Biography Haiku

Was born a poet

And I will die a poet

Pending the next draft

                                               Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

A Mirror Under the Nose

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

This city's breath

It floods our nostrils in layered waves of spicy smoked sausage

and replaces oxygen with chaos, contradiction, and naiveté

This city's breath is a new lover's tenacity to impress

It clamps itself onto brazen encouragements

groaned mid-stroke

It's that fresh-baked bread aroma that starts talkin' smack to you

right after you cross 10^th  Street, coming up Florida Boulevard

It's magnolias unfolding to the hard breeze

like a secret admirers powdered thighs

Baton Rouge releases a sigh of relief during catastrophes

and panics while picking up it's limbs

It grunts while tossing the old pigskin

to student bodies that can only read mannish body language

The city that never sleeps lightly

heavily snores mushroom clouds of methyl ethyl deathicide,

manufacturing oceans of chlorine for the green of office pools

and taking bets on which laborer will die of lung cancer first

This city coughs up the taint of mutated catfish

that flavors the Mississippi River

like a frat boy's used beer

It's the late December humidity

Frosted sabers of wind

streaking through heavy denim like chilled fire hoses,

freezing all protests and sending movements home

What's visible is exhaust

Saying the word "hhhhhot" can get you lost

in irony's fog

We are all found by this city's gapping breath,

Its contagious yawn

Baton Rouge has a boredom with being bored

We've grown tired of our fatigue,

but still we are the blind mosquitoes

habitually zeroing in on the carbon dioxide

of our ailing host

Breath is the metronome of the metro I call home

Marking the downbeats of a requiem disguised as an anthem

Everyone knows that breathing is for the living

but these last breaths

Can they be saved?

I'd like to compress them into an empty aerosol can

and spray them to a rhythm that resembles the frantic panting

of a newborn child

I'd like to give them back

as a form of resuscitation

and maybe steal a few gasps

for myself

Plate

For the record,

I've been around

and around, and around

Have you ever chopped down a tree

to count the rings and see its age?

Well, let's just say I got rings for days

and days, and days

But right now,

I'm in the best shape of my life…

circular

So I hold on to this platform as tightly as a new mother

on a crashing plane holds her

breath during the pregnant pauses between

broken landing gear and broken water

I grip this surface like the planet was isometric

To my vein, the mixer is connected

Some call me xero

but today,

call me The Record

These grooves are my only tattoos

My tongue's rhythm & blues accentuate

the bartender's booze

What goes around comes

out through sound

Call me revolution's respiration

I am the sound of time breathing

at 33 1/3 "huhh-hahhs" per minute

I'm known for my musicality

like similes are known for similarity

I'm a one man cipher

Multiple style writer

Favorite plate of the biter

Mixmaster, please cut these phrases

into fragments of repitition

And enhance the intensity

with which the audience listens

DJ, save my life

Pull me back and

let me go when the time is right

At the end of the night

place me in my jacket and

crate me back to my bottomless basement

They say I'm deep because my bottom

is gone searching for where the bass went

My highs are induced by the hi's and good-byes

of each adrenaline powered heartbeat

Keep placing that needle on my chest and

I'll confess every plot I planned on planning

Scratch MY scalp as you try to remember

why friction is stranger than fiction

and so true

Chop and screw

my dying pulse until its new

Nothing is ALWAYS new

NOTHING is new, always

I do my best work on my back

My back works when I'm at my best

I stare up at the stars

fantasizing about starting up the stairs

to join them

But for now, I am the dark matter

reminding you that the dark matters

As a matter of fact,

the space between the twinkles

is like the chocolate icing between the sprinkles

of a cake baking on a platter

And I'm the hot platter that never shatters

Playing badder than any cassette ever could

"Not bad meaning bad, but bad meaning…"

Number one with a bullet

passing through the hole in my heart

that allows you to see my B side

When I was the B-boy who cried

wolf because the word "father" was shrouded

in a slaughtered sheep's hide

I was the boy who died

by growing into the dude who still abides

but can't become digital on the inside

I'm the constructive revolver

My spit is too thick

to be synonymous with a compact disk

My pieces have names,

not numbers for titles that help you forget

My sound was never sanitized

So I can't help it if I'm the shit

I wear my art on my sleeve

Got that "can't sleep" disease

My heart pumps Africanized bees

So it stings others to see me bleed

I resonate in the way eardrums

were taught to read

And yes,

I will briefly take my leave

A soldier arrested by the MP's in 3's

Letting the iPod think it's a god

while I meditate and catch a few Z's

nap in the breeze under the shady trees

and await the day that y'all dirty y'all knees

When the system crashes

y'all asses gonna turn back 360 degrees

Because even though I don't get around

with as much ease as my younger collegues

My megabytes got calories

People only ever listen

to get their temperatures risen

And for the record,

I ain't never been known to freeze

                                                            Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

"Nosferatu"

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

Sept. 4^th, 2008

Without air conditioning, sex is merely genital calisthenics

Without air conditioning, soul food is as bland as a boy band

Without air conditioning, body odor is a trusted companion

Without air conditioning, suicide is not enough;

I need to take all of you with me

Without air conditioning, there is no me

Without air conditioning, contradiction drives a stake

through my words

Without air conditioning, war is an afterthought without forethought,

it's like on-third of the tenses of a thought

and therefore I've already devoted too much time

to explaining how  little of a thought war really is

Without air conditioning, I feel like a fool for ridiculing and deciding to ride out

a hurricane named Gustav

I remember saying, "Gustav? Ha!!"

It means STAFF OF THE GOTHS

(Most likely, I will never ridicule anyone with a foreign name again)

Without air conditioning, touching myself is perverted, sick, and just wrong

Without air conditioning, cold showers are like an Olympic event

in which I'm always roid-raging to compete

Without air conditioning, the world is a Port-O-Potty in the Sahara

and I'm locked inside with several relatives

and it's Christmas

Without air conditioning, every employee of Entergy is a marked man;

and the mark is a check mark,

to remind them to check-in

on their first born sons…often

Without air conditioning, I have an urge to set puppies on fire

and force kittens to watch as they burn;

an urge that is much more potent than usual

Without air conditioning, I become a vampire hissing at the Sun,

desperately searching out shade like some sort of…vampire

Without air conditioning, redundancy sucks

the quality out of my writing

like     a mosquito          

on the neck of a vampire

Without air conditioning, I fantasize about duct-taping a humming bird

to a hair brush

and using it as a handheld cordless personal fan

that plops bird shit all over your forearm;

cool, soothing bird shit

Without air conditioning, I know I'll vote independent

instead of choosing between the lesser of two vampires

Without air conditioning, what difference does it make, ya know?

I mean, really, who gives a shit anymore, right?

I know I don't give a shit

and if you give a shit,

then GET MY AIR CONTIONING TURNED BACK ON!

IT'S BEEN FOUR DAMNED DAYS!

IF I'M LATE WITH THE MONEY FOR MY UTILITY BILL,

ENTERGY WILL TURN MY SHIT OFF, NO QUESTIONS ASKED!

NOW THEY KEEP TELLING US TO BE PATIENT!

WELL FUCK PATIENCE!

TURN MY SHIT BACK ON!

FIX IT! THAT'S YOUR JOB!

FIX IT NOW, IF NOT SOONER, ASS LIPS!!!

Without air conditioning, my condition is worsening

And though I'm aware that there have been fatalities and millions of people inconvenienced far more than myself

I need you all to know that it's hot

and I may hurt someone

so hide your ugly little fucking puppies

Because without my creature comforts,

I'm turning into a vampire  

Tree House

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore
Sept. 3^rd, 2008

Hurricane Gustav made me see the trees

Trees belly-flopping onto the rooftops of houses

as tiles scramble to get out of their way

Trees sunbathing in the streets

Trees lounging on my porch

Trees pop-locking in the wind

Trees hopping from rooted craters,

attempting to tackle passing cars

Trees mounting telephone poles from behind

and spanking them on the power lines

Trees casing shadows

as we've never been blacked-out before

Trees pooping branches on the front lawn

Trees throwing twigs like ninja stars

Trees taunting and tapping on my bedroom window

"Hey xero. You weren't trying to sleep were you?

How can you sleep in that bubbling puddle of sweat,

you little whining wuss?"

Trees laughing at my sandwich of "warm-cuts"

Trees between two slices of white wheat

Trees between my teeth,

shading my speech

Trees leaking from the blazing pores of my skin

Trees with more than enough leaves to lend

the garbage bin

Trees rustling in the breeze;

rushing us to my knees

Trees at the height of humidity's siege

Trees providing Bigfoot and Sasquatch with a safe haven

while coppin' a squat on my boot-shaped state

Trees serving as a synonym for hate

Trees under my pillow

Trees against my race;

giving nooses something to embrace

Trees bribing me with oxygen

while withholding my central air

Trees stripped bare

so environmentalists wanting good wood would care

Trees being obvious,

the way they snicker and stare

I've said it before and I'll say it again

Trees are only good lying dead and flat

beneath my pen

Sir Stevie (FINAL Final Draft, maybe)

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

I turn off the CD player

then turn off the living room light

still singing on my way to bed

and I'm looking like Stevie as my fingers search out

the coarse stucco walls of my pitch-black hallway

trying to play one note of his theme

without breaking one my toes

and then,"Damn! I'm an idiot"

The jagged corner informs me that sometimes

joy is as simple as a move

in the opposite direction

Now close your eyes

Picture Stevie,

a brown premie being gently lowered

into an early oxygen tent,

bent on suffocating his pupils

Stevie's looking like the little acrobat

who scales Saginaw trees like brail jungle gyms

looking like the teenage stick-figure  

who stole his smile from a 5 year-old's birthday party

looking like a crooning metronome,

rocking from side-to-side as if grief and bliss

where tugging his shoulders in opposite directions

Stevie's looking like independent orchestration

doing a "180" with Motown's steering wheel  

when Berry Gordy was headed straight for a cliff

looking like a swollen mummy;

due to a crash with a truck of timber,

apparently trying to cut him down

Struck by a log from a tree in which he

probably once sought shelter

Stevie's looking like his 10-day old coma

is only a rehearsal for a much longer sleep

Open your eyes

and tell me if he's the only one

who's ever walked into a wall

I'm often off course

Yelling "Marco!"

and needing a "Polo" to tug my collar

in the bright direction

Feeling like I'm either over their heads

or over the edge,

out of bread

or out of the red,

underfed

or under the influence of meds

Pick your preposition

I needed a pick me up so I listened

to a singing physician's prescription

Eyes closed

Stevie's looking like the activist of afro-astrology

wearing a globe of dark matter over his mind

Stevie's looking like an Ashanti emperor,

sitting with his throne up beside a black baby grand elephant,

singing it lullabies it will never forget

Stevie's looking a like a living dashiki,

improvising multi-textured ad-libs

just before a turn of the volume knob

in the opposite direction

makes the culture fade to black

Open your eyes

See where I used to sit

Trusting images

When what you see is what you never get;

What you analyze is what lies

What you look up to is what you glorify

What you watch is what tells time

What you stare at is what you climb

What you peek at is the highest of the divine

Double talk was clouding my double vision

Stumbling hallway apparition

Eyes closed

Stevie's looking like a braided messiah

leading us in sublime sing-a-longs 

as we jam with him,

jam him in between jazz and funk,

in between pop and rock,

in between soul and blues,

in between piano keys where creativity and inspiration

consummate all of their marriages

looking like evolution gone horribly correct;

where we will surrender our eyes' ability

to misguide our character

Stevie's looking like the creator

of auditory gods and goddesses disguised as sonar songs

bouncing back off the obstacles in his path

Open your eyes

His poetry tells me to open my eyes

and I try

I try to see the blessings,

at least as many as an atheist can

I try to see the bright side

like a grown child looking for her father

in every night club;

using her exposed headlights

to paralyze the

deer/dear daddies

Eyes closed   

Stevie

is looking

He MUST be

looking at my heart

reading my scar tissue with his fingertips

seeing me before the chunks were bitten out

I was 3

holding a toy broom as a mic-stand

wearing my uncle Rickey's cowboy hat

surrounded by cheering relatives

They would stand me up on a picnic table

to sing of what Steveland Hardaway refused to stand for,

long before I tripped over the things I thought I saw

I feel like he's actually looking into my

solar eclipse of a life as I block my own joy

with the cool fear of being abandoned

Stevie's looking into the backlit moons of my eyes,

knowing that I don't tell the truth or live it

as often as I dream I will

He knows

in which tree

I seek shelter

Stevie's looking for purpose in the chambers

of his chromatic harmonica

and breathing revelations as sweet

as caramelized consideration,

and I can almost taste exoneration

I can almost hear my voice

bouncing back off my mortality,

telling me I'm still capable

of turning it all around,

of moving in the opposite direction

Pulling back

Pulling out

Pulling myself together

Pulling a way

to push, push through

His eclectic fingers

are dancing upon black and white branches

but Stevie, with eyes closed,

is looking up,

in the opposite direction

His voice, rising like a liberated flame

and for the brief duration of one song

an echo returns

and I can open my eyes;

see myself

and my will to accept

what weeps in the mirror

is again guided skyward

by the blind

So if I limp

for a couple of days, fine

But I'm no idiot

I'm trying to appreciate the parade

from someone else's perspective;

sampling a nightmare that is not my own

humming a tune called Empathy

I'm trying to dream

before I even make it to my bed

because I caught a glimpse

of true

genius

Sir Stevie (Final Draft?)

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

I turn off the CD player

I turn off the living room light

still singing on my way to bed

and I'm looking like Stevie as my fingers search for

the wrinkly walls of my dark hallway

trying to play a note of his theme without breaking a toe

the wall tells me that sometimes joy is as simple

as a move in the opposite direction

Stevie's looking like a brown premature infant

being gently lowered into an early oxygen tent

that will unwittingly suffocate his pupils

Stevie's looking like the blind kid who climbs Saginaw trees

with the best of them and thinks his auditions

are opportunities to have more fun with his voice

looking like a teenage stick-figure

in a mod two-piece suit

who stole his smile from a 5 year-old's birthday party

looking like a crooning metronome,

rocking from side-to-side as if grief and bliss

where tugging his shoulders in opposite directions

Stevie's looking like independent orchestration

doing a "180" with Motown's steering wheel  

when Berry Gordy was headed straight for a cliff

Stevie's looking like a swollen mummy;

his head 5 times its normal size

Not because of ego,

but due to a crash with a truck of timber

apparently trying to cut him down

struck by a log from a tree in which he

probably once sought shelter

Stevie's looking like his 10-day coma

is only a rehearsal for a much longer sleep

until a bandmate singing into his ear

picks the splinters out of his pyche

and gets those fingers twitching once again

Stevie's looking like the philosopher of afro-astrology,

believing that dark matter shines down on us all

Stevie's looking like an Ashanti emperor in bug-eyed shades,

sitting with his throne up beside a black baby grand elephant,

tickling its ribs and singing it lullabies it will never forget

Stevie's looking a like a living dashiki,

improvising multi-textured ad-libs

just before a turn of the volume knob

in the opposite direction

makes the culture fade out

Stevie's looking like a braided messiah

leading us in sublime sing-a-longs 

as we jam with him,

jam him in between jazz and funk,

in between pop and rock,

in between soul and blues,

in between piano keys where creativity and inspiration

consummate all of their marriages

looking like evolution gone horribly correct;

where we'll surrender our eyes' ability

to misguide our character

Stevie's looking like the favorite dish of cynical critics

who like their music as bitter as rotting imagination

Stevie's looking like the creator

of auditory gods and goddesses disguised as sonar songs

bouncing back off the obstacles in his path

Stevie

is looking

looking at my heart

ciphering its brail scar tissue

seeing me before the chunks were bitten out

I was 3

holding a toy broom as mic-stand

wearing my uncle Rickey's cowboy hat

surrounded by cheering relatives

they would stand me up on a picnic table under the car-porch

to sing of what Steveland Hardaway refused to stand for

long before I went out hunting

for all the things I've crashed into

I feel like he's actually looking into my

solar eclipse of a life as I block my own joy

with the cool fear of being abandoned

Stevie's looking into the backlit moons of my eyes

knowing that I don't tell the truth or live it

as often as I dream I will

He knows in which tree I seek shelter

Stevie's looking for purpose in the chambers

of his chromatic harmonica

and breathing revelations as sweet

as caramelized consideration

and I can almost taste relief

I can almost hear my echo bouncing back off my mortality

telling me I'm still capable

of turning around

His brilliant fingers

are dancing upon black and white branches

but Stevie's looking up

in the opposite direction

and for the brief duration of one song

my will to love

is guided skyward

by the blind

Sir Stevie

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

Stevie's looking like me as I fondle the wrinkly walls of my hallway

trying to put a taste of his journey on the tips of my throbbing toes

as the walls tell me that joy is sometimes as simple

as a move in the opposite direction

Stevie's looking like a brown premature infant

being gently lowered into an early oxygen tent

that will unwittingly suffocate his pupils

Stevie's looking like the blind kid who climbs Saginaw trees

with the best of them and thinks his auditions

are opportunities for him to have more fun with his voice

looking like a teenage, stick-figure

in a mod two-piece suit

who seems to have pilfered his smile

from a 5-year old's birthday party

looking like a crooning metronome,

rocking from side-to-side as if grief and bliss

where tugging his shoulders in opposite directions

in a desperate feud to claim him as their emissary

Stevie's looking like independent orchestration

doing a "180" with Motown's steering wheel  

when Berry Gordy was headed straight for a cliff

Stevie's looking like a swollen mummy;

his head 5 times its normal size

Not because of ego,

but due to a crash with a truck of TIMBER!!!

apparently trying to cut him down

struck by a log from a tree in which he

probably once sought shelter

Stevie's looking like his 10-day coma may never come to an end

until one of his songs being sung into his ear

picks the splinters out of his pyche

and pulls him in the opposite direction of the light

he was refusing to acknowledge in the first place

Stevie's looking like the philosopher of afro-astrology,

believing that dark matter shines down on us all     equally

Stevie's looking like an Ashanti emperor in bug-eyed shades,

sitting with his throne up beside a black baby grand elephant,

tickling its ribs and singing it lullabies it will never forget

Stevie's looking a like a living dashiki,

improvising multi-textured ad-libs

just before a turn of the volume knob

in the opposite direction

makes the culture fade out

Stevie's looking like a braided messiah

leading us in sublime sing-a-longs 

as we jam with him,

jam him in between jazz and funk,

in between pop and rock,

in between soul and blues,

in between piano keys where creativity and inspiration

consummate all of their marriages

looking like evolution gone horribly correct;

where we'll surrender our eyes' ability

to misguide our character

Stevie's looking like an easy target for cynical critics

who like their music as bitter as thorned suppositories

Stevie's looking like the creator

of auditory gods and goddesses disguised as sonar songs

that bounce back off of the obstacles in his path

Stevie

is looking

looking at my heart and ciphering its brail scar tissue

and seeing me before the slashes

when I was taught at 3

to lip sync his tragedies

long before I went out hunting

for all the things I've crashed into

I feel like he's actually looking into my

solar eclipse of a life as I blot out my own joy

with the cool fear of being abandoned

Stevie's looking into my eyes

and knowing that I don't tell the truth or live it

as often as I dream I will

He knows in which tree I seek shelter

Stevie's looking with me

for purpose in the chambers of his chromatic harmonica

and breathing revelations as sweet

as caramelized consideration

and I can almost taste relief

I can almost hear the wall telling me I'm still capable

of turning around

Yes, it is conceited of me, but I believe that

Stevie's looking in the opposite direction

of his manicured daggers

as they stab ivory and obsidian metaphor

so that my will to love

might somehow be guided upward

by the blind

He’s Sooooo Deep!

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

Tell people that you’re a poet

and they spew brilliant lines like, "Then say something deep"

I tell them

I am a sousaphone

They say, "A what?"

I say, "You know like a tuba"

They say, "Then why didn’t you just say tuba"

And I say, "Wasn’t deep enough?

Now please run along and play

with a loaded gun

I’m not your puppet or your pup or your pet

Not your monkey for higher

learning to obey orders

or trade witticisms with those

who have nothing to barter

I’m a sousaphone

And I’m also the guy

Who’s trying to learn to manipulate the damned thing

I’m exploring the valves and tuning slides

of my tarnished memory

I’ve inhaled experiences and now I’m trying

to exhale explanations into the oxygen of others

And because we all share this air

Our lungs are constantly tasting

each other’s kiss

So I do study this instrument of me

because when I reverse the flow of the atmosphere

I don’t want to reverse kiss and make y’all sick

The bassist plays onwards

I play on words

This poet is only 6 feet long and not very polished

But the mouthpiece           is a beast

John Phillip Sousa is widely acknowledged

as the father of the style of music known as the march

And I too love quick time harch

to feel my utensil blowing in the breeze

writing my moniker in the sundried leaves

I too love stomping along the parade route

until all silence and the users of silencers are stamped out

When soldiers are away from base and camped out

It’s the bass and treble that chase the trouble

from their unsettled huddles

and when my volume level is doubled

none of the rebels are muffled

If trumpets turned the walls of  Jericho into rubble

something deeper sought survivors and lifted the shovels

I’m a sousaphone

Resting on the shoulders of Richard Pryor and Rakim

Resting on the shoulders of Patricia Smith and Public Enemy

Resting on the shoulders of Kerouac and KRS

I guess I get played from time to time

About ten songs for dime

A penny for my thoughts

And occasionally I take requests

A piece you may have thought was fresh

on some sticky night when the host was smokin’

and the A.C. was A.W.O.L.

and it tricked you into thinking

that every nimrod with a notebook

was as hot as hell

If you can name the title,

I’ll tell you if I know it well

well enough to be recollected

and blown out of my bell

But to simply tell me to say something deep

as if what I ordinarily speak is too shallow to repeat

too shallow to keep the conversation afloat

too shallow to quote

too shallow to drop the soap

to shallow for anyone to worship my ballpoint’s stroke

You must smoke Tony Montana dope

I don’t say anything deep

I simply try to keep my feet grounded

in the understanding that if I’m

physically capable of complaining

then it hasn’t gotten as bad

as it’s inevitably gonna get

So until the day some disciple

of a disciple of a disciple

decides to blow my brains out

I’m gonna blow my brains out

I’m a sousaphone

Which means

even when you’re trying to play me

Especially when you’re trying to play me

I’m a sousaphone

I sit

over your head

Misery Loves Me

by Chancelier "xero" Skidmore

Runny nose, fever,

Muscle cramps, chills, and headaches

At least I'm alone