{ turtle }

turtle
charlotte, nc

iamemancipated.com

in 2007, turtle released sticks & stones: a collection [of asinine poetry & meaningless dribble]. the handwritten collection of poetry and short prose, written between 1998 and 2007, has sold over 200 copies worldwide. his one act play, vernal, was considered a ‘chest-pounding chunk of pretension’ by a local critic. in the fall of 2008 hodgepodge messiahs released casual sabbath. the 33 track collaboration between turtle, uncle fox, and bearcat was called ‘spoken word and poetry done over music.’

turtle grew his local notoriety when, in the fall of 2008, he prayed on nationalistic sensibilities, dressed as uncle sam, and read from a paper towel roll.

currently, turtle is editor of that paper, a new monthly publication set to launch in september; co-producer and music director for an independent film currently in production in wiston-salem; and director of emancipated logik. he is working on a new book entitled $5,000 haikus.

// you don't always get your first choice //

[ a poem ]

redescribe

da scribe

focus and intent are clearer yet

want

wanders

willingly

now jobless,

they call him, “irresponsible.”

they say, “man up.”

they urge, “you don’t always get your

first choice.”

now hopeful,

he calls out, “i poet,”

he says, “am man.”

he urges.

meanwhile . . .

the soothy band returns

to destroy mindscapes

rewire motherboard

rewrite programming

drones want they not

its freethinkers sought

the speaker stands once again

prone at the podium

eyes closed and mind silent

he utters a soft prayer

at that moment . . .

a great rumble fades in

felt in feet

first, as aftershocks

the rumble, source deep within the bowels of earth,

lower mantle,

core

induced.

leaves rustle, glass rattles,

giant fluffy clouds swirl,

midnight center,

noon all around.

warm and cold front

thunder bellows

lightning shatters sky,

slicing down middle,

striking sage.

contorted by god’s strings, crucified by bolt, a humble head bows.

the speaker drops to his knees.

smoke seeps off his back, crawling through strata,

yearning for a return to bliss.

onlookers remain hushed,

baited.

then . . .

he speaks.