Video filmed by Yasmin Vereen and edited by me. You can read the poem below.
I have tried to make it as an artist. I’ve scurried into this corner
Been pushed into it, blasted out further than it could contain
And how creativity in your early thirties’ tapers
(In your twenties, your name was in the paper)
And older friends, they attend galas wearing white gloves, robes, dresses, bow-ties. They hear vaguely of my troubles, I swear to you my ears are always burning, ringing, in fact.
I will never hear from them again and I believe this suits me right down to the ground.Tonight, I dine on potatoes and rib eye steak, nothing is that bad. Everything has a price; everything is worth its weight in gold.
It is strange how the marrow of the bones
Is the marrow of life
I ruminate on this; my old best friend
His child and his wife
I remember how they said
moving to New York was silly
Me and my father drove all night, silly it was!
The southern air turned chilly, the road was wide open, my brain was too! Everything felt like forever and never all at once.Now aint it something when your aunt calls you lazy,
And what’s even more, the doctor’s call you crazy (And they live among the paperwork; you live among the daisies)
Flashes of ocean blue, dart across the palm leave trees,
The boys’ foolish dreams dart with them
The catapult of the mind
the mind runs free.
As a young man I said I shall live as wild as I can and in the
freedom of the boy - awaits the prison that is man.
But in the culture jailhouse,
I shall not grow old!
But the pillow is soaked in sweat,
And the ground is cold!
And the bread is wet,
And the jailor is the state,
They won’t dare set me free
(I know I can’t complain to them)
For their hands are the hands that feed
I saw an old enemy of mine,
He became a millionaire,
He advised me on my finances
But had none to spare
I spend more money than he does,
So why would I bother?
And anyways he’s a fat cat banker
(And of course, so was his father)
He was born at the top
(They just move other’s money down)
They scrape the cream off the crop.
(When nobody’s around)
And truthfully, I have tried to justify my existence
But I am no stranger to excuses,
The walls built on brick resistance,
They insist this,
You’ve made literature your business, go to work every day,
But a working man is considered lazy,
When his work has no pay
And you’ve got a moon rock in your eye,
I feel it’s cool surface upon my face
In the surface of its façade,
I find the closest thing I know to grace
In the far corner of the universe,
The gods play pool while holding court
They watch upon us as jailors,
Spectators of the blood sport,
For evidence in the trial of life
enter innocence into the docket,
innocent, with the fiber of life,
Lining guilty, but empty pockets.
From Like A Bird Knows to Sing. You can read its introduction here. Like A Bird Knows to Sing is a collection of poetry written in Minas Gerais by Judson Vereen.
For more information please go to my website.
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