Check out “Rainbow In The Dark” – Das Racist – if you like wordplay and odd allusions. It doesn’t start off well (or it’s a really weird start, depending on your point of view), but the song is short, and the group is amazing.
I’m at the White Castle
(I don’t see you here, dog)
Tiny-ass hamburgers, tiny-ass cheeseburgers
Tiny-ass chicken sandwiches
It’s outlandish, kid
Ma trying to speak to the kid
In Spanish, kid
Like “¿Que tu quieres?”
I’m like “where is the bathroom?
I hella gotta piss, where’s the bathroom?”
Ask whom the bell tolls for
Hey, yo, where you get this place from, the hellhole store?
I’m in the building
Building will Belding
Ask for whom the bell rings (DR)
Something like a neo-rap Zach attack
Finna spark an L and have myself a Big Mac attack
Known to rock the flyest shit and eat the best pizza
Charge that shit to Mastercard, already owe Visa
Catch me drinkin’ lean in Italy like I was Pisa
We could eat the flyest cave-aged cheese for sheez, ma
Yeah, we could eat Gruyere
As if we care
We could eat Roquefort
Or we could just kick it like Rockports
In the periphery of Little Sicily little did she know I’m tickling boo she so giggly
Catch me solving mysteries like Wikipedia Brown
It’s the future get down
We make a sound even if nobody’s around
Like a tree or the tears of a clown
Yo, I’m afraid of clowns, I’m afraid of small towns
Positive energy is something like I’m afraid of all frowns
Catch me at the crib getting light to Jeff Mangum
It’s fun to do bad things like rhyme about handguns
If any problem pop off
I’ll Joe Pesci any fool while drinking that Popov
That’s cause I’m a Goodfella
Stay up out the hood hella much now
But punch clowns if they touch down
While I’m eating lunch now
While I’m eating a burger
Metaphysical spiritual lyrical murder
The ill ’96 manifestible third eye
Abstract vegan backpack skateboard et cetera
Rap hella much in a busted ass Jetta with Coretta Scott King
On a duet with T-Pain and Stephen Hawking
I’m not joking, stop jocking, stop talking
Shut up, hush up
Please, shut the fuck up
Shut up, dude, shut up
Das Racist is the new Kool G Rap
Peep us at the Grammys
We’d like to thank G-chat
We’d like to thank weed rap
The best rapper’s B Real
Jokes, it’s us, come on, be real
Second Latin rapper to like the Beatles
But on the real they swear I’m blacker than Cheadle
Like Don King playing Donkey Kong Country at his cousin’s house
You don’t even know what it’s about
This is panic attack rap
Eating four flapjacks
Trap raps, let em free, they always come back to me
The Internet told me that that’s called love
I’m on the Internet cause I’m an Internet thug
Himanshu, yes I’m in control man
Pos Vibe Emanator
Yes I got my soul tan
Soul shine, soul glow, so so Po-Mo
Catch me on the South Side
Kicking it with Shlomo
Kicking it with Gary Soto
All the cholos saying “Mira el joto”
Just because I rock the secondhand Versace
Wash me, watch me
The second hand couldn’t even clock me
You couldn’t see me like a Cuban playing hockey
Cracker in the chocolate, that’s human Pocky
Papa look stocky, Mama look chalky
Me I look a little something like a young Shock G
Words come through me like I was a walkie talkie
All I do is open up my mouth and just rock, see
You, you are not me
Me I am possibly everything plus everything that is not me
Jokes, that is not T-R-U-E
Are you understanding everything, do you got me?
Catch me in the trees where it’s shady like Lockheed Martin
Sparking in the shade of the trees in the park, B
Hark the angels stay singing in the dark
Like the rainbow in the Ronnie James Dio joint
Hit it from the back court
Like it was a three point
I don’t give a fuck, I’m a duck to a decoy
No trustem white-face man like Geronimo
Tried to go to Amsterdam they threw us in Guantanamo
The Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik wrote this in the middle of one of her poems in 1965 (when she was 29) and it made me think of the writing process:
“And there is, in this waiting,
a rumor of breaking lilac.
And there is, when the day arrives,
a division of the sun into smaller black suns.
And at night, always,
a tribe of mutilated words
looks for refuge in my throat…”
In Spanish, it’s a little different, but the same idea (for example, “espera” could mean “waiting” or “hoping” in this context, etc.):
“Hay, en la espera,
un rumor a lila rompiéndose.
Y hay, cuando viene el día,
una partición del sol en pequeños soles negros.
Y cuando es de noche, siempre,
una tribu de palabras mutiladas
busca asilo en mi garganta…”
A poem rejected today. Plus this:
We’re sorry to say that your piece wasn’t right for us. Thank you for allowing us to consider your work.
The Shouts Dept.
The New Yorker”
Now I’m +500 rejections in my career. That’s a big milestone, and I’m proud.
Our local weekly paper has a section in the back called “I Saw You,” a personal section where hopeful romantics (translation: lonely sex addicts) talk about brief meetings with strangers in which “eye contact was made” or “there was an instant spark.”
My friends Jackson and Carrie and I wrote our own I Saw You entries yesterday – recognizing that a proper I Saw You is a form of love poetry that often includes mixed metaphors, obvious innuendo, bad spelling, a mention of an animal or two, romantic drug references, all-caps, over-use of ellipses, and/or insider lingo.
Since today, March 21st, is World Poetry Day, here are the four I Saw You entries I wrote – all devastatingly beautiful works of eternal and epic art:
1. I saw U, naughty HOTTIE…under the Ferry Street Bridge, wearing a Cheetos t-shirt and blue pants…like a cheetah having sex with the sky…or an orangitang on a ferris wheel…and our eyes MET, blazing into the afternoon and I want to blaze weed with U…and maybe MORE? I’ll be at the skate park tomorrow 6 til midnight (Sat & Sun also) wearing an orange beanie. U wont ragret it.
2. I met U on the COD chatroom last nite and I was the one who said DONT call her a pussy bitch just cuz shes a NOOB-girl and U said “thats the sweetest thing anyones ever said about me”…Anyway, we should plan a LAN party some nite when my moms not home and it’ll be like we have so much bandwidth and our thumbs’ll get sore from all the action (if you get what I mean) and – trust me – my controllers way bigger than average (wink wink) and I’ll carjack your body all nite – GTA style – and electricity will run thru our hook-ups (if you know what I mean)…check the forum tonight at 2AM SHARP.
3. I saw you coming out of the Windemere Real Estate office on March 1st as I was going in…and you looked me up and down…and I know what that means… and you need to KNOW that I sell a lot of real estate…and I want you to KNOW that I would sell…your body…to mine…TONIGHT…like a kitten to milk, so picture my warm tongue everywhere in your bowl. Leave a return message at Windemere’s front desk?
4. We were both paddling the duck pond last week and we past each other and sparks flew off the ends of our paddles, and my eyes said, “I’m a pirate lassy and I’ll be your booty”…and your eyes said, “I’ll put U to my sword – my lady – make U walk my plank all nite”…and I’m all about exploring your seven seas…going to your promised land – so HAPPY returns – sailor – if you email me at…email@example.com
Sam Smith got up in his red suit and pronounced that we should all be ourselves, so here’s me, writing poems about the Grammys.
Stream of Consciousness To The Greatest Of All Time, Kanye West:
Dear Kanye, my grandmother used to repeat the old proverb “Better to be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt” but your mouth keeps opening somehow a jaw unhinging like a sorority girl vomiting into a Delta toilet at the end of the night your words so repetitive as you flirt with an upside down spotlight which would be a good metaphor for whatever it is that you think you do if only you wrote metaphors or even understood them instead of purely literal lyrics and not rhyming at all in this song that you’re so proud of writing all by yourself like a big kid.
But at least you auto-tuned the whole thing live.
Note To Miley Cyrus From The Wrecking Ball:
All I wanted was a year of bashing buildings,
swinging from cranes on enormous steel lines, smashing through
walls, bricks, maybe a few 1960s apartment buildings.
But you brought me into your studio,
skidged yourself on top of me like
a sea cucumber slit open by a fixed blade, the
wet suck, something I will not get over for a long time.
They say that Robin Thicke pedophiled you on national TV last year, but
you may as well have offered me candy and puppies as I was loaded
heavy into your van, the naked wet of your vehicle and now
you’re a finalist for Best Pop Vocal Album of the year?
Haiku On Old-School Performances:
and Madonna? Why are we
exhuming the dead?
Kim Kardashian On The Red Carpet, A Cinquain:
batting eyelashes, turning
in your golden bathrobe,
To The Red Carpet Itself:
How did you get this job, not green or blue but
Purple is a royal color and could be the carpet of choice
for stars to stumble across, bubbly and buzzing from limo shots,
or almost stars to walk upon and hope for interviews, cameras, microphones,
anything to reflect their own images.
If you want to catch a raccoon, drive 2.5-inch nails, angled down, into a coffee can
and place something shiny in the bottom: A silver dollar, a bracelet, a small mirror.
The raccoon, masked and striped as if he’s dressed up for a special occasion
will insert his hand, grasp the sparking object, and won’t let go,
even after he discovers that he can’t remove his closed fist from the trap.
Never will he relinquish the shiny piece of something that he is holding
even if he realizes that he has been caught in the open, exposed, looking like a fool.
(Thanks to Gavin Marsonette for some inspiration. Hashtag.)
Thanks to Jay Kinz and Sir Thomas Edison, I can be more clear than before.
To be precise – since April of 2006 – I have “successfully discovered” 201 ways NOT to get my writing published.