Super News! Explode – The Writer’s Environment is a Summer and Fall Experiential Network (XN) Project Sponsor — for Northeastern University!

XN is a new initiative from Northeastern University (NU) that offers graduate and professional students and sponsoring organizations experiential opportunities to collaborate on short-term, real-world projects in the best co-op program in the country, and positions NU as the global leader in experiential learning! Organizations move forward on project-based work and connect with rising professional talent while students gain real work experience and valuable learning opportunities.

Students have a range of skill-sets including digital media and marketing, data analytics, corporate and nonprofit project management, regulatory strategy, communications management and the Creative Digital Solution for a VR/Game-Inspired Concept for Explode – The Writer’s Environment during the Summer, Fall and Winter Terms of 2016!

Details included the Project Description:

Explode – This Writer’s Environment is a Kick Starter Project 2.0. The first launch is what Rita Gunther McGrath calls, “failing by design”. The launch was admittedly, a treatment to direct investors to Explode, as well as a serious foray, to define content while using the Writers Environment as a springboard to other experiences. That unsuccessful project was a lost opportunity, but an intelligent fail. Explode — The Writer’s Environment is space for visionaries — Poets, Writers, Coders, Programmers, Filmmakers, Thespians, Graphic Designers, Artists, Musicians, Directors, Cinematographers, Designers, Educators, Historians, Actors, Conceptual and Performance artists, Photographers, and finally, Virtual Reality Developers and Designers. It is a platform for curated content, in an interactive meta-environment – that pulls and pushes information. The Environment facilitates content and other stories – using digital media for curated art to redefine how artists, their audience and visitors experience real and virtual content. The project details included problems to be solved, goals, and deliverables — scheduled for completion March 2017.

Please stand by.  See updates!  Thank you for your continued support!  Let’s rock and roll!

WAR AND PEACE BURIED HERE

One Single Act of Love

I sold a rock opus to the best Black rock band on the planet. A band that lost its capacity to dream. Formulaic guarantees skewed their imagination for platinum discs. The male coward covered their lifework, literally. My story reminded them of what ‘rushing’ felt like, how complete, how deep blushing could be obvious. And they bought it, and produced it. And it was good — it was better than good. It was thought provoking and it was an African-American affirmation of our realities and our fantasies — no matter how unrealistic.

Suddenly, they were very significant and the world truly believed, that rock music is black music and black music is everything. Power is aesthetic. Aesthetics is politics and being black is philosophical and our philosophy is phenomenology and being black, is being real.

No Hip Hop could say as much as this rock opus did, ever — no matter how many stories they sampled. So, this black rock band were crowned kings and were exulted, and revered; incandescent icons, the envy of friends, the consumption of man, the image of immortality — like the stained-glass heaven you summon before you close. And they loved me. I was the wick in their candlestick and without me, there was no burning flame. I was the source of their energy. I, was the unstained virgin encamped.

Sooner than anyone imagined, there was nothing more important, than our collaboration. The media was our medium. They stopped referring to me as a writer, and started calling me, a Love Supreme…..

 

Copyright 2016 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Luda’s Second Soliloquy — Miles Language II

If I could write language

that speaks and points….

At trumpets

when the moon is tone

and the sun is sfumato

 

See… the chiaroscuro Supreme

[dream in hue]

magenta, chrome, cherry-white

[mixed with blue fugue]

Put-the-night to sleep!

 

See Sisyphus scorn

at amber headlights

in Paris dew

 

Skin seeking skin

and birds seeking

[the flutter of feathers]

ink… that runs like blood

on paper… that does not bleed

 

Contrapposto poets

succumbing to peaches

 

Dogs… suspended

like meat in Seoul

 

[In the dawn]

She comes home

the moon is a beat

the sun is trill…

 

Dada responds

to Surrealism

Hip Hop responds

to R&B

 

[The trumpet responds]

to me

bebop bebop bebop bebop blam!

Fa Falala…

 

Copyright 2004, 2015 by E Maria Shelton Speller.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Inspired by Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew and Zurich Dadaist Hugo Ball who according to Arnason’s thesis on Ball’s conventional language,  “had no more place in poetry than the outworn human image in painting, produced a chant of more or less melodic syllables without meaning:  ‘zimzim urallala zimzim zanzibar zimlalla zam.’ “

The Orange Line II

On the Orange Line

some carried

boom boxes like briefcases

babies like groceries

and stout little bottles

like bibles

protected inside brown bags

from thumping

 

It’s about what people do

and what people say

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

I can see Michelangelo’s innerness

like the monk

the anonymous critic

who said, “The David”

is a homoerotic composition

a platonic love for the male body

that approaches erotic dimensions

 

On the Orange Line

with so little movement

on this human-scape

Clean and safe

inside the rubber doors

deliberately close to the gallows

David wanted out of his dirty world

 

When he described the disorder

Giovanni built cathedrals on his back

and rose windows with his hands for him

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

My father looked at me

like Noah looked at Ham

when Ham looked at Noah

as if he did something

ungodly and unplatonic

to him

 

In love so completely ruptured

Ham tried to stay

the flow of blood

with women too beautiful

for proverbs

 

Their eyes were

divining rods

for sex and dreaming

On the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

They beat him down on the threshing floor

he was too beautiful for words

They gave him something to cry about

and like the Egyptians

they sodomized him in turn

 

For the sake of the Orange Line

they made him their little boy

For the sake of the Orange Line

 

On the Orange Line

The housenegro in church on Sunday

said nothing about who would

be bought and

who would be sold

on the auction block tomorrow

and no one asked, and no one told…

 

What do you do when your enemy

goes to the same church you go to?

 

On the Orange Line

without room for rapture

or space for rape

I rested my stop on

my fingers

and the mad boy

the made boy

came on

 

Political obscenities abound!

The Million Women March

will reproduce

the matriarchal society

and transform it into what ~

new and improved Black Madonnas?

The Million Women March

legitimizes

the Million Man March

without the benefit of prudence

 

When the Million Man March

goes down in history

as an epic tragedy

you have facilitated

the perpetuation

of the sacrificial black woman

 

You risk the future

of born and unborn children

for generations to come

Duplicating unwise

and circumscribed politics

 

The fat lady is singing again

But this is not a corner stoop

in Harlem

and she is far too milky

to anticipate the social

and political implications

of a Million Women March

 

You cannot answer my questions

without trying to suckle me!

 

This is what I am afraid of…

Keep your blouse on!

Your ample bosom

is an integral

part of the problem

~ not the solution!

 

Do the black man a favor

take his body down

beat your heart

weep and wash his feet

wrap him in fine linen

and cover him with spices

Maybe if you mourn him

you can resurrect him

He might make an appearance again

 

Not only did the Black Madonna

leave him on the cross

she won’t take him down

Take him off the cross now!

Everyone else has

Maybe you like the view

from the ground

 

We are beyond Brown and Newton

we’re on fallacious arguments now

Where are you going

other than the ground

On the Orange Line?

 

On the Orange Line

I saw dog paws

tattooed on her thigh

and red daisies

on her boots

My prism came from

within

and landed on my skin

 

In random chimera conceits

I think

of blue nights and black mornings

The full moon in the white Winter sky

with pink Cirrus lips

demons and febrile mouths

Rimbaud, and blackbirds in epic simile

Squirrels that wait for green lights

Keisha!

and white girls

on billboards

on black streets

 

And the mad boy sung

“Ooh day Ooh day….

You got me humpin’…”

 

On the Orange Line

The station point

where esoteric beginnings

are setups

for sublime endings

Copyright 2004 by E Maria Shelton Speller, Explode.  All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

 

The Orange Line is inspired by The Last Poets’ On The Subway