It was the
mad ranting of unstable individuals scribbled on shit smeared and tile chipped
walls of the subway station.It was
present as balding Russians, hopped up on pills and whiskey stumble by; reeking
of alcohol, reminiscent to the odor of fecal matter in the air.Genderless and strapped for sex on a swing,
it begged for the lashes of a leather whip flung from the hands of an available
lover.Sound spiking shrills from crowded
dive bars was it’s lullaby, Tuesday through Thursday.
Carnal
and massive was it’s appetite for raw onions.
It loved the way exhibitionist
would wear the hot onion rings on hard
penises like wedding bands, or clung to erect nipples of Native belly dancers
during the spring. It was fire dances an
lion tamers, untamed by the rigors of 9-5 living, living off the perspiration
of perpetual failure, attempting to rise from guttural abuses. It admired the feel of red satan scarves
wrapped around it’s neck as oxygen became a premium, and the crowd watched
un-amazed and uninspired.
It
admonished at it’s left arm, near the wrist, which held the cigarette scar it
received as a toddler.Being free always
includes a price.Gratitude was a luxury
and falsehood; jagged and rough unlike that of the rim of a shot glass.Scorned in the general public it learned to
scowl instead of smile, cry instead of laugh, and love was a foreign city light
years away from present location.Silence became it’s best enemy providing solace, depression and subtle plans
of grand endings.
So the new year has put January to rest, however, rest is not something I'm accustomed to. In light of that, I've been quite busy. For starters, I've finished my second manuscript and it will be published by Esquire Publications, here's a link! And if you haven't seen the cover, here you go.
So as I am very proud of this work, I am not done. I'm working on an additional spoken word project, and writing almost daily.
In honor of all these inspirational juices that are flowing, I'm keeping with the trend of doing exclusive video-poems and only posting them right here. Nope, you won't catch it on my facebook or anywhere else...you gotta come to Doodle With My Poodle!!
I hope you all enjoyed the first video poem I posted for the new year, and I hope you enjoy this one as well. It's been a labor of love which involved me getting back to my piano/keyboard roots, which sprouted this poem.
My apologies for not having the lyrics here, but honestly, I was really feeling the music more than I was the poem.
--I am an amateur musician you know....
So I hope you're able to get a good feel for this, as I really was in a spot to do not only the music, but the poem, and the video as well. I hope you read this, watch the video, listen to the song, and leave me a comment. I'm curious to know how it hits you---if it does at all.
I think I'll leave it at this, so you all can check out the video. Giving Thanks for all the support you've been honoring me with!
So Merry belated Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanakkuah, and New Years! I believe that covers it. So all those holidays were good and productive for me. And thank you for all your support throughout 2015, it was because of you, I called that year a success.
However, today, I got in a creative mode, stepped in the studio, and started working on some music. Now as any ex-girlfriend, or current lady-friend will tell you, if I get in there, and don't come out for 10 or 12 minutes, then the night's a wrap--I'm projecting.
In this case, I started working blankly on some music to accompany my saxophone--however, it didn't turn out that way. I started feeling the music, and that led me to writing some poetry. As the poem began to take form, something in me began to awaken. The activist in me started it's morning yawn, and routine, taking over my pen and the pad. It was exhilarating! So after I wrote the poem, I recorded it. Then while listening to it, I became enthralled and found it needed something visual--so I did a video as well!
It's been a crazy first day of the year, but a good one, one that was needed creatively. So below I've posted the poem (in written form) as well as the video via YouTube. It's me, the activist me, the, Black like me, me. So if race, racism, riots, police brutality, #BlackLivesMatter, #SayHerName, bothers you, you can gladly move on to another post, which is not so…shall we say inspired. But for those who need to know that Black people are still fighting, still struggling, still battling this institutional white supremacist system--sit back and listen, sit back and read, then get the hell up, repost it, so we all can get in the fight!
Indie. I never knew how complicated that small word
would become in my world until I began wearing all of its different hats.
Writer, poet, and performer. Those were the first to adorn head wrappings;
wrapped in favor, the flavor was mixed with the addicting aroma of mass
acceptance. Swirling in self-perceived success, I drank the Kool-Aid; listened
to the glowing compliments of the Courvoisier and Cush induced crowd, and threw
caution to the wind.
From being a writing
poet, to live performer, the recording bug bit me with friends, so recording
artist was yet another hook for another hat to hang.These were, inspirations, which became
dreams, which are now becoming goals.
However on the W-4 side of things, there was always
a title; it was the hat that never fit snugly on.It was short order cook, telemarketer, or
customer service agent; never owner, never sovereign, never free.Titles are good because they're consistent;
they bring in money every two weeks. Even now, working part time with ends
meeting like lovers at first sight, it's a title.My title is supervisor, a boss, an
administrator ad litem.These
entitlements, a given designation that described my situation for livelihood;
never my true endeavor, never my true self.The indie wasn't being represented as I slapped a burger on a grill, or
counseled an at-risk youth.There was
always some burning line I had to write, some idea that was so persistent I
placed customers in the holding hole just to jot it down, just to ease my soul,
and own something.
But indie is hard, it is unforgiving; it is a
constant branding, and re-branding, building and interacting within the scope
of hope.
I hope this crowd is kind, I hope I get booked for this paid show, I
hope this publisher accepts this submission; I hope this publisher pays, I hope
this book or cd sells.
Hope and
financial success have been at odds for centuries.
Many times in thinking of being independent,
I relate it to being free. And that
relation takes me to slavery. It's when
imagination takes over and the image of the slave owner is sitting on his high
horse telling his gathering of ex-enslaved Africans-today, you are free. It is
connecting their feelings to my feelings, and receiving the unexpected. Most would think there would be an
overwhelming emotion of joy, and initially there would be. However, as the joy would wear off, and reality
would set in, there would be uncertainty, and fear.
Indie. The
best representation is the high-flying, high wire trapeze act that works
without a net, at unimaginable heights.
For if a mistake is made, if the timing is off, there's not only
tragedy, there is death. But that is who
they are. It is not only their livelihood, it is a choice they made which
defines them. It is brave, bold, daring;
it's not the humdrum, nine to five, Monday through Friday, adhere to the ridged
schedule, which the sheep-drones are doomed to.
It is a risk, worth the reward that comes with the work of being free. Indie, a chance taker, the unpredictable
individual whose belief holds stronger than Peter's when the rock was removed
on that first Easter. The
"indie", has risen
So what of the performer, the poet, the artist who
runs to the edge with all their might, and flings themselves to the four winds
with the belief air will catch them and flight will happen. What of those individuals? The artist, whose art form are their babies,
whose convictions are so concrete, they are willing to hear a million
"no's", just to get to reach that one "yes".
That one listener, or viewer, who says the
artist's work, their performance, their "product" touched them so
deep it changed their life. It is an
amazing feeling; a ground humbling experience that occurs when when someone
approaches you and honestly tells you, that
piece changed my life, thank you for your gift.
That is the present the artist gives; it is the hat that fits like
new born skin, wrinkled but placed to perfection.
However, it is not the only hat that is worn by the
artist. She or he also wears the suit of
the promoter, the shoes of the salesman, the cane of protector, the eyeglasses
of the editor who has to eye-ball contracts like some shade-tree lawyer,
because law school was just not in the plans.
Indie. In the beginning, and sometimes throughout the journey, it is only
themselves, their art, and doubt. Doubt
from family, from friends, from the old artist who shoos them away like some
annoying child asking for a hand-up to get ahead. There is even doubt from self
as Ramen becomes their staple as dreams fade from fatigue. But the artist is stubborn, tenacious and
unwilling to yield to the doubt.
I have dreamt the dream, worn the hat, suit, shoes,
eyeglasses, and used the cane to beat the hell out the dream until I relegated
it to a hobby. Yet alas what an
expensive hobby it has become. Used
computers, keyboards, saxophones, printers; mounds of money for editing,
mastering, promotions-these are the tools of a writer, a poet, a performer, an
artist, an author, a publisher.
But I'm still an artist, still love to write, to
perform, and to create. Yet I hate the
suit of the promoter, and the shoes of the salesman. However I carry the cane
of the protector, promising lumps to any thief who dares darken my journal. It
is the poet in me who stays up till 4 am, zoned out like a zombie on ‘shrooms.
I stay engulfed in emotion until every notebook page has an explosion of ink,
lead, crayon, or sharpie covering every inch.
The writer in me gets lost in bookstores, hordes the thesauruses like
its lifeblood, and is attached to a laptop like it's an extension of my
hand. The musician was reborn of the
bored poet. With fingers unclenched from
the pen, they spread far and wide for piano and saxophone keys. He is shy, intimidated by people with guitars
who've studied and mastered the craft as if it were a religious
experience. Yet the musician is the
ultimate wingman; always down to dawn the saxophone case, crashing whosever
open mic, filled with the singer/song-writer types, knowing the poet will
always take center stage.
The hats free me, as suits and titles constrain
creativity while allowing the sustainment of livelihood. Indie, a complex convoluted weaving of webbed
personalities. With the onslaught of one
thought, the wheels spin from poem to music, to essay to marketing, to
promoting, all the while juggling the emotion of insecurity. I am the unknown artist, yet I am a poet, an
author, a publisher, and promoter.
Online I'm known by Poet402, on-stage Clarence or Nabraska, and when the
books hit the stand, it's the combo Clarence ‘poet402' Barbee. Find me, follow me, and get to know me! And of course support me and buy the socks
off my feet!
Clarence Barbee is
the self-published author of Chicken Soup and A Shot of Jack, as well as various cd's including
"Poetry, Politics, and Prose", and "The ‘E' CD". He welcomes any comments or concerns you
have, just email him, poet402@yahoo.com
