risk” children in-group homes
Who’d done nothing to get there on their own except for surviving
Abuse, neglect, unwanted sex, guns, drugs and gang violence
He chose this work, for her
sitting in the counselors office
where hung the frame ever so old
Today she was grown and going home
To take care of the alcoholic mother that put her here
get her 2 little brothers out of foster care
Move to Atlanta
She had a good job there…stripping
She really didn’t want to
But didn’t really care
She’d have her family.
What could the counselor say?
Only the caged know what it means to be free
Only slaves understand what freedom really means
Only the grave can give a body true peace
For her-the counselor feared all 3
He had tried to talk her off this path but failed
So he just listened and looked in her eyes, which looked at the frame
That hadn’t always been this way
It was perfect the day she bought it at the yard sale
with her group home allowance
Given it to him
he shouldn’t have allowed it, but did
Trying to combat the attachment disorder of this kid
Buy building one that was positive
She said she loved him, hugged him
Then went for his zipper, stopping her
He explained her behavior as inappropriate
That he loved her like a daughter or little sis
Perplexed she couldn’t understand this
Cause if he loved her like her father and big brother did
He should show her
Like her father and big brother did
And fuck her
Like her father and big brother did
He turned his back in failed embarrassment
That’s when she grabbed it and hit
The counselor with the frame in the counselor’s office before it was old
Glass shattered she grabbed a piece and stabbed him
He grabbed her hand as she sliced her wrist
Twisting it as her family had twisted love’s image
Twisting till the glass if not her heart was free
He cried for help. She cried “Why don’t you love me?”
Help came
He answered
“I do. Not how you want me too but the way you deserve”
She still didn’t/couldn’t understand
But apologized when she worked up the nerve
At the hospital where they both got stitches
8 apiece
Looking at the frame in silence they reminisced
The frame was chrome but tarnished
Turned green by salty tears
The whole right side i rusted
Mingled blood that had dried for a year
Busted glass and torn parchment
How she’d attacked her attachment fear
Her ride was here
She hugged him, this time appropriately
All it had taken was 16 stitches, 5 medications
and a year of therapy
The counselor watched her leave
While sitting beneath the frame in his office
Busted, rusted and old
Knowing he’d never see her again
And realizing
That he hadn’t chosen this work
This work had chosen him.

What does the color of a church’s door signify?

noreply@blogger.com (Naturally Alise) — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 18:57:00 +0000

I’m going to do some research on this one unless someone posts the answer. Why are they not a uniform color? The color of a church’s door usually stands out as something intentionally done in contrast or contradiction to the color of the building. Is it to catch the attention of sinners? A stop sign to remind us where to find redemption or something related to that particular sect of the faith? Speaking of church doors what is meant when the preacher says "the doors of the church are now open/closed"? Probably revealing my heathen but I don’t know so I’m asking (I don’t have WiFi or a laptop at the moment so don’t tell me to google or wikipedia it) Maybe, just maybe I should go to the church with the red door and ask someone inside. Is it still legal to talk to people in our Internet information at your fingertips world? I’ll let you know…or not depending on police response time.