The Red Velvet Cake Review

At Angel's.

A supper club on the west side.

I do a regular poetry thing here on Sunday nights as part of The Red Velvet Cake Review. The RVCR is Kavion Griffith's nu-lounge act which features Walter Davis on sax. Tonight Alex was on piano. The drummer was named Cal.

The Red Velvet Cake Review 2

Been performing as part of The Red Velvet Cake Review. The Kavion Griffith production features myself, Walter Davis on sax and a few other musicians and friends.

Alexander Burke on the vibraphone and piano, alternating drummers Cal and Matt, and most recently Mela Lee - a brilliant vocalist who sings with the serenity and cool of a Frank Sinatra. Mela, Matt and Alex are in Magnolia Memoir, a jazz-rock hybrid, more Rickie Lee Jones than Pat Benatar, but they mostly remind me of Swan's Way. An obscure reference, but check out their song "Soul Train"(a couple of versions below). For documentaion purposes, I would like to add that Marcas Johnson has played the piano as part of the review.

This is every Sunday at Angel's which is on Wilshire and 25th in Santa Monica.

Showtime is an early 7 pm.

.148

i'm that 40 something fly white guy
who dreamed to big and got too high
been lied too many times my size
john-holmes implosion, me capsized

i'm not stumbling around - but i'm not too far
never been busted or d.u.i. in the car
somewhat copasetic till the lightnin comes
my brain is opposable - just like my thumbs

i'm phat like dat
i'm ill like dat
i kill like dat
i'm white like dat

the voices in my head are pretty benign
they keep me up at night - but they help me write rhymes
there's pills and cures and ailments alike
you'll find me in the ward with the door that says "PSYCH"

and that's it right now, they'll be more later
the harder it gets the more it seems greater
acceptance and tolerance and working and tools
are the implements i seek and the things i don't use

The Floor [18]

Pix from The Floor (#18) at The King-King in Hollywood.

Me "poet-ing" (photo:by Mallory Bradley)

With singer J. Karen

With J. Karen and music director Walter Davis

With producer K.G. Superstar

Caught in a moment of pathos.

With dancers Kimberly Green and Vakisha Coleman.

Red Velvet Cake Review

.147

You're insignificant
and I hate you.

What you say,
and what you do
makes me realize
there's no god in the sky
and no pleasure on earth.

I did nothing.
I went nowhere.
The climb uphill
was full of terror and
hunger pangs and
roasted ego (ala king).

I am angry and ashamed and
You have every reason to ignore me.
I don't provide comfort or security.

If that's what you're seeking,
Rely on your parents.
Rely on your boyfriend.
Rely on yourself.

I will die alone.
And no one will care.
No one will notice.
No one will think twice.

Yet you're insignificant
and I hate you.

.146

You pop up in my life
Like a shadow
And dissapear
Into the dark
Without warning
Leaving me
To walk the streets alone

The dreams I sought
To live out
With you
Have become dark gray-
Mutating the beautiful colors
Of autumn
Into nightmarish
Consequential reality

I wish I never met you
The weight of my memories
The time spent together
Is ancient history
To get and keep you
Is an impossibility
Which I still cling to

To know you only slightly better
Than the rest of the population
Is my personal tragedy.
The locked doors of perception
Simply torture me now
Stirring up feelings
Of inadequacy-
suffering at the feet
of extreme beauty

.145

With your provisions-

red velvet pastry

tight against my face

I see the sugared filling and

inhale the coco layers.

You fed it to me -
I could taste the metal

feel it taste back,

and hear the muted *ting*

as it knelt on the lip

I delivered both
the myth of permanence and
the shine of the sun.

You were the whitest snow I'd ever seen,
with the blackest heart on

God's green earth.

I thought you were a treasure,
And just maybe you are.
I didn't want to find you cuz
I knew I couldn't fund you

The encounter
An obsession

You took over

My mind

Submitted - perpetuated madly
Co-workers, friends and

family twisted into the drama.
My odyssey.
My search for real love.

Trying to break free
From the bonds of you -
A real beauty but
I don't know how you learned

to treat me like you did.

The sickness still makes me wonder:
What would have happened
if we were together?

.144

Sinewy
And covered w snow.
Overgrown
Plecebic
And moderate
Hot under the collar
"it's too loud in this joint"
He cursed to no one In particular
From the depths of my eardrums
To the bottom of my soul
And he was right.

Almost too tender to touch
the swollen part of her.
Rested.
Relaxed
Spent.
Barely moving.
Hardly stirring.
The exhale is all I desire to hear
Exhale.
Exhale.
Don't ever stop.

Red Velvet Cake Review

Hey! Pocky Way

with Leo Nocentelli of The Meters 11/14/09

The Bar Drank Back

The Floor 16

with Kimberly Green

with K.G. Superstar

with Guy Cohen and Dorthea Porter

.143

the ambivalence
is measured out

like jiggered

cocktails.

I rot

from the nearby sea

like brown

and red driftwood

where when the sand embraces

and the salt mist surrounds

it's a

perfect day

Without thoughts of

recourse or counterpoint,
Without screed or creed

I stumbled cross

The parched pavement-

where once green things grew,

but now are paper maiche'd and

stuck together with clumps of re-melted wax

Looking, a glance,

I continue to hurt

where the top and bottom

get cut up and off and

sliced through

like a thoroughbred's ligaments

when they're

lame and useless.

.142 [esperanza]

it's been days and

she's barely crossed my mind.

food is returning to the tastes

i recognize and enjoy.

maple, fennel, creme de menthe...

the milk in my coffee no longer clouds up in effigy to her.

i've started to enjoy real jazz...

enjoy the sound of live music —

enjoy the company of live musicians

esperanza.

not a woman -

not flesh and blood -

a coded word.

a complex concept.

making the

simple ritual of beauty

transcendent

like the myth of permanence or

the shine on the sun

The Floor 15

with Walter (on the right) & Fuzzbee

Black and White stills from a video shot by Bjorn Fleuren

with Carolina

.141

you cut me open

with a heavy serrated

knife-lust,

scooped out

my testicles,

and made

a sandwich

with 'em,

which you ate

while casually

shooting me through

with your

poison gun

.140 [my space]

it feels like a ghost town.
like a ghost world.
there's still a lot of stuff —

more stuff everyday
but its different.
it's muted.

it just doesn't matter.

.139

what happened to your eyes?

what happened to your smile?

what happened to your wickedness?

and what will happen now?

evacuated.

disappeared.

people change,

evolve.

you're looking older now

not more mature -

but jaded.

your eyes - they're dark and hard and small and tight.

the curl

of your lips

seems shallow

and sterile.

your smile -

that's changed too.

the angle of your cheekbones

it's different now somehow

you're still beautiful to me.

same as it ever was...

maybe you're happy

but it doesn't look that way

.138

even though

you drink too much

and smoke too much

doesn't mean

i don't think too much

of you.

.137

crazy in love-

humbled by you,

your surprising linguistic prowess and

cut to-the-waist lovelocks,

i swallow hard.

swallowing hard

becomes

second nature

when the right cocktail

begins.

.136

i've looked into the eyes of beauty.

i've seen it and all that it beholds.

i liked it - no i loved it,

but i got nothing done.

now i'm faced with choices.

from which bough do i bow?

i've seen it - no i want it.

i express it- now i wait.

.135

your lips curl up & purse

like tasting sour sauce

when my name

comes up in

casual conversation.

there is something so wrong

about becoming a quitter -

another -

when everything is pure gold -

withered and survived.

.134 (loneliness)

it's not the heaviness

the outsiderness

the within you without-ness or

the bareness of witness

it's not the artificialness

it's not the darkness

it's not the shallowness or 

it's purposefulness 

not the perfectness nor

the purpleness

not the wildness 

not the wilderness

not the 'let me be freeness'

the here-ness and nowness

the 'thing must be rareness'

only my carelessness

lonely.

lonelier.

loneliest.

.133 (pt. 1 of 2)

my mind goes

a million miles a minute;

races around -

the myriad of tasks i

must attend to.

every forward jut,

every lay down and wait,

every dollar,

bumps you up in my mind;

light switching-

hair pulled back

away from your face.

.132 (pt. 2 of 2)

bright, like the vatican

in a summer vacation rise,

you startle with your

rare diamond splendor.

as the rings of saturn tighten,

i have a hunch what is,

isn't going to

stay static.

.131

i dreamt that i was sick

when i woke up

i was well

The Floor 13

Reading at The Floor at King King in Hollywood.

On the mic with singer Dorthea Porter and backed by Walter Davis and the brotherhood of The Floor house band

With Dorthea, dueting on "i see the pain of practice...",

Dorthea trading verses with me.

(Thank you Dorthea!)

.130

the newspaper held page

after page of 

violent info,

head busting horror

and furniture ads.

weekend specials

and budget cuts.

war.

famine.

celebrity.

and in the back

a 1" x 1" ad.

for caskets.

cheap.

.129

those tri-colored 

neutron bombs

give way

and

i can smell bupropion

from 100 paces

and 

i can't stop chewing on

the inside of my mouth

.128

a modern day

catcher-in-the-rye

using 4 wheeled muscle

to shield steel

from musing

over the side

.127/work in progress

it wasn't just about her looks.

she was intriguing.

she was foreign.

and she seemed like someone i could spend the rest of my life getting to know.

i knew i would never tire of her beauty.

she made me quite nervous.

it always felt perilous.

i always tumbled or fumbled

when she was around.

she made me laugh.

i made her sit up 

and take notice.

i was more charming (than psycho).

"you'll have to work hard for this"

she coo-ed,

motioning down her torso 

with perfect hands.

she thought i was a sucker; 

that i was incapable;

but i took her declaration 

to heart.

the next time i saw her

i had a real job.

i quit doing and dealing.

i ran every day.

i also came back.

i reconciled with my family and 

let go of my anger towards my ex-wives.

i read more and watched tv less.

i became a better listener.

i was being recognized.

i started to succeed.

she was impressed-

so she said.

unafraid - 

i moved forward.

i texted and emailed and called.

i spent too much time thinking about her

and buying her things:

volumes of art and

little blue boxes from tiffany's - 

pure french perfume;

and scandalous items 

via agent provocateur.

i crafted mixes of 

music to swoon by:

marvin gaye and al green. 

roberta flack and donny hathaway.

chet baker and nina simone.

i felt like i was in high school.

i gift-wrapped everything myself-

tight like a hug -

and lovingly -

like a home cooked meal on a Sunday,

instead of family and warmth and 

3 kinds of potatoes - 

ribbons and silk flowers and

hand-painted cards on expensive stock.

all this got me was ripe for failure.

she told me

she could 

never be with me.

afraid of what the answer was,

i didn't ask why.

she offered up

'i'm not attracted to you.'

without thinking, i replied

'you don't even know me.'

after that - i couldn't recover.

she beckoned for a ride to the airport. 

my heart was brick and crumbling

and too heavy to do more for her than i had already done; 

she accepted my emphatic 'no' 

but i actually heard her smirk 

through the phone.

as the departure date loomed near,

my caller i.d. once more

displayed the word utsøkt and 

a photo taken of black lace panties up her skirt.

a cruel and persuasive series

of communiques ensued.

the next day i drove her to the airport.

that was the last time i saw her.

she knew 

when to quit.

i was nothing to her.

just a fan-

trying to get 

to their idol.

as obsessed as i was.

i was becoming more psycho 

(than charming).

that had to cease.

i asked for her help.

but that went unanswered.

my dissatisfaction - 

the end came too soon.

what if i had succeeded

and won her heart?

what would i have won?

makes me wonder.

.126

hell yes!

it really gets in the way!

when i'm trying to get stuff done

oh shit! here it comes.

when i'm on the phone

or on my way

it can do me in -

in a heartbeat

a finger snap

is all between

the madness and 

the sanity

it's concrete 

out here!

it's madness 

out here!

it's sarcasm and gossip

and ill will

and unintentional 

fuck-ups out here!

it's slow leaking 

fumes and exposed 

electrical wiring

out here.

it's everything 

you're not

out here...

but,

i'm out here.

.125

how do you find the time,

the patience

the wherewithal,

to plot and

scheme and

shovel

and wait.

it's alone 

that i

crest best;

but how alone

can this

man be?

.124

rolling on fresh asphalt,

the choices of signature being-

seeming like an expansive

black ocean-

treading

or

separate

and become hateful and heat seeking.

boiling

steaming

painting yellow cresting-

4 under inflated tires,

a handful of change,

and a hard wet

scarring journey.

Don Was

with Don Was at Harvelle's 6/29/09

.123

that thing
has got a hold of me
yet i look
the same

that thing
is tightening it's grip
the mirror
sometimes lies

.121

supine and out-of-love

wall surfing

stiff willed and

and turbulent

chopped down

by infinite fidel,

curled up fetally

puling like a baby

my brain gushes

hot buttered soul
supplanting the gorge while

spitting exorcised truth

gunk-ing the system,

wadding the nasal fossa
killing the flow and

everything in it's path

unpleasantly adapting

to my inner eyelids,

forcing my veins up and out,

pushing it's way through the murk

the moisture massaging

my tympanic membrane

passes thick through with

light white sputtering steam.

.120

fearlessly i chose

at first to flutter

rather than simply

fly away

when that didn't

succeed i tried

a more direct 

approach 

with shallow eyes that blind

time once again turns me into

gelatinous residue

clinging precariously to the rim

rocked,

the demure sods

reject me

roundly and unanimously 

Toledo Show : In The Parking Lot With Dorthea

.119

the failed muscle of creativity

the disappointment of romantic love

the pain of practice

the uncertain present

the words choke me

the cards protect me

the security will save me

the future will want me

.118

our first kiss-

utilitarian for you;

i thought you'd

turn me into a prince.

desireable pink

frontispiece,

stretch wrapped 

in black ice.

back rounded - 

peek-a-booed,  

giggled, jiggled 

perched and

given freely.

you're smiling

like pastry -

desert worth

waiting for - 

vanilla creamed

and addictive.

.117

there's nothing like getting drunk on a monday.
getting drunk,
and spinning around and around
in someone's arms.

it had been hot.
ridiculously hot.
meetings all day.
she was still dressed from work.

she was a malibu blonde, born and bred.
he looked like a music biz promo guy from the mid-70s -
hirsute - bearded; brunette and feathered.
they were sore from fucking.

on a cocaine-fueled tear across the Southland they happened across a blues bar.

tired and wasted,
his crumpled too-tight jeans
were weighted down by 

dirt and moisture from poolside sex and sweat.

blouse & jacket removed - she was stripped down to a soap scented white tank-t loosely tucked in to her business casual.

into each other -

they are suddenly
interrupted by Sir Harry -

a handsome baritone and a helluva dancer - 

leaping off the stage
as he spins a voluptuous pro
expertly across the black and white checkerboard
of the dance floor.

tonight i'm here. 

for a reason.
i need to hear the music -

feel the blues sift thru me 

like fire-y white stars telescoped.

blinding, speechlessly swaying steady.

my heart is heavy.

under a lotus - flushed and reddened -
i'm vulnerable and
impossible to know.

.116

its great to be alive in America today.
its great to celebrate and dance
like we mean it.
wherever you are
if you can hear me reading these words,
you are experiencing freedom.
freedom to say fuck and suck
and blowjob and tits and faggot.

freedom to spell come "c-u-m"
freedom to paint pretty pussies on wild caucasian beings
void of depth or meaning;
not quite art for art's sake-
but benign and ripe from the start.

.115

bouncing beats kick BIG
like gang stars ain't
descending on Brooklyn.

hypnotic long islands
put logic aside and speak like drug dealing rap legends
and
rhyme nigga. 

rhyme.

The Floor 11

Bjorn took this one, but I had just got the camera and had no idea how it worked and handed it off to him while he was playing bass. I think he captured the moment nicely. Thanks Bjorn!

.114 [4th St]

the lights are brighter.
the trees shift luminescence
from pale to bright,
spanning a spectrum
of reddish-hued pinks and
cannon grays and
greens - the shade of money.

.113 [work place]

it was a disgusting kind of grind.
a real shit-hole.
lousy benefits.
the kind of place that
makes me wanna
wriggle out of my skin and
on to the mushroom colored carpet,
coffee stained and trampled.

.112

birds flying high -

you know how i feel...

sun in the sky -

you know how i feel...

reeds driftin' on by -

you know how i feel...

i see the pain of practice.
the unescapable slither
of argentine sheen.
two legs - muscled molasses;
the arch of the lower back-
as round and pure as the day
you were born.
as liquid as the day
you discovered the
rond-de-jambe en l'air.

i've seen you
a million different times
in a million different languages.
i've grown accustomed
to your steps,
your gait and your gaze
your locks and your limbs.
the rings of saturn
couldn't be any brighter,
or a bigger mystery to me.

it's a new dawn...

it's a new day...

it's a new life for me...

and i'm feelin' good...

"i love her!!"

a man yells out!
aghast at my own brashness,
i feel the glare of the crowd,
hear the scattered laughter,
see the smirking faces-
faces of longing-
a face i will never wear again...

now that I have seen her dance.

.111

there's an incredible rush of lost breath;

squeezed... constricted... 

as our lungs push against each other

compressing the muscle one more time.

to each other,
we are green kryptonite 

with an impossible 

language barrier.

your inability to 

understand 

i might be what you need
is ineffectual.

i let the day's float by
and ignore the incredible obviousness.
but it won't go away and

you say you see nothing.

i am not obsessed with you.
YOU are obsessed with me,
and you have to 

let me go.

you are here for me
but you refuse to believe.
you're stubborn and short sighted

and i want to go home.

The Floor 10

photos by David O. @ The Floor - Hollywood, CA 4/27/09

Bongo Fury @ Harvelle's

photos by J. Ryan taken at Harvelle's April 21 2009

Bongo Fury band led by Walter Davis

with Victor Orlando, Bjorn Fleuren, Asa Watkins

.110

Junior Walker, Boris Pasternak

and a skeleton 

walk into a bar in Paris.

Junior Walker orders

a Makers Mark

and a cone of pomme frites.

Boris Pasternak orders

a Long Island Ice Tea

and insists on a bowl of cream for his pet kitten Siao-Pow.

The skeleton orders a draft beer

and a mop.

.109

you did what little girls do

play games then withdraw

crush a lot and give nothing

drop out of sight and react

i find it appealing

no scratch that - appalling

i'm offended - quite rightly

i'm not often nonplussed

.108

you squander your beauty

on that lump of a man.

i won't waste the words

on that malleable brute.

you don't speak the same language

he's beneath you - (you like that) - 

he's wildly stupid

his nose is wide open

.107

i play to that side of her-

the sexless ways of a whore-

she can only 

gauge my sincerity

she's just a tree to climb

i'm a monkey man

strumming a simple style

on electric guitar

.106

the dirt 

beneath my feet 

is death

i trod upon it

every 

day

.105

your promethian smile

spread cross

mountain ranges

many rivers

knowing I 

could care

for your reckless 

shallow self.

.104 [part 2]

part 2 is continuation

a hard crush against

the rocks

sandwiched foam waves

and hardened earth

beneath waffled 

foot stomps

of untouched pebbled runway

.103 [love]

the unbelievable 

ardor of your

lying thieving self

winds around the word

like snakes

twine-ing around

each other

like snakes

becoming 3D and real

Seattle

.102

The vast vast symmetry

of your polygonal nature

rises me up

nightly

with illusions rampant,

in my guts

the withins 

resemble the withouts

coupled through tremulous times

our pasts, having convened, 

now separate

and I stand at a cross road divine.

steadfast for days

hunting the elusive blue rhino

night by night

and standing ahead, fore and aft

i spring - not eternal -

but rapturously, hideously

and humanely;

the way i was put here for.

.101

i miss debunking your lies

and ridiculing your plagiarism

i miss exposing your hypocrisy

and watching your face

tell me to go away

.100

yes, i try to laugh

to smile 

to think

but the memories of you 

just run through my mind

i wouldn't call it depression

and it's not melancholy

but words of wisdom surround

and then knock on my door

the surreal affection 

i feel for the missing

the painful eruption

when all's said and done

i wouldn't trade a huge fortune

for the fortune is just you

the play's the whole thing

and not one minute more

whence upon that pure morning

when all is surreptitious

surrounded and hounded by those that we love

they're all so attendant

they're faithfully giving

but the meaning is empty

with these holes in the floor

and i'm not that different

even though i try to be

but it's not love you're seeking

you're seeking nothing for sure

and all the sandtraps in hades

wouldn't sink me this deep

into darkness and chaos

unable to go on

there is something

worth learning

although nothing's for certain

maybe not soon - maybe never again

there's one way to feel 

and thats open your heart up

you can't know where that leads you

or even for sure

all the love gets congested

there's buzzcocks in heaven

and music and people are just that - and again

the flowers

the quarries

the righteous

the losers

a few minutes together 

and then we are done

.99

like a rainbow, you please so many.
give joy and comfort and hope a home.
when you're gone - it's too soon
tho you're always remembered,
and with foresight recorded,

watched and re-wound

for use in those times 

when i just can't escape
and your love is needed —
like every minute 

of every single day

.98

The saddest Valentine's Day 

is broke, deafening 

and apart from anyone 

offering love.

It's not cut abs

or baskets of sweets.

It's not smiling, winking 

or making plans for the future.

It weeps

and so 

do I 

honey.

.97 [ezra]

to reverse the ocean's blue roar

to be where no one else has been

to be in the eye of the storm

and not even know

to carry on is the challenge

to accept it is to let go

and that will simply

never happen

.96

Will you surprise me
and tell me what i want to hear
Are you gonna wait for ever
to admit that you love me?

Will you nurture my soul
instead of messing around
Are you gonna wait for ever
to admit that you love me?

Will you give up the struggle
and get on with the fight
Are you gonna wait for ever
to admit that you love me?

Will you give me what i want
Will you accept it's what you need
Are you gonna wait for ever
to admit that you love me?

.95

i see you sitting.

i feel you breathe.

i want to know

but simply can't.

you are a ghost.

a history

of unsavored flavor.

i want to taste again.

.94

when i act strange - 

the way that i do

it's mostly just

because of you

i wish i was cool

i try to stay down

but i stutter and shake

when you are around

i am ernest, sincere

perplexed and confused

i want to be seen

and i want to see you

.93

guitar-thumbed 

harp squeaks

squall the return 

of a new year 

thin lightning 

from smokestacks,

feather flotilla and

belch cold nostalgia

my temporal logic

defines me 

in my 

greatest hour of need