Adrien Salazar

Adrien Salazar
Adrien Salazar is a warrior poet of peace residing in the beautiful SF Bay Area. His works have previously been featured in publications including {m}aganda magazine, the 2007 and 2008 APAture Asian American Arts Festival hosted by Kearny Street Workshop in San Francisco, and he recently performed for the 2009 Youth Speaks Bringing the Noise for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. performance showcase. He lives the word and fights for his life out his heart every day.

http://drepoetic.wordpress.com

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*Caits’ note: Please check out Adrien’s Heartfirst Challenge, in part inspired by the Little Ripple Project, that is happening during February only!

To all you quixotic dreamers, would-be adventurers, and secret passionates everywhere,  San Francisco Bay Area native poet Adrien Salazar has conjured up a challenge:

If you keep your ambitions in your back pocket, if you care about something or love anything, if you dare to live like you mean it, take on the HeartFirst Challenge.

The challenge is extremely simple: For 28 days in the month of February, put your heart first.

If you want to be an artist, start painting. If you want to go to culinary school, sign up for a cooking class. If you’ve always wanted to be a revolutionary, go join a protest! This is a reclamation of the month of the heart. In a time of global change, this challenge aims to bring more much-needed passion into the world.

Resist the I can’ts and I shouldn’ts. Tell yourself you deserve to live your dreams. This is your time, this is your life. Try it out,  just this once. Live by your heart. Do it now. Then share what happens.

Find out more about how to be involved at http://heartfirstchallenge.wordpress.com

Ahem, end PSA.

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My truth

I sit forty hours a week in the same chair the same desk. Between youth and adulthood. In between a new President and becoming a second class citizen in my own state. In between a man shot and a city on fire. In between Gaza and Israel.

This world I live. I a fresh breath bursting out of college into the face of a maelstrom sweeping me. History is time that won’t quit and my time just started.

Take me. All of me flesh and nerves a mess. I lay myself peeling back skin back layers of death and ash. A thousand years. A lotus pod. Unfolds. Find the beats in me beat even in the middle of still ness.

Find I am already bound in it like

Poetry pulses five quarts a minute out my aorta like
Protesters arrests the marching of feet pounds my ears like
Specks of struggle under my fingernails in the cracks of my skin like
My love for men seep out my eye sockets like
Communities in agony

History is time that won’t quit and I am already caught in it

Engulfs me
How else do I do
But bloody spit out my lungs into the thick air of it
Breathe the wind rushing into me
Dance the earth already turning me
Tumble into
Stumble

Live

word.

Rabbi Darkside

Rabbi Darkside
Rabbi Darkside is a Buffalo-born Brooklyn-based Hip Hop Artist/Educator and NYC freestyle legend, known for rocking mics and crowds around the globe with a vigor and poetic tact rare in this age of water-downed pop rap. He has won a substantial number of prestigious battles and MC challenges in the new millennium, all while touring the U.S. and Europe with NYC trio 3rd Party. Rabbi D is also a highly regarded DJ and beatboxer and an amazing educator (Caits can attest to this!) His new solo album just dropped a few months ago. Cop it.

http://www.myspace.com/rabbiraps

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“My whole life is reflected in the spontaneous now of my mental present.”

Whoa. If I have ever come across a quote that sums up the essence of Hip Hop creation, this is it. I was actually kind of shook when I saw this line. To read a thought, out of context, that inspires an overdose of introspection… Funny thing is, it is lifted from an academic doctoral thesis written by my dear friend’s philosopher father. The dissertation is on “human systems” and their interconnectedness. I’m not quite sure what that even means, but this line struck a hell of a chord with me.

The truth for me is The Moment: the unleashing of potential energy that has been harbored, practiced, bottled, dusted, dirtied, wrung, bought, sold, polished, gilded, stripped, earned, bartered, captured, freed, tended, neglected, buried, lofted, grounded, resented, respected, revised, reviewed, reviled, realized. This Moment is a cyclone of energy, of thought, of personalities, of creativity. In Hip Hop, it is the cypher, the show, the jam, the studio session. This Moment has the capacity to invite and entice whole crowds to enter, all through the freedom that they witness in the artist. It is the rhythm of a classroom session gone completely right. It is that feeling in a writing workshop when everyone is locked into penning on a common topic. It is Keith Jarrett playing a solo piano concert. It is looking at a piece of abstract art and wondering “how?” and “what?”

So, if that is my “truth,” then what is my “why?” Well, it is twofold.

One is to be a student participant. To stand in the awe-inspiring shadow-light of amazing individuals and be a sponge. Soak up their knowledge, and then try to dissect their process and path. Take that and apply it to my own craft. It can come from professors, marathon runners, chefs, grant writers, Portuguese songstresses, comedians… the point is to be open to any possible influence at any time.

Two is be an artist who can inspire through expression. This desire can manifest in a number of arenas. The stage, the subway, the classroom, the bedroom. The grown-man goal for me is to use the same heart/brain muscles in as many ways as possible. Writing a lesson plan works the same creative energies as writing a song. Rocking for a class in Brooklyn gives me the same glow as rocking a crowd on another continent. And they all contribute to sustainability.

I have stockpiled enough affirmation that tells my shaky self-esteem to keep doing this. I have had too many positive personal interactions and built too many friendships with like-minded folks to stop. I am addicted to this lifestyle and feel like crap when I don’t tend my artistic equilibrium. I have been forced to reset my dream plateau over and over again. In essence, hard work presents opportunities for harder work, and all that grinding and grimacing and labor-of-love complaining leads to doors. If those doors open, you step into The Moment, and all that is inside you is unleashed. And hopefully, someone who really needs to see it is a part of that Moment, and they walk away feeling inspired to express.

Anthem Salgado

Anthem Salgado
Anthem Salgado is a true multi-disciplinary artist who draws inspiration for his work from three disparate home cities: San Francisco, New York, and Manila. He is a visual artist and alumnus of the prestigious San Francisco Art Institute, a performance poet and an actor. In addition, Anthem gives workshops and lectures, and curates one-of-a-kind music and performance events at night clubs. Caits wants you to know she also saw him in action as a director, and he ain’t too shabby at that either! Ask him about manifesting stuff.

http://www.anthemsalgado.com

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“What Is Your Truth?”

Caitlin asked
and a kaleidoscope,
a mosaic of moments
arranged themselves
like a Seurat painting.
Dancing to abstraction
upon closer inspection.
Cameron Frye looking
uneasy.

I pointed at the temple
with the index outstretched
and when the thumb hammered down,
my brains dashed out
as a flutter of butterflies,
papery and light,
each twirling into teeny mirrors,
shimmering like a splash,
then chasing away into the ether.

Having seen that
I remembered
I am not my biography.

And two books after the first
reading, I wanted to tell the Poeta
en San Francisco, finally
I got it
really:
‘101 Words
That Don’t Quite Describe Me.’

Throw the sharpened point of
a weighted dart at a spinning globe and
say, There I am!
there I am!
anywhere
it lands.

The light projecting from these eyes
onto the ceiling was a redemption film:
amnesiac goes to bundok,
inherits ancient truth,
burns resume in fire,
smiles with family through
wealthy albeit invisible life.

Tina G.

Tina G.
Tina G. is a Poet, playwright, and visual artist born and raised in Manhattan, New York. Her poetry is the voice, struggle, and soul of this beautiful city. Her performing credits include innovative performance pieces at The Nuyorican Poets Café, and the Bowery Poetry Club. She is currently gathering her first book of poetry, and putting together her first showcase that will take place in April.

http://www.myspace.com/tinagnycpoet

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Caitlin,

I don’t know if you remember me, you read at one of my readings I put together in Brooklyn. Thank you, I needed this truth tonight. My fingers couldn’t move as fast as this feeling flowed through me. I hope you can contribute my piece to the project.

Much respect thanks for doin this!

Keep creating.

Here is my truth:

My truth is waking to another retail shift. Eating some Apple Jacks because that’s the pick me up for the day. Pulling my size fourteens up as far as it will go to cover my love handles. Waiting for the M15, most of them skip stops. Like most of us. My truth is treating my bosses with respect even though I hate their ignorant guts. One thing keeps me going: The one nice customer that will take the time to ask me how my poetry and performing is going. Or the old woman, Carmen, who got so excited to hear that I got into college, because she knows just as well as I do, asking someone if they have a discount card isn’t getting me anywhere. She has faith in me. So that gives me hope.

Just when I think I can’t handle it anymore, I think about the next poem I will write or how I can tell a story nobody can. This keeps me sane in an insane, money hungry city. My bank account screams poverty, but I am happy. Because as cheesy as it may sound, words don’t cost anything but experience, well, experience is priceless. So I eat my turkey and cheese from Subway, cookies and all, even though I told myself no more sweets. Cause I deserve the little things. That is the truth. No matter what status, shitty nine-to-five, you are striving for something. We are all so worried about where we need to be, that we never see where we are in the moment.

I gotta plan. The master plan. It is to affect people with my words and stories. As long as I am doing that my life makes sense to me. 2009 is my year. I am not married to a man, or carrying babies around even though that’s where I think I should be in my life. That is not my path. The only path I follow has mad crazy words on it, and beautiful New Yorkers, although some bitter, they just haven’t heard this yet. Dream until your heart explodes, angry New Yorker. They may have the fancy coats on and noses in the sky all powdered with Dior, but are they happy? Follow your own path, and don’t measure your worth to the dollar amount next to current balance. Be current in what you have now. Hope is a dangerous word, but what else do we have? Hope=2 0 and AppleJacks. New Yorkers stay up!

Mucho love
Tina G.

Lani Stanbery

Lani Stanbery
Lani Stanbery is an insurance broker for the Fine Art Industry, working with museums, art galleries and art and antiques dealers to insure their art. Prior to working in insurance, Lani traveled the world as a professional
dancer for film, television and theater. Putting her creative passions back to the forefront of her life, she is currently working with close friends to put together a dance show for late Summer or early Fall 2009. Look out!

http://www.myspace.com/laniapplebaum

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Aye yay yay Caits… this is a new venture for me… and to be quite honest, I’d rather share what I wrote after reading your Little Ripple blog… this is the second draft of something that was stirred up inside of me both after meeting you and reading what you wrote. It’s got promise but I think it sounds like I’m trying too hard… most of the time I know what I wanna say, I just can’t get the “right” words out. I feel like a mime… it’s bananas. Anyway, I’m giving this to you, a new acquaintance whose work I think quite highly of… so imagine how timid I feel : )

Here it is.. this is my truth:

The In Between (Really rough still)

The in between
Is the nothingness between indecision and reaction
It’s the emotional tidal wave inside my creative body
Slowly but steadily building an intolerance to silence
Weakening the damn, day by day until I can’t control it
any longer and it spews out of my mouth…
…NOTHING……..
“Well how come she can’t say something if
she won’t do something?”

The sad reality is I’ve become too comfortable
in the in between
This place where I was successful then
And at least by mediocre standards
I am successful now
But I’m not entirely happy, simply secure…ish..
And what the fuck is that if happy ain’t part of it?
Have I by some standards sold out by giving my
creative soul in to the corporate devil?
I suppose the answer would be yes
I’m stuck in between the comforts of a 401K,
health insurance with a little in the bank to spare,
and spreading awareness, fostering positivity,
change and love

Is it possible to do both?
I’m working on that as we speak
My ears are open
My heart is open
My eyes are open
And I’m reverting back to the comforts
Of my creative circle
Absorbing, regrouping, rejuvenating
Being….in every capacity

Let me know what you think (I’m scared…lol).

All the best,
Lani

Busy Bisc1 aka Bisco Smith

Busy Bisc1 aka Bisco Smith
At age 18, emcee and graffiti writer Bisc1 rolled over the Connecticut border into NYC and woke up to the gritty grind of urban turbulence. He constructs precise, honest commentary with his narratives, his images, and his collaborations. Digging below the surface, capturing concepts is what Bisc1 does best; explaining why he has become the go-to graphic artist for some of your (and mine) favorite hip hop artists. Caits wants you to know he is making beats now and might just take over the world. Watch out!

http://www.bisc1.com/

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Thanks for making me take the time to read, your words are strong.

I believe that art balances the mundane, the must, and the everyday regular thought. We are important, whether it be about love, war, or any other topic. We allow escape, insight and a voice that most wish they could speak with.

If I had to tell you my truth for 09, “don’t, give up, don’t give in.” At an age and in a time when people are falling off, making families and embarking on new chapters, I too am looking and thinking and planing for new places, new faces and new directions. But I will not let go of the dreams, the desire and the drive that makes my life what I have crafted. The moral of my story, keep on keeping on, good things take time, and no matter what level we reach, the next one will always show its face…

Justin Woo

Justin Woo
Justin is a poet, DJ and educator who has performed at venues throughout the tristate area. Through the combination of theatre, poetry, and modern dance, Justin has helped create five multi-disciplinary productions. When he’s not busy working on spoken word productions, he loves to DJ, as well as enlightening the youth as a member of the Slamchops poetry education program.

http://www.myspace.com/justinwoo

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Thank you for sending this to me. Hearing your perspective post- SWAP 2008 will be invaluable as I march into SWAP 2009. I wish you could be with us for the ride.

I’m already struggling, fighting with my first poem – about Gaza and Israel. It started as a mourning piece – about loss of innocence and the way man kills god by killing man. But as the ground invasion progresses and I see more and more pictures of dead babies, dead children, I find myself being more angry and less in the middle.

What’s my truth? I believe that 2009 will be a grind. We’re poorer than we’ve ever been, but still richer than most of the rest of the world. I believe that Palestinian babies don’t deserve to suffer for the stupidity of Israeli leaders and the myopia of Hamas, but they will anyway. I believe that my friends have lost their jobs and may not find new ones in time. I don’t know if the Obama plan is going to be enough – as we celebrate a much vaunted “new era” of leadership, Palestinians are taking cover from artillery strikes and can’t find food or water. That, sadly, is merely the status quo.

I believe that I’m scared – we’re in an angry desperate world, and the last time we were here, we got an FDR. And a Hitler. People says Bush was the new Hitler. I think he was too much of a screw up for that – he was a Herbert Hoover, a Neville Chamberlain. I’m afraid of what the world might give us next.

But we’re all soldiers. Putting one foot in front of the other, just like you said. And I’m hoping that the art I make now, somehow, will be enough to make a difference. I’ve always believed what you said in your e-mail – about the power of finding your voice, of the politics of silence. So I’m yelling. At the top of my lungs. And I’m hoping that someone listens.

I guess at the heart of all this anger that I wear like a fuckin’ badge, I’m scared. I’m really scared that our generation is going to be remembered as layabouts and fuck ups who let our government trample decency and freedom every chance it gets, despite professed intentions of wanting to do otherwise. I’m scared that no one cares about this generational legacy but me. When I ask most people about it, they express non-concern, or worse, believe that the very concept of generational legacy is a new one. I’m scared that all the art comes to naught. I’m scared of terrorism. I’m really glad I didn’t see that plane go down into the Hudson because I probably wouldn’t have known whether to cry, shit my pants, or faint. The only thing that scares me more than that is what our government will do (and has done) in the name of preventing it. I’m afraid that the world hates us, and with good reason. I’m afraid that Obama is going to pursue a Clintonite middle of the road agenda, and it’s going to be business as usual. And business as usual is what we really can’t handle another 8 years of. And you know what? I have no fucking clue what to do about all of this. That’s hard to admit.

It’s rare, Caitlin, very rare, that someone is able to kick down my rage armor and make me feel safe enough to express myself like this. I guess it makes sense though – you showed me a very vulnerable side of yourself, so I think it’s natural to respond in kind. So thank you for that, thank you very much.

So that’s my story, January 17, 2009.

I hope this wasn’t too ranty or too boring (I’m honestly not sure which would be worse). But thanks for giving me the impetus to get all that out. It was kicking around in my chest, unable to find a way out, til your e-mail came along.

Thank you. For helping me put one foot in front of the other.

Your Friend,
Justin

Lindsay Meissner

Lindsay Meissner
Lindsay Meissner was born and raised in New York’s state capital. Though she has been a life-long writer, she just recently made the transition from private playwright to public poet. One quarter through life, Lindsay has decided to share her many thoughts with the art world. With her loud voice and open heart, Lindsay articulates human experience in her writing, with the intention of attracting awareness, appreciation, and reflection.

http://lindsaymeissner.livejournal.com

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The Truth About the Four Boys

We don’t speak Spanish like school.
We combine street talk with our Spanish.
They call it Spanglish, I call it straight up truth.
I call you Miss Lindsay because I got my respects straight,
And it’s not a threat it’s a promise
That I could knock your teeth out.
See these knuckles? They show face when you don’t recognize your elders.

18 years-old, he tells Miss Lindsay
That she dresses real nice for work.
Says he can get with someone her age,
But not Miss Lindsay because she’s got back ups.
He teaches Miss Lindsay the new dance.
Says casually on beat breaks: next year, when I got my own crib
You gonna come over,
We gonna bump!

Ohhh shit, look at those kicks-
Miss Lindsay, you know
You say the N-word when you’re alone in your room!

Miss Lindsay won’t write you up for cussing unless you cuss at her.
Miss Lindsay will keep a secret and open up for unwritten honesty.

10 years-old, he can’t catch a break:
Little man, quit digging!
Quit roller-skating upstairs!
Quit playing my game!
Quit hiding your dirty drawers behind the bathroom sink!

13 years-old, he won’t address Miss Lindsay by her name.
He will say: Go elsewhere! Make me some eggs and bacon!
He will dream of superheroes and fantasize about a mixed kinship;
Envision a Japanese, Peruvian, Portuguese father-
But with no answer,
He will kick the buttons off a snowman.
He will force his eyes to ice for two long months
Until he can’t hide a smile behind acquired hardness
Anymore. The smile stays plastered like a promise.

16 years-old, he starts to think about sex.
Takes care of the world,
Always pauses for a feeling.
He says to Miss Lindsay:
When I go home, you’re going to quit.

18 years-old, he ignites red cloth to prove he’s still got it.
He hides his tears behind a doo-rag and raised fists, and
Whispers to Miss Lindsay over quiet Illmatic: I’m not ready to be locked up.

Miss Lindsay won’t be around forever.
This is your home.
But it’s not hers.
It’s not a threat it’s a promise
That Miss Lindsay will write about the boys
Because aggression
Turned compassion
Is the truth.

John “Survivor” Blake

John “Survivor” Blake
What if someone pointed out a homeless vagrant to you and said, “that’s going to be a well-known poet and biographer, and he’ll change lives around the world”? Welcome John “Survivor” Blake into the picture. After a life filled with what most would call tragedy, “Survivor” grew up to be a proud member of the Louder Arts slam team that placed 3rd in the nation, a 2007 finalist at the Urbana 2007 Grand Slam and a 4x semi-finalist in 2006 (his first year of slamming) at the Nuyorican Poets’ Cafe. A fter touring the country, he now resides in Virgina where he is the slam coach and team member for SlamRichmond’s slam team.

http://www.myspace.com/httpwwwmyspacecomsurvivor

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We laugh about how I refuse to remove my hospital bracelets. Susan is my “Trauma Specialist” and has been assigned to me after my last bout with depression. I tell her that curling the plastic in my fingers reminds me to stay out of the bars, hence, the drug-spots. I confess, “once I’m through with the fourth double-Cuervo, I head to the nearest dope-house, then the closest room that offers privacy. Susan asks me why I do it. I tell her, “as soon as my head is cloudy enough, all I remember are the good times. She asks about my brother and his untimely passing. I smile before the first tear. We talk. I talk. She listens.

She offers to write me a prescription. She wants me less depressed before our next visit. I decline, bragging “if I could give up heroin on my own, I can kick booze and coke, no sweat!”

“Why not” she demands. I giggle.

“You ever try writing poetry on antidepressants?”

“You ever try writing anything when you’re dead” she retorts.

“If I can’t write, I may as well be.”

End of debate. Susan worries because I just completed my 8th treatment center for addiction/depression/attempted suicide. She thumbs through the tower growing in my file; hospitals and doctors’ opinions from Santa Cruz, CA to New Jersey, from Seattle to Lawton. OK. I am barely 24 hours out of detox and my hands still twitch. I promise her that I will continue my recovery plan and call her if any thoughts should become unbearable (Yes, I lied about the thoughts.)

I’ve been living with shame so long, my reflection is just some guy I share my apartment with. We don’t talk, like some stranger on a public bus ride. I do my best to sleep through the sun’s shift, and when the night shows herself, I make coffee. I get dressed to see friends at my 12-step fellowship, buying cigarettes on the way. My first meeting, back from yet another relapse, I am embarrassed. This battle, me and the drugs/alcohol, has been ongoing since 1986! 23 years later, I am back on day-one, but I have something more this time. I have found a God of my understanding. In the past.

I fought a concept of some divine force, twirling planets on his fingers like basketballs and peeking in my bedroom window. I couldn’t accept that any “God” would allow my AIDS laden brother to die alone in the cold, or let my mother get so sick in prison that she’s released to die in my arms. I couldn’t believe some “God” let my entire family fall from heroin, or let over 300 firefighters perish on 9/11 when a junkie like me still lives. But I no longer see God as some old man, pushing death-buttons with specific names above them. I see God as spiritual truth. I know God was Marty McConnell on Def Poetry Jam, reciting “Instructions for a Body” and pulling the syringe from my arm. God was Nathan Pearson, telling me to keep slamming at the Nuyorican. God was Rachel McKibbens, telling me, “we don’t have much, but you can stay here for a while,” when I was homeless and struggling. God has been random voices, thanking me for my existence (when I’m clean and sober!) Once, while sharing the stage with Saul Williams and Suheir Hamad in Fresno, CA, a teenaged girl approached me. She hugged me so tight that I could not breathe. She cried all over my shirt. Her mother soon came up to me, eyes full of tears, and thanked me for performing. She said her daughter heard me perform before, and ever since the girl’s father died of an overdose, my poetry had been the only thing holding her together. That is God, telling me to keep writing. Fuck fame!
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I’d be a liar if I said that I don’t have thoughts of finishing a bottle of tequila while staring at a sunrise over Coney Island (where my brother, Benny, froze to death), or that sometimes, smoking crack takes away the poor-me’s. I pray now, and prayer seems to work. I don’t know, exactly, what I’m praying to, but I never knew what my dope was cut with either! Sometimes, I’m even happy, lately. Most of all, I’m so, so proud… of me!

Jen Ballera

Jen Ballera
Jan B. is the infamous Jen B. from the original email Caits sent out. Caits also happens to be her roommate and also happens to be writing this bio. Ms. Ballera is the queen of doing all things good: she’s a brilliant ache of a writer, a sweet heart-taker of a music maker, a self-taught graphic design and photo wiz and she probably knows more about music than you do. She’s also a pretty amazing friend but doesn’t like to talk about being good at any of these things. One day you might find yourself reading her memoirs and Caits will just stick out her tongue and say, “told ya so!”

http://www.myspace.com/passiveexcessive
http://passeism.tumblr.com/

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“the only true currency in this bankrupt world is what
you say to somebody else when you’re uncool.”
-almost famous.

i fell in love recently, a young and fearless unabashed love. there are no politics that can prevent this and therefore falling in love becomes the ultimate act of revolution, inherently political and personal.

i was a political science major for nearly three years before purposely dropping the fuck out. i got lost in the muck of the bureaucracy of public policy and all those self-aggrandizing pseudo activist johnny-come-latelys clearly more into it to hear themselves talk shit at length and meet girls. instead i turned insular and made my work about the politics of self, the importance of location, the borders of shrinking and expanding space between you and everyone around you.

that is always the most honest truth to me: the quiet, intimate moments you play back over and over in your head; bright sunlight through bay windows, your lover’s hair, sunset from the williamsburg bridge. these moments are the most fleeting, the hardest to capture completely. but these are the moments that no greater force can take away from you, that make every morning worth waking up to.