Comment on Moving Backwards – A Tribe Called Quest

“I have been feeling like a row of cups, some of them full and some of them not. Spilled one day, filled the next, empty then overflowing. The changes have been too fast, too sudden, to follow. I am an inconsistent row of cups. I am thirsty, I am prosperous, I am doomed, I am safe, I am among friends, I am alone. Just a row of cups. When Tribe’s Jarobi and Tip arrive, with Anderson.Paak and Consequence, it is as if they are holding pitchers of water. It is free refills. Music that’s pure relief – rhyme and rhythm, beat and leap, restoration. The reminder of a kind of solidarity – kinship despite difference – or of other artists’ dexterity – an admiration for everything you can’t do, but others can. Moving backwards but making progress; this isn’t my song but I’ll borrow it.” – Sean: saidthegramophone.com

after all by Dena Rash Guzman

this is scatterbrain
a theory of a war-torn mind
a disturbance of experience
thus a theory of melancholia
meets its manic parent

(don’t let me spend all the money)
(don’t let me near the knives)
(don’t let me let me let me out)

this is why I quit writing
how I put my faith in garbage
where I went from advocate to patient
thus a theory of mania
meets its melancholic cousin

(don’t leave me all alone)
(don’t let me drown)
(don’t let me drown)

this is where I get off
this is the place I relearn joy
this is when! I regain balance
I hold my loved ones close
a reward after reconstruction

(don’t let me drop hope)
(don’t forget I’m in here)
(don’t let me let me let me out)
(don’t let me drown)

The Dead

It has come again –
The dead
It’s creeping in

I don’t mind it
It’s really not that bad
So, I let it in

It comes whether you want it to,
Or not
You can’t will it away

The dead doesn’t work like that
It is concentrated power
It’s consecrated too

The dead is a valley
In between two mountains
You must journey through

What is the difference,
Between the dead and winter?
Nothing.

Winter
Is a coat
The dead wears.

The Warrior

The warrior will die one thousand deaths
Just to die one thousand more
For the cause that began as breath
For the cause that was born

I have seen the fearsome warrior fight
Many battles won and lost
He will not cease at good moon’s night
He will not stop for icy frost

He will never tire of wars ahead
Too much blood to be spilled
There’s so much blood that lines his bed
So many husbands that he’s killed

I know the fearsome warrior well
Bound to battle and never free
The lust for blood, he’s under spell
I should know, the warrior’s me

That lustful man is me

You and I: Mask and Mask by Adam Cornford

You are the God-made image of God
I am a flat-faced ape with an overgrown brain

You are the composed captain of your fate I
am an ocean’s bone-coral colony of specialized cells

You are identity’s animate armor striding through
time I am a superposed standing wave in a ceaseless flow

Your body is towered clay with a soul folded in My body is
a ramifying weave of energy trees and information trees

Your skin is a sheath for unregarded meat My skin
is the sail of a vessel voyaging in all directions

at once You are first person singular
I am first people singular