TRUE Confessions of a Compulsive LIAR Modest Proposal http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xa8a52_tuiz-et-darron_creationAshes
The shell of the lychee cracked and opened in Edmund’s rusty hands.
Juice flowed from his index, over dry rough palms. Liquid covered his skin, lingered on his finger, leaving a smooth path, smothering, covering years of weathering, working in Pepekeoe Plantation.
He handed me the fruit, flesh freshly exposed. Old enough to open it on my own but it always tasted better from his soft touch.
We looked away from the volcano. The Big Island’s skin had the scars of humanity, threaded with its untouched patches, still pure and clean.
I found him looking back at Kilauea. Rocks glowing with heat, melting and falling into a cesspool of its own kin.
“Grandpa, will you always live in Hilo, so I can visit you when I get old?”
“Son, Pele sits in her crater, creating land to live on. Lengthening the reach of the beach requires waves of reckoning. Bam-bai you can see the lava coming, it may be slow, but it is inevitable.”
I still visit him, buried in the veteran’s cemetery. Pele didn’t take him; plantation work didn’t take him, a Nazi sniper-shot to the face didn’t take him, old
age didn’t take him, smoking stole him. Poet Mentor "If you teach them a poem, they might recite it right. Let them write poetry and they’ll
be poets for life."-Dar'ron Cambra
I’ve done many jobs in my existence. I’ve changed diapers for adults, who couldn’t fend for themselves worse yet, I’ve taken shit from bosses bellowing orders, about duties they don’t know how to do. I’ve played the part of puppet, putting on ties, keeping clean-cut for a few bucks over minimum wage. I’ve catered to tourist and car dealers I’ve felt as thankless as day labor As hated as a telemarketer Now I am a substitute in public institute Trying to keep students astute with old text and bland worksheets. But there is no job that is more rewarding than involving myself with YouthSpeaks as I help teens seek their writer’s voice . I am a poet-mentor Two words fused to wield welded word weapons using hurt to heal, picking and prodding finding layers to peel, truth and lies wrapped in lines molded from angst and jubilation celebration and frustration
When you can smile and cry at the same time When the thought in the back of your mind is mainlined to your core When you look at something you wrote and finally figured out that’s what poetry’s for.
I want to see eyes surprised when self-guise is stripped Connect our hearts to our
lips and speaking from pages I want to spill how I feel like the leaks from Katrina’s levees could be compacted into composition books. When your mental canal dredges up dreads and dead dreams like the Ala Wai after 40 straight days of rain. When shit floods your brain, that inner voice goes insane and you strain to contain your veins from bursting at the wrist because you are so damn pissed or so infatuated you lose common sense. I wanna be the spark; lighting the brain fart that blows down the wall of writer’s block. Because silence is only deadly to your dreams.
The thought strings in between our commas are so common they weave universal truths sewn by elders and youths into garments to pad the shoulders of adolescent Atlases and a retired Zeus.
I want to highlight forgotten fringes to show the world how far humanity can really stretch, because I know I can’t breach the boundaries alone.
That’s why I teach. I try not to preach, I just want to reach them. But I rather call it facilitate because I want them to innovate not just imitate and regurgitate. Yes, I demonstrate, but, not so the can duplicate. I want them to relate you can create with no restraint.
I want writers to find their own voice, make their own choice, keep their pages moist with ink, tears and sweat. Scripting sarcasm and scribing regrets. Chain-smoking cigarettes my soul sat in seclusion, scribbling sappy soliloquies soothed scabs, smoothed scars that stuck me in a shell of a guy too shy or too tall or too proud to find shoulder to cry on
I wrote poetry before I knew how to slam; When I was just a cocky, yet handsome punk tall enough to dunk, this is who I am, not a character I play on stage. I've used my pages as gauze sending bloody letters to God getting no response. My first audience is myself.
I compete for the person who doesn’t really like poetry, Who was dragged by a date and can’t wait for this to end. Because if that person found one little line that made him think. Something that dropped his drink or his jaw… Then I’ve done my job. I share for that soul scared of self reflection, That kid that feels alone in a crowded room. For anyone that’s been bullied or ignored had their heart opened or broken Lost innocence or loved ones this is for anyone who has had words stuck in their throats
I’m not a role model; I’m a model with rolls. That rolls with karmic punches that leave skid-marks on the high road. I cross paths with pupils passing on poetic passion praying and prying with paper and pen. I’m never going to be a perfect person; I find too much beauty in faults and too many lessons in mistakes to ever want to change the past or who I am. I am a poet mentor. More info: TRUE Confessions of a Compulsive LIAR Poor Wet Tree Presents(home) |