I met him unexpectedly, on a bench at a subway in New York City. His shopping cart contained a myriad of things. Some unknown objects or rather objects in which their purpose was unknown; plastic pipes, all sorts of tools and ropes and spray cans in every color. His jeans were torn and frayed at the bottoms, ripped almost all the way around on his left leg, his right knee fully exposed, a gray sweatshirt that was also frayed at the sleeves. He blended in with the gray brick wall that stood behind him, forlornness, loneliness, desolateness, and hopelessness. Empty possibilities swam around him. I quickly looked away, homeless people made me so sad. But for some reason I sat next to him. Hell, maybe a smile would cheer this guy up.
"Hello" was the single word that escaped my lips. A grunt was all I received. He itched his big Walt Whitman beard. I pulled out a copy of my friend's art magazine, he was a student at NYU, majoring in journalism and visual art. It was nothing big, well...yet. It was merely a local magazine that usually interviewed local artists about their work and listed dates for gallery openings. Flipping through the thin silky magazine pages I noticed the featured artist of the month was the man sitting beside me, my eyes widened, the picture matched that man who sat next to me; the man who was picking flies in his Walt Whitman beard. I turned the page, he was a graffiti artist, but not just block letters and shit, this guy was talented. His work was so unique. Abstract images meshed with eachother, they seemed to fit though, colors clashed but looked right, jagged shapes that met with regular shape, different faces, different settings, moons, rising suns, stars, comets, rainbows all in one work of art. The juxtaposition was so apparent, I found it odd as my corporate ass self sat next to a homeless man...try that for juxtaposition. I glanced at the next page for his name. "Sid." No last name. Just, "Sid."
"Sid, my name's Marcus Wright." He looked up from the depths of his Whitman-esque beard in an intense episode of searching for flies....to eat...? I didn't want to know. He just simply starred at me, dumbfounded. Not even as if he was surprised that I knew his name. I think he put the pieces together when he realized what I was reading had his work and a candid picture of him in it...or did he know? His facial expression couldn't be put into one mere emotion. Schizophrenic? Out of touch with reality? Probably...how else could someone jump into a world like that and just re create it on brick walls in scummy parts of New York City. "Well...anyways..my good friend is the editor of this magazine that you're in. I write for "The NY Times", myself." He didn't look up. Maybe I was hallucinating but I think he sort of laughed, under that mess of a beard. "Well...would it be possible to get another interview but for "The NY Times"? The answer I received was not one I had hoped for yet it was quite distinguished coming from the man who smelled of rotten eggs. "Mr. Wright, my art is a gift to the people, it does not belong in a newspaper or magazine or to a corporate douchebag as yourself. I do not appreciate people taking pictures of me nor my work. My work is meant to be viewed in it's habitat, near the ugly bad dumpy sections of the Bronx or near the train tracks in Queens. So no, Mr. Wright, I decline your offer." The next train came screeching by, as if on queue. Speechless, I walked away and got on that train; I was headed to the dumpy part of the Bronx or near the train tracks by Queens. I was going to see this fly infested man's art. For such a man that didn't talk much, or respond to people really, it was ironic that his art contained so much life and thrived even in the ugly parts of New York City, when he looked as if he contained no life at all. As if, he just bore the vacant and lifeless expression on his face and didn't care about a thing in the world, when it was the exact opposite.
I guess things should just be left the way you are. Rather than taking out my blackberry and notifying the "Art" columnist of the "NY Times" I didn't. I don't think he'd want that.

Ok, so I've started to start this shit back up. I deleted all the old BS. I don't care if no one reads this. I'm just gonna put random crap I write here.

Here's the first slam I ever wrote.
It's called conformity. yeah, ghey title, I'm fully aware.



Long car rides to strange new places that same song never gets old. The ocean air near that

rusty playground, where time, love, and anger never existed. You were seven years old, playing

outside in the warm spring sun. You never thought the simplicity of childhood would end, it was

done. Just like that I went from a world where I knew it all to something like a chuck

Palahniuk novel…I don’t quite know what is happening…Please, can you help me? I’m confused I’m

jumping from one thing to the next, I’m teetering between the two paths of boredom and insanity

and passivity and assertiveness. My eyes, oh my eyes, they dart around this room, where I just

see these walking clichés, these utter lies. These humans, these people who just define the

reputation of this town, this state, this country. They just don’t care. NO ONE DOES. They’re

too busy worrying about their appearance and what other people think. WHO CARES. Your fucking

country is in an economic recession and all you seem to care about is how you look in the

morning or how damn wasted you’ll get this weekend. The media that you base your life around

condones the fact that you can beat and bite your girlfriend and get your face plastered on

every magazine, as if the whole world cares. I’m starting to think they do. Are we just so

bored and tired of our life that we have to pretend to care about some pseudo rapper’s life.

Why do we care? Here’s another thing, let’s let the media and the majority of society allow us

to be afraid, let’s hide because oh no! There’s a man running for president who’s middle name

sounds as if he is from Al Qaeda. This society we live in, the media that preaches to us, this

thing called religion, it is the opiate of the masses, thank you Karl Marx. Media, I’m begging

you, make me another one of them, control my life, dress me, feed me, choose my tastes in

music, art and literature. Style my hair and choose the clothes I wear in a way that it is

suppose to look. Make me like everyone else, please? Isn’t that how I’m supposed to look? Look,

I don’t want to hear about Prop 8 going to supreme court, I just want to see the news report

today, I’d rather watch “The Hills” or engross myself in some reality TV show. Let’s know more

about some girl that used so much bleach that it seeped beyond her hair, into her skull killing

multiple brain cells, who lives in Laguna Beach and aspires to be daddy’s little girl forever,

rather than getting to know someone of substance. Someone who has actual opinions and

aspirations and someone that will stand up for what they believe in, someone not afraid to be

who they really are, without letting society get in the way. Let’s tip our hats to the man who

walks across the bridge wearing a yellow rain coat on a sunny day, to the town drunk who belts

out “Don’t Stop Believing” through the streets, to the kids who know that no one ever loved

them, that they’re so called parents faked it, to get money from the government. To the town

troubadour who no ever heard talk who just sings all day, to the cop who doesn’t like donuts

and to the school teacher who never taught a thing worth knowing. To anyone who just recently

realized, they have a problem. To the victims of society who once said: “I am clay: shape me, I

am glass: break me.” And lastly, to anyone who has ever felt alone…I have, and you know what?

It’s not that bad.