ripped winters

8/14/2019 Ripped Winters

1/30

Warren Longmire

r i p p e d w i n t e r s


2/30

ripped winters 2006 by Warren LongmireAll Rights ReservedFirst Edition, First Printing

layout/cover photographs by seven7h tangentSan Francisco, CA


3/30

For all yall.

Dreadlocked burners on wet sidewalks holding out signs that say Smile if youmasturbate. Gangly Asian punk rockers in blue construction shirts with 10 year oldlaughs tilt your head back, Im gettin at ya. Nefew slinging weed outside Secrets with afro like a black light light bulb and rest of the goons squad. Q in thin-rimmed glasses

and a thick green hemp shirt twisting to music like light bending crisp across a spoon.ick brown tweed messenger caps as natural as helmets on soldiers and long strokes oncrew-cut chins in-between stanzas: Brandon, the layout is outstanding. Bowing kneesand winding wrists in figure eights while meditating, to Skyler twisting ninjaque pivotsoff an ollie clean and true. And Ryans eyebrow resting light underneath my finger. Asheet of paper Omer peels offfilo dough and hill with her oiled clipped shaved head softon my hand and Lamont in a strong quiet voice. To the strum offnameless guitars, andtossed out bread gathered into buckets and sliding trumpets sifted through the air and

the friends who used that air to breathe again. To the new fam and to this city.

Because I never expected this shit in a million years.


4/30


5/30

Muse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Daytrips and Daydreams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

Lawless. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5Where Words Fail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Current . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

In Remeberance of Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Hi-coo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 0

Night of the Living Hiphop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2

Tree of Knowledge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 4a great day for up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6

Indigo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 7

Live at Natalies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 9

To Be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 2

Poems


6/30

7

Muse

I am the twitchy finger of a past prime piano mantapping out rhythms long since gone or giving birth to unseen rhapsodies housed only in therandom back and forth pinky, ring and index shakes of a crazy man.

Im the Rap City watcher,meticulously monitoring meter in two week champions flow, meter-

ing models of sentence structure in outline form for later review, sitting theregroping for formal definition of assonance used in the 3rd word in stanza 2.

Im the third string on a second rate gaiter,the bird shiton the shoulderof the homeless man strumming it,

the misshaped paper clip held firm (for fear ofmid-song bending) tween callused thumb and finger tip. I was the burst of light down nervesthat made him make that makeshift guitar pick that paved the way for corner side symphony,passing travelers brought home in sound from homeless man clutching me. You can find mebetween 4th

& 5th& South street, go up stairs, go nowhere

its my hair you run your fingers through when bamboo brush youre buying, my flesh stressingagainst insistent hands when massing modeling clay when David,inker, figure of your ownyou think of trying.

You saw me lastwhen lyingin your bed last night,

thinking of your love. A stray line from song of joyous heart or long black jagged mark on pulp-less paper.

I tried to pull the pain or pleasure out, but you call it hopeless and Im calling every bluff, everytime you throw away your drawings from when you where five, I roll my eyes Pacasso, rolls ingrave for work youve through away.

For every dancer told to be a banker,

every rapper told to quit the game,

every time you practice practical thought,think acting writing, song, but how will I get paid? Did you knowin every second,


7/30

8

that every heartbeatyieldsa million worlds(watched sliding doors?) right now a thousand cliffs your poised on.For some a safe step down but steps repeating walls receding forward, too and from your off-

white, cubed shaped offi

ce life.

Others fall in failure dive cus bottom falls from underneathfor Ive seen many hip breaks in baller hopes, Ive seen the smartest boi in dope games loss, Iveseen too many artists swallowed by the streets.

But I am the nagging voicewhispering in your eartapping you on the shoulder, telling you that risks are due.

usfor a few here jumps much bolder

over corporate chains placed for lifetimes andover expectations of a family, under of nations and yourover gratings holding great down under asphaltand holding my arms folding right above youhand glider bars you

use tofly. For

Iam your old toy piano,

thumbs blue from banging day long jams for mother,and now I slide through

when youwonder

why

you ever let the music go.

Im that page you turn in your course pack, when the fine arts section flashes, and the thoughtwhen you think, Take that drawing class and turn the page back.

and the rage in those crappy poems you hid in the back of your notebook,and that line in your head that you think could start such a great book,

and the spare scrawls side of your math notes of a passerbys face,the curve of your finger,

the top of your shoe.

I whisper in your ear when you think to create andsince soon its too late when will youlet me through.


8/30

9

Daytrips and Daydreams

Once,

She said:

and I sat perfectly unmatched

because to a child, ideas are still giant-sized lightbulbsso I say nothing

stumbling light like tips of flame on matches

but Sarah didnt.

b e c a u s e f o r n o w , I s e e n o t h i n g


9/30

10

And sometimes at night I dream that Sarah tows me throughoceans of concrete to tall island mountains of light and Im try-ing to match her strokes

because once upon a time there was no ageand all we needed was nothing.


10/30

11

LawlessWreak havoc.

Spit paint at walls in warped palettes.

On underbelly of San Fran tat clean ballads.Drip thin lines of fresh green to light paths with.

Subvert alleys and twist streets so they run backwards.

Marcus makes coffee, they joke how he always holds a marker.

Ray-Rays young face painted stories high;ey cant ignore you.

In violent red, Rawness sweeps his arm with brilliant softness.

On a white wall, the small lower corner reads so much space.

e richest toddler still scrawls wax on the walls in pre-school.A teacher pats him on the head and holds out two blue pills.

Times said the time for writing has dropped faster then morals

And typing drained a generations fingers of any grace.

In organic spaces composed of only stone right angles

Where public squares are walmarts and massive strip mall gaps,

Choice canvas sprawl boundless ads for tide detergent

We live in rooms that our landlords say we cannot paint

And something has to give,Because when Blest bombs the Brooklyn bridge

ere is no collateral damage.

Because cash is just another paper host for a government workers tag.

Because French tourists snap pictures ofRIPs to caribous lost in winter.

Because

Of when you hear rain on the street by your window and think of your girlfriend.

Remember when the south street was still underground?

And you gathered on stoops in the springtime

And your cousins scratch hearts on the trees with chalk and played football in traffic

People are just as organic as flowers

And cities are ancient pestles,

Grinding petals

Into the finest

And richestOf inks

Our tribes have come back to us

An overnight on ups

So grab the nearest sharpie,

Find a postal sticker

And sign.


11/30

12

Where Words Fail

dusk: |a last gasp of sunlight|a drunks tequila sunrisebacking up andcrashing on the sidewalkwet and vivid.

Dead grandmothers pus-dotted dark skin stretched above two

lovers snuggling closely. Isnt it romantic? e upstate crunch of rustic colored leaves beneath your feet. e fear of night skinned hoodlums on the evening train.

And all I get is 10 words, 2 pieces of punctuationAnd those pronunciation guides

nobody knows the symbols forGod Damn It

And navahos sit on hills in wonder during a derivation from middleenglish dox. Vampires pour milk on cornflakes to the moons newdawn because twilight is a glass half full of blood, 100 ccs of carbon-monoxide, and a power capable of knocking out 4 Webster-sized menin less then 13 MINUTES!!!


12/30

13

Current

Cracked apple skins cast metallic glowson empty library tables a n d s o m e w h e r e a d i s k s p i n s f o r y o u .

Growth rings of spare thoughts are carefully etchedin square sterile packslike initials scratched in wet driveway.

Keep your hands in the dirtfeeling for tendrils of 4th degree friends-in-lawspaired through shared ska bands and live diatribes

grow friend trees until theyre leaflessleave tags online like hazard signsbridging broken links

because chance sightings ride in the currents,lie bloated out on the beachwaiting to be hauled through the town square

and the same milk white sheetsits inches away from our fingerspress a hole into soil

and release.


13/30

14

In Remembrance of Me

ere was a pearl white glint in the corner of my eyeand I made the mistake of turning around.

I had a slight limp and couldnt lift my footpast the lip on the side of the street.

I dipped my shoulder when I meant to jab.A Freudian slip when that cute straight guy joined me for a drink.

Routine mission was a bit to well known.A nice car paired up with a black face.e trigger finger is faster then the eyee wrong time and/or the wrong place.

12:32 hurrying home on the winter solstice neath a new moon on an odd streetNoontime at an open-air market near a man whose hand reached for his chest I was 3.Much too young when my father defended his home and ironicallyit was 3:15 when I thought of him and threw my last rock.I had 3 rocks in my left pocket and no food at home

I had 3 shots left and thought Shit, Im just gonna to take them fools with me.

It was night when I took my last drink.

I fell backwards, and stared upwards cus I was scared of heightsA blight filled the land as the smoke slowly darkened the sky.e bombs tossed us and rolled like the thunder.6 o clock PM when the One bus exploded.Bullish day at the market when that nigger took my moneyless wallet.

Nigga with a gun must be all that he saw on that Monday,that last day at 8 in the fall.

You knowCluster bombs leave nothing to gather.

My collar was lifted awkwardlyjust barely hiding the hole.

My friends didnt think of me often.

ey had to hold back my mother from throwing herself in after me.ey laughed it up over bread and imported beer.


14/30

15

I was number 631 in a list on a CNN ticker.ey marched to Washington shouting my name.A soldiers boot caught my hand as he stumbled over my resting place.

My dormitory is now in the making.My monument is a mere mass grave.

I was out of the news by the weekend and two weeks later ten more took my place.

So,Close your nose when the dusky streets scatter.Raise your hand to your heart at the ballgame and finger my bones, drink my bloodwhen your man finally leaves you.

Eat my flesh at mid evening when you turn offthe news.

Laugh the loudest when they pull my finger.

Grind my nails up in sage and camphor and sell it under the counter.

Feel my skin when you reach for your wallet.Mouth my name when they tell you be quiet.

Squeeze my hand when the pain becomes unbearable.

Hold me up when they all have forgotten.

Watch your step as you stroll down the avenue.

I am everywhere

underyour feet.


15/30

16

Hi-coo

[after a phone conversation with a sort of ex-girlfriend]an insignificant scratch

on the back of your navelkeeps me here.

[at the art museum]

Slipped from plastic sleevesI am iPod white cellphone

EAR WAX MAKES ME STRONG!

[BARTride to a slam with a hungry friend]

e burgers are okay.the pizza sucks.

Im going to get a beer.

[blazing at home in my chair]

Heat kissed round of glasse lip is ghostly with white

and I clear the air.

[after lusting over a talented, big-breasted jazz drummer]

Sure stumbling offbeat

She serpentines the breakdownwith giant steps

[with mucus so thick I thought I will never smell shit again]

whiffle ball armpitstring cheese cheap, eczema dry

My nose implodes wet.

[corporate meeting after my third transfer]

In silent rooms stillspecial handshakes and code words

whisper past my ears


16/30

17

[an interesting lunchtime discussion aboute Sims]

We slip out of viewactors exit round corners

Evaporated.

[the morning I first left for SF]lying beside her

drenched in sweat, morning lightWhy does her dad call now?

[on We Major of Kaynes latest]

horns blow high hats

bespeckled watch shine march beat.Even Nas was shook.

[on San Francisco]

an almost black treereleases sharp fire leaves

twisting to the sky

[on Philly]

crack vials the size ofball sneaker treads pop high pitched

underneath my bike.


17/30

18

Night of the Living Hip Hop

Cus yofa real fa realround my corner round corners dont exist becauseat ultimately everything breaks

down to straight lines and right angles

its all just blocks, yo.

And ifenough

black spray hancocks rock the sunny side of a 25th Street bodegathenhow the fuckdo you knowthey didnt paint it black

In the first place? Yo,

Niggas beentime travelin since flash masters mashedneedle tips to plasticmatched cadences,

and broke genres break bound needles,Pin floors with threadbare sculliesand spin the earth backwards Dancers trance-like

bounce half dazed,

mad blazed offa strangers rolled ganja.

MCs gasp like theyswallowed all Scrabble tiles

and hide breathes inside theDJ scratches steadyteasing the slightly Eastern bassline Hecuts the highs by 25%

and turns turntable two and three quarters back

He never finished high school.


18/30

19

In the Overground:

Clear Channel rocksrochmonanoffRe-born

When Jesus Walks!Geniuses spit about clashing liquid swords

that make black star flashes.Fascists in Eastern Europe are protested to a beat grown in Brooklyn

Now tell me what is dead.

Words be murderin foes like swing slapped loose cunts in New Orleansbefore art house quartets with nastiness, Jazz be justpoor mixed assesgrinding to drums

smuggled in stomachsand split into eigths.

Hollaback nigs wrapped neat sax trills since the 50s.Call Ghostfaces mouthColtranes spit valve. When the sound of music

was sampledthe streets were watching.

A letterTo those who leftlamenting the deathof the artin the life outside their window:Write often.

Send postcards.

And to peeps curious,nervously peeking across the mental, physical, and digital divides

Fuck all that bullshit

Go to Oakland humblyAnd listen close

rough the cracksOn the streetWord is born.

Holla.

e ghetto misses your bitch assand your motherland is so fat,Its gravitational pull cannot be foughtbut for so long.


19/30

20

Tree of Knowledge


20/30

21


21/30

22

the dancers

lithe spry slinky goes pop-in-the-shouldera slice of wet fibulalip break like a whisper,exhale.

twig shook flick of the jumpbonea gesture like the high pitched stutter of her laugh

two fingers pressed into a slight tickleand a boat of air displaced by an arching toe.to octave a patch of blue light shinning off lycra.the sin curve stretch in her back.a snapshot of poured milk splashing offaspaultis the line from the back of skull down her spine and her ankle

when she releasesan ant parts ways with a wet stemlike the space between the floorand her shoeembrace invisible as quicklyas first snow meltsvoiceless on a blushed cheek

and folding torsos like thick egg whites whipped tight and shes drag-ging her fingerin a kitchen not unlike your owntesting the consistence of soil black brownie dough, No I thinkthat this needssome more weed.


22/30

23

Invisibilitycomes in many colors when itcomes right down to it

is there any difference betweenthe vast emptiness of space anda drawer full of identical black lace pantiesscanning the cross section between violet and blue

if you stretch itthe line dividing the 2 is nonexistent.

Few ever see indigo and half the ones that doare either lyingor highor both.

But,on the tip of a snow swept west Himalayan mountain

there sits a lonely green stemat its enda single peapod swinging easy in the breezeinside it3 peas the deepest purplebleeding, blinding, violentalmost black against the crisp white snowyouve never seen something so beautiful

But this is not a poem about flowers.

is is indigo:A single west Philly high student in a crowd of identical brown faces,An unlit pixel on a broken screen,No Josh, we cant afford a new one.

Indigoa bruise on an exposed thigh and a week oldlow looming bodyhung in the town square as a warningswinging easy in the breeze.

Indigo


23/30

24

I am indigo.Intense and too loud for my own gooda wine stain on your best white dresswheres the seltzer?Come dilute me

laughing uncomfortably with full teethat an Ivy League schoolWhere were you on 9/11?Werent you moved by the Passion of the Christ?ey say never forget the Holocaust.

And we are indigoa small stone monument in Oklahoma

in the late stages of disrepair.Josh says, No, Ive never heard of the trails of tearsWhat was that like?

Josh is indigoon occasionhe skips school to hang out on the cornerhe called his training

but once he said he secretly wantsto dance.

I am a brilliant shadefound in folds in a flower on a cold mountain.I am cheap black cherry soda chugged burstswrapped in plastic andresold in a Midwest suburb for 10 cents a pop.

Josh tells me Camron is his hero.Hes wearing an extra large purple shirt, and a scully.Josh rarely smilesbut when he laughshe tilts his head back and howls,youve never heard something so beautiful

and Josh doesnt really dream of leaving Philly.Josh doesnt think much of whats to comeand Josh has never heard of Emmett Tilland til he does

this will not be a poem about flowers.


24/30

25

Live at Natalies

I mean, when youre sitting alone in smoke filled room full of peopleit can be just about anything really.

I read that everyone has a jazz face

as singular as assholes and rock formations,so you never can tell

if Mr. Moth-Eaten Sweater and acid wash jeans spazing out in the corner is justcoming down from a bad tripor just really digging that cord change

Was that a riff from Autumn Leaves, slowed to 4/3and half an octave shiftor was it that 3rd track from Kind of Blue

Oh, Im all confused now.

Let meStart over

So,

Youre sitting alone in a smoke filled room full a peoplenodding your head slow and sipping a drink

and youre feeling it

Pondering the meaning of life and feelingintellectualand then some woman leaps up beside you slams

her open hand to the ash stained table

Yea!!! She screams, Shes likeYea!!!

And youre thinkingdamn almost spilled my drinkWhat wrong with her?


25/30

26

But you dont say it.

Because just as fast as you could thinke Yeas have already slid past cigarette exhales and

Out 4 more peoples lipsAnd fore you know your feet hurt from the pounding of shoes

the pounding of fists and its all just Baptist pews and binary code now

and the airis so thickit coats your tongue

d r i b b l e s down your lipsand drips wet

on your navel

Yea!

And you think,

Hey maybe I should meet this woman, I thinkAnd you think that,because thatwas her jazz face

Everyone has one.

Me personally?

I could be sitting in a smoke filled room full of peopleAnd Im alone Most times Im some autistic boy of 3

Eyes shut tight and arms lockedRocking back and forth

Half asleep lookingMouth open but breaths few,

And when I do Deep.You seee airdoes something to me

at Natalies.


26/30

27

A man beside me half stands on the balls of his feet, flails his arms,And suddenly sits.

You see,your jazz face

Can change in an instantA twist of a bit of tendon on the sax players faceCan make a grown man cry

Or a chaste woman twitch

slightlye crowd gaspstightlyA collective sigh

Weaves through the club like a classic Cadillacwith Shaft in the front seat

e front manDips his head and the quartet takes a bow

We thank you allHe smirks He says,

We call that number,

Something in the air.


27/30

28

To Be

Love is Lovewhen loveIS lovecus thats what love is,(when love is love.)

Isisexistence:When a thingexists.

ink of things existing.

Note:Not when they existedor if they will exist

cus they will exist,when they exist

Now.

eyin that last sentenceis meant in the sense of all things that exist.imagine all things that exist: like

All my friends surround me on the dance floor(ALL my friends.)

Everyone my friend knows sits behind them.erere inclined tosit behindtheir friends.because?

People get mad shy in the club.So, you get behind your friends.

And if youre cool,you get behind ALL your friends


28/30

29

and everyone your friends knowbecause your friends know everyone.

I, for instance, know everyone.

Now true,I love my friends the more I know themAnd I know them more or lessBut more or less,

its all love, yall

Because I know them

and thats what love is. So imagineall my friends on the dance floor all my friends.

All myhalf-black niggas sipping Irish whiskey sangria inhoodies tatted with Mandarin characters,Mandarin orange moonshine was providedby crackers that speak MandarinCrackers topped with Velveeta cheese and truffle oilCurry flavored focaccia topped with olives ofall kindsbecause my friends have a taste for

all kindsand everyone has tasteEveryone tastes

everything

because everyone is on the dance floor,

Imagine a dance floor with everything.

Now,Im in the southwest cornerflirting with a cute light native South African from BrooklynShes wearing blue jeans faded at the thighs and one of those tightAsian print apron-like dresses the girls round San Fran seem to be crazy for.We chat about comic books.

Sandman huh? Wow thats real deep.


29/30

30

She said with southern drawlI didnt even try to wrap my mind around.

I never imagined that comix book deal with what it means to dream,we fucked until morningand it was good shit.

A lot of people in club did that nightBut not everybody. BecauseNot every pickup line works,and every pickup lines saidBy someone in the clubAnd everybodys on the dance floor

So imagine every word is saidon the dance floor,Every word.

Every thought.

Every synaptic snap that moves a dancing muscle is firing now. Every one.

Everything,in one clubon a dance floor that closes at 1.

And in the morning,

we all wake up(hung-over as shit, by the way)

shrug our shouldersand we go to church

and there

on mathematically patterned mats Muslims tap their heads Eastwardto the beat of a Baptist choirs claps.Altar boys swing tins of ganja scented incense and everyone relaxesbarefoot on the bare earthbecause the earth is on the dance floor and everyone gathers there.

Everyone reflects on the vexing pastand impending future


30/30

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