Performance Poetry - "I'm not a Gambler."

For the last few months I've been participating in a self-guided class on regaining blocked creativity. The book I use, called The Artist's Way - A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, is written by a woman named Julia Cameron. While the entirety of the class is quite in depth, part of the process is regaining autonomy over creative mediums you've stymied, for whatever reason, along the way. While my preferred medium for creativity is writing, I know a part of me has always been devoted to performance. Growing up I played in bands, but for the last 5 years or so I've been very drawn to performance poetry. For me, though I write it and am intrigued by it, I've found actually performing it to be a road block I am actively trying to overcome.

Below is a recorded version, as well as a transcript, of a poem I wrote while on the road this past summer entitled "I'm not a Gambler." It's taken me awhile to come to finishing it, but reaching culmination of my work is a new goal I've set while taking this class. Please enjoy my poem, and if you feel so inclined to share this or any of my other posts on your social media platforms, I wouldn't hate it :)

https://soundcloud.com/mulv-jones/im-not-a-gambler

I’m not a gambler. While the specifics may evade, I know my fate has never rested on the dwindling hope bestowed by gyrating reds and blacks, or arbitrary numbers birthed from a back loaded deck.

No, I spend waining moments with prodigality. Numbered, doomed with a date and place their purpose finally ferments a concoction so potent its its existence is consumed in one fell swoop. 

You see on paper, purpose seems so straight forward; dreams, ambitions, but does this ink ever spout legs and come to fruition, or does the fermentation process only exist in the Whisky oak barrels labeled and stored with precision in our daydreaming heads. I consume this thought with one quick guilt and privilege lubricated gulp as I lie lengthwise with a limited time lover watching the premium cable in the clouds. 

Our heart beats, normally syncopated, are presently in unison, I ponder where does the rift... between ascension and sin come in to allow one to make a mark, and the other to terrorize those with which he or she had dreamed of serving? 

Limited time lover rises, obscuring the sun’s shine. She twists her back to crack, 1, 2 times before she dives into the depths of my embrace which I sullenly savor as I know it will be short-lived. Being raised a catholic kid I learned there’s an ever expanding schism between right and wrong, yet these moments right here illustrate this pontificated lesson’s misguidance. As the philosophical cumulus transmutes and preaches, I realize no pages could ever teach us like the free of charge aerosol curriculum we forget is always in abundance above us. Her embrace is the only vessel that guides me past rapid fire thoughts.

As the sun concedes to forthcoming night, only to once again rise, I’ll be alone and it’s in these Isolated instances that we are defined as humans. Fortuitous moments seem hard to expose, yet I was told from a ripe young age we’ll know when we’ve reached a peak or pinnacle. The vindictive calendar bleeds out days with no restraint, and with no visceral pull I’m becoming cynical. Limited-time lover fades into the day’s break, her lips linger like the orange and pinks occurring as the moon acquiesces to whoever oversees gravity’s pay. The sun burns brightly with the last remnants of consecrated fuel. His lover’s labor always ends with their lips locking. Their intwine, so powerful they discolor the sky; unraveling the yolk created by the gods, thus they’ve been doomed to just one touch of their insatiable mouths every 24 hours. I’m tainted by this cosmic display of affection, Here and now I decided I’m not settling till I find an equally powerful embrace, till I see the sun’s equivalent starring into my lunar face. I’m vexed, I’ve only drawn to movement by spirituality or sex but now, I won’t rest, I won't rest until I’m caressed by serendipity’s sagacious hand; thumb to cheek as she speaks, her words through moments I now understand are fortuitous. She tells me fate.. is defined… by these tidal hands…. 

I lay back in my medially occupied bed, where limited time lover’s scent is scant in ruffled sheets. I revel in my lot as I engulf a lifetime in a single breath... I’m not a gambler, no, I don’t squander numbered days to games of chance. 

Photo courtesy of Wall Paper Stock

Rough audio and transcription of a new poem

So it's been quite some time since I've posted a poem on here. In fact, the last time was in 2009, right here! Anyways, I started writing this new poem awhile back, but a few recent occurrences made me actually finish it. It's a rough version, and the audio is pretty rough too (I'm in a guest house and was a little embarrassed to get too loud!). It is a very targeted poem, I'll admit, and some may realize what it is about. To be honest the majority of it was written about an experience pretty far back in the past, but a few lines were added and tweaked in the end to bring it to this state.

Though poems may come off harsher than our actual reality, for me, it's a great way to process and move on. I hope you enjoy, and as soon as I can think of a title and get a video of me reading it, I'll post it on here.

(untitled)

I got a tattoo.

It’s one I’ve been thinkin about for awhile.

It covers the better part of my back, and trickles down my arm like spring waterfalls before the snow melt inundates the stream.

It’s simple.

I like the way the colors blend into my back.

I got it sometime between when you said you didn’t want to see me and that you wanted to be friends. And I’ll pretend

That the unabashed laugh, and the smile a mile wide when you read the words plastered on my billboard eyes were perfectly normal responses between “just friends.”

But I draw the line when you mistook the prose below my brows, surrounding the nose for someone you once knew.

Someone who was beyond devoted Proselytized by your songs and psalms like the ubiquitous black lines framing your clandestinely brown eyes, I couldn’t remove the dogmatic blinders.

My fake guru I allowed you to renovate the plot once housing my essence. But today is a new day.

Through ablutions and purification i’ve eradicated the yolk once extending from your gaze. You would have to be crazed to think that this man now momentarily found in your presence will shy away from calling you out on your bullshit.

Though I have unreciprocated respect for your beliefs in reincarnation, my cross cultural examination has led me to the brink of realization of new manifestation emerging with the each passing dawn. I’m not wrong when I say that today I’m changed. Though the resemblance is uncanny, like the transmuted skin on my back you’ll never embrace, you’re not any part of the happiness now etched permanently on this epidermal canvas. My face may appear the same, but the newly acquired wrinkles, like rivers from the pristine ocean adorning my eyes, tell tales of smiles you neither aided nor created. Aging scars may house your remnants but they are no impediment to forward progress, only talismans of mistakes that will never again resurfaced.

So of friends, I say one should not pour foundation on malleable land, and deceit is shallow soil and if you love him, let your union flourish by not stowing it away from the light. And now that he’s found the strength ot drop on one knee, embellishing anxiously awaiting finger with a promised ring, I hope you have the tact to cease from contacting me. You don’t want that rock to scratch your phone’s screen.

I’ll tell you there is not one ounce of disgrace, in this new verity I’ve embraced…that I wish you the best in all your endeavors. Triumphs, failure, ebbs, flows, falls and ascensions to grace. But I pray I’ve already lived through the last time I’ll ever see your face.