"The Coraline Dunks will not be available for sale but you may get lucky and win them on the website if you go watch Coraline on February 6th- be sure to say after the credits for the secret code. Once you get the secret code, find the Nike shoe box in the Coraline bedroom or here: www.coraline.com/dunks"
1,000 pairsss made
they have tails and animal heads on them. peep the pics from nitrolicious, the blu laces are mad nice. Tails & headsssss! these dunks are quirky and kinda ugly, i love them, my anti-jeremy scott adidas with winngggs
Just now the sprinkler system outside of my apartment turned on. As I hear the hushed hiss of the sprinkles emerging from within the ground with a trickle of water I look to the couch cushion of my right. The faint noise sounds like casey's breathing-the heavy breathing that accompanies a deep cat sleep and coincides old age. I am disappointed not to see her curled up in a ball onto of my sweatshirt within a arms length form where I'm sitting. Although part of me knows she's not there.
Then I think to myself, how did it get to this place?
I understand it more than I did then but that doesn't make it any easier.
Perhaps it makes it worse.
ummm insert something one part lowkey mellowdramatic two part faux-existentialist drabble and serve over ice topped with an umbrella
Can I come home now? Come home into your arms, and when I say your arms, I mean your arms in that place I've called home but 'love can't live here anymore' right now ever ever again In the meanwhile I'm crash at a few friends places until tensions grow and my stay becomes unwelcome and occupy foreign hotels where the synthetic linens scrape and pull at my body until I can come back to home if it's meant that I do, I know that's some overused shit to say and I don't know if I can allow myself to truly believe it anymore, but I'm stubborn and will continue to put 'your arms' into google maps and follow the starting point to my destination
I was born in the wrong decade bluhhhhh cliche blog slap, the imagery just seemed applicable hah:
truth be told i don't even really feel that much game on this song, it's just the principle of the matter that has got me involved they can't all be get lifted tracksss
hah
but mr. legend i'm more mr. cole, i'm more on that i wishh you love trip than that passive agressive shit, no miss i wont diss i'm just onta othhaaa...errra-there's a scratch on my track
this is one of the few songs that has repeatedly, and can still bring me to tears after all this time the presence of love in the song is utterly beautiful and tragic in the most simplistic way strictly the live from sands in las vegas crica 1960 recording epcohal:
i said well daddy don't you know what things go in cycles, the way bobby brown is just amping like michael...
like beebop to hiphop back to beehop sampled in some hiphop...
excursionnssss
a professor in a class i once dropped told me that a poem is never finished, the poet just gets bored, fed-up, impatient, and moves on to the next thing
i see it as there is no end, it is just forged
i wrote this a minute ago and haven't touched it since might as well post it in writing this i think it was the first time i shared my emotions with an audience
with no further ado, "somebodys in trouble, awwww here it goes, ohhh nick, nick, nick, nick, na-nick, nick, nick.." -coolio the kenan and kel theme song
Re: Stuff I remember when we first kissed, and it was really awkward, and then you made a point to announce aloud that it was indeed awkward, but not to fret for everyone’s first kiss is awkward
Awkward has long since ceased to exist between us; we now reside in the land of the comfortable and intimate
Intimate, defined in Webster’s, open up the book, flip through the thumb index:
Umm it falls somewhere after, I dry heaved into your trash can as you brush my hair from my watering eyes, forehead kisses telling me I’m beautiful, just as my whole body violently convulsives, retching once again
And before, I strategically plotted and mapped every notable freckle on your body, tracing each point with my fingers as my eyes are closed, center-nose, upper-left cheek, mid-left neck, left collarbone, left hand in-between the middle and index fingers
Deviating, a devolution from path we have journeyed along, awkward does live and thrive in the vast abyss of the city bus we both happen upon, separated by a chilling coldness, of me wondering who’s that you’re with and what you’re talking about if my name gets brought up what do you say? my insides sobbing, turn into one entangled heartbeat, anxiously throbbing, yearning, yet dreading that in passing our eyes will meet once again It’s like the flustered red-cheek nervous high I experienced when you first put your arm around me at that café, imagining what “us” would be like, but now less novice and seemingly more hopeful
We went from 3 feet high and rising— complete with a complimentary slight creak in my neck, the price to pay for being the one who is spooned on confines of an extra-long twin bed your arms permanently wrapped around my stomach, your chest pressed against my back, sleeping so close to your heart I could never feel alone, you could fill up my empty part
Now restless nights of being alone, fighting back the compulsory urge of my body, trained, to compact itself and press against the wall to make room for you, for now our being is a big question, you tell me our relationship is a clear hindrance to your progression, I’m not at all ready to internalize your words of “don’t bother,” as if de la soul is dead
From time to time I find myself re-reading old e-mails and letters in secrecy, looking over my shoulder to hide from my hurt, but it’s too busy indulging in renunciation unyielding to surrender, it fights back tears in public, puts on a forced smile, robotic small talk and nodding
Still cautious I look over that shoulder, as I reread and replay old conversations in my head as if to retrace where it went wrong, but all I find is where I stopped talking to you and commenced in discourse with a ghost, the desperate pleas of my heart fell to his dead ears,
Even now as I open my lips to speak I’m surprised by my own heart’s will to tickle my vocal cords to plea my case yet once again, trying for you to hear me, my heart grows tired and is unable to rouse another sound from my voice
—but I often find myself thinking about you so dearly, as if to percolate the sound of my unspoken love for you that dispels from my thoughts and being, into a high pitched tone that only resonates in your heart
I’d like to believe you can hear, even from within the highly guarded fortress of your removed emotions: Friday night parties, straight shots of Svedka—no chaser, and coquette antidotes; your effort to forget me
today I didn't go to class because I need time to fully feel my emotions, or was it because I'm recovering from the flu and opted that my physical being-rest-was more important than the stress my day would hold, I can't quite remember which one
before I go to class on thursday again I am mandated to find my/a poetic voice
seems simple enough, no?
it's quite counterintuitive that one goes to school and learn how to evaluate and properly create art, to learn the creative process
i'm much rather trade bodies with my cat or be the cat in the wind-up bird chronicle
more plausibly
i'd much rather foster the "creative process" at the boys & girls club
children ranging from the ages of 7 to 13 have come to consensus that I am "weird"
I have probably never received a higher compliment.
"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." -Pablo Picasso
just keep listening to de la soul albums made before 1993
to be quite frank, Listen without Prejudice, Vol. 1 , the iconic track and video for Freedom '90, and George Michael as a solo artist do something entirely different than the campy pop sound of WHAM!
jus sayinn
I didn’t mind going with daddy to his meetings, there was a donut shop across from the Milano’s pizza next to the video rental store. Daddy always knew the perfect time to go buy fresh donuts, the chocolate icing on my French curl hadn’t quite set, still dripping down the sides of the jarred donut, and daddy always inhaled his maple bar three steps before leaving the shop. The meetings were held in a room up a creaky flight of dingy stairs, dirt encased steps that led above the laundry mat that daddy and I went to do our laundry sometimes. We usually drove down Stockton Boulevard to do our laundry, Daddy got free soap and cycles of laundry, and I got all the chicklets I could chew from behind the cashier counter. We got free things at the laundry mat because Daddy was on disability from hurting his back at work and would give his vicodin pills to the man that managed the laundry-mat. No one knew more people than my dad did, we couldn’t go anywhere without running into people he knew, they always remarked on how tall and pretty I was getting and how they knew me since I was small enough to fit into their arms. People always came by the house too, but they never stayed long. Down the street from the shopping center where meetings were held was Tahoe Park. We would walk to the park or store a lot; we couldn’t drive far away from Daddy’s house because the tags on his car were expired. When driving I would help Daddy look out for cops so we wouldn’t get caught and go to jail. When a police car was spotted out Toyota made a mad dash to the closest side street or parking lot. Daddy reached under his seat pulling a lever, then we both ran out the car as the trunk flies open, and we pretended to be looking for something until the police car passes us by. Daddy would boast, “Fives years and I still haven’t gotten caught, that’s a God thing meja,” He credited God with a lot of what he had, “Shit, I should’ve died a long time ago from all the using and abusing I’ve done, someone up there must be looking out for me,” he often remarked. He repeated a lot of the same things, I wondered if thought that I forgot he told me, or if he just forgets what he says himself. After meetings we would go to the grocery store on the other side of the shopping complex. At the grocery store daddy would more than often place a 12-pack of Budweiser in the shopping cart next to the cartons of ice cream and bakery cakes I had picked out for breakfast. I would never say anything but from time to time he would see me eyeing the condensation gathering on the red and blue lettering of the white can. “Yeah you know Dan from across the street, he did a few things to the car and I don’t have much money so I just buy him some beer,” he’d explain. I never fully believed him but as we both turned in sync with the shopping cart onto the candy and cookies isle I soon forgot to bother with such complexities. The room where the meetings were held reminded me of the portable classrooms at school, embedded in the yellow chipping wall paper was the stench of what seemed like decades of a stale coffee dependency, chain smoking, and sadness. Once inside Daddy would wait for his turn and then approach the podium at the front of the room, the right side of his body slumped and leaning againt the faux wood grain, thermos of coffee in the other hand “Hello my name is Robert and I’m an alcoholic.” “Hello Robert,” everyone in the room would respond. Daddy would always be sure to remind me that I’m the reason he was still living, “the only child, the golden child.” From time to time as he would speak in the front of the room he would gesture towards the back room where I sat alone amongst a wall of coffee mugs and pots, donuts, and a half broken box of crayons. Everyone would turn to look at me, too see the daughter of the man who had conquered his demons to remain in his little girl’s life. Protruding yellow stained and gold embossed teeth smiled back at me, men and women, leather-clad, tattooed, unwashed, dawned thick rimmed glasses, baseball caps pulled down low, all nursed miscellaneous cracked seasonal mugs of coffee and picked at donuts from the shop downstairs as if holding onto a lost sense of hope in life. They all turned to look at me, many of whom have lost their families and children to their disease. From time to time women would stroke my hair remarking how I was about their daughter’s age, and how I remind them of the children they struggle to recall from memory. The people at the meetings reminded me of the homeless downtown, passing beggars on the street Daddy would always remark, “Makes you wonder did they give up on life, or did life give up on them.”
today, my bestfriend divulged to me that she and her roommate work out-more specifically do squats to, this song:
MOSAIC respectful and accepting response teaching to discovering something new that we're not familiar with:
hmmm that's interesting.
never heard of that before!
tell me about it?
switch it slap it rollin yo eyes and neck bitch you better run a checkkk:
“Time is the best teacher, but unfortunately it kills all of it’s students.” -Robin Williams
now ain't dat da truffff
walking to the bus stop at 7am fingers clutched rendered frozen adhered to backpack straps puffs of warmth escaping into the fog blanket that covers the earth until it awakes and uncovers itself slappp:
ICE CREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!
ICE CREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!
THE ICE CREAM MAN IS COMING!
THE ICE CREAM MAN IS COMING!
MOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
MOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
