kenzo spring/summer 2015

Forty seconds of a truly impressive thunderstorm, which passed over Minneapolis earlier this week.

'The Three Graces'Hand carved porcelain, burnt beech

Alex Turner at Bonnaroo by Wrenne Evans (better quality)

Korea.Seoul. Augsut 2013.


Once upon somewhere there was a young man with a mind a bit too in romance with lonely, and a spine still learning to straighten.

I write things down for a living. 

I spend most of my days either pissed off at gravity or amazed at the fact that seven billion people are breathing as we speak…(because I do things like this)…you call me an artist. You say, of sorts, I should be a musician of the heart.  But you don’t know me or the hells and God if you did.  And the truth is I’ve been scared to tell the other side of the story.

The story of the engine behind all of this.

Now my momma says all it takes is one look at the kid to tell I’ve been a rose-tongued wordsmith since birth.  But forreal forreal I didn’t start bleeding ink until circa late junior high—around the time back seats on school field trips started getting awesome, parent-less cribs were what we lived for, and pegs on the bike could get all three of us home.  I was actually playing ball until puberty made it very clear I would in fact never ever start point guard for the Knicks. That’s when I traded in my Nikes to ramble about flowers and pretty girls and shit.

It was different back then, back when it was just that pen and my teenage rebellion.  Every stage seemed like a mountain and every poem seemed to open its own Alcatraz of balloons.  By high school, pieces of my ribcage began demanding refuge and it wasn’t just writing anymore.  They weren’t just poems.  It was my best proof of God.  It was bed for my buckets of misunderstand.  A glimpse of sin and salvation in the same second. What were once journals were now holy purges, and I learned just how fucking real a night could get with some paper and some secrets. 

At 17 I wrote something called “Harlem”.

It was for you.  You, with the basketball hoop and foul line for a father, back pocket journal for a mother, and summer day to compare the rest of your life against.  Spit that down in DC at BNV.  Russell Simmons took the shit and put it on TV like—look at the cute lil white nigga with slavemaster blood in his veins, look how pretty his pain is.  Million views on youtube but I got death threats motherfucker. Dudes from the hood were like—come to my block, lemme find out what you really know and this one guy from Ohio said “I’m kill you mudblood, you and that darkie father of yours”. Nothing happened of course.

A year later or so I wrote “From Head to Toe”

It was about a girl with hair that reeked of Southern trimming. Of a picket white fence surrounding moat-like grass, and a house with one of those big wrap around front porches. Never ending picnics in Northern Virginia.  She was a writer and I fall in love damn easy so I said “your head was great baby, but your mind, your mind was the night before a revolution.”  Since then most women have treated me like some chauffeur to the moon. They come for their personal taste of mystery.  Of mannequin made of wind.  They say I’m not like “most men” and can tell I am a poet by the way I eat pussy, but in the end its always the image of me that makes them cum.  The image of me that makes their fun.  They run when my mask comes off.

I wrote “What’s In A Man” when I was a freshman in college.

It wasn’t even suppose to be prose.  I just could not understand why I have more hands than times I’ve seen men cry.  More fingers than people I trust. Maybe it’s because my father raised me more honest than kind.  Taught me a little too much about pride.  Said “…there ain’t much room for feeling things in a world that boxes twelve dirty rounds with your dreams…”

I’m 20something now and still trying not to believe him.

I’m 20something now and still trying not to believe him.

20something now and those poems done flew to three continents this year. Yet, I still feel like mist, like steam, everywhere but right here. Right here on this stage.  Right here is where I spill my guts.  Under these bright lights I can’t be touched.  This stage is why folks from home don’t talk to me that much. Right here is why me and Bel broke up.  Right here is where you watch me slow dance with smoke.

Right here is my war, right here is my peace.

This is stage is my teeth. Right here is where I eat.

This is my war. This is my peace.

Right here is why I don’t sleep like three or four nights a week, ‘cause why risk a nightmare when I got a pack of 27s ‘n a whole lotta work for this rolled up Franklin right here.

Right here is where my stories

become your currency.

But I ain’t mad. 

I just want you to know what it feels like.

I just want you to know

where I be at

when I’m gone.

Right here, on this stage, I ain’t scared anymore.