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A Twist of JP Lime: Tyler Durden, Circular Logic video and lyrics

 

The latest in new music of a Lime-related nature comes to us from Tyler Durden, a Hip Hop duo of uncommon proportions.  Comprised of our own Prof and bass guitar player turned beat producer, D+,Tyler Durden has a sound to bring Hip Hop and Rock fans together to ask, “umm… What am I listening to?”
Tyler Durden ft Lil Stevie
Tyler Durden ft. Lil Stevie
Photo c/o 1981andco
In some places and certain spaces their music also features the guitar stylings of Lil’ Stevie, such as on today’s track, “Circular Logic”.  Watch video of the song from the group’s recent show at The Center for Arts in Natick (TCAN), and then read through Prof’s lyrics.  Follow the group on Twitter and Facebook and stay tuned for the latest song and show news, brought to you by Hip Hop’s new Rock-fueled dirigible, Tyler Durden, and your home for all things Lime, #JPLMagazine.
Give me just a minute
Of your angst and attention
Apoplectic apocalyptic visions
Of a world around us burning
A disturbance in the rhythm
And tell me in a minute
What the fuck is it I’m missing
I’m a puppet on a string
Sitting in the kitchen
Picking at my brain
And tearing out the stitching
Set to take the stage in this play that I’m living
And show you all the depths of my cranial incision
I’m a maniac maybe
But a maven with a vision
Inter-generation messaging
If I can make ‘em listen
Sitting here and spitting this
It hits me like a sick-a-ness
I pick apart these sentences
A picnic of ridiculous
Impatient and I’m ill
Sick of waiting with a wishing list
Trying to tune ‘em in
And wondering what the station is
From interface to in their face
We innovate the current state
Of hip hop, rock, don’t stop, we just keep it rolling on
So how many days until my death?
How much of this shit have I got left?
What’s coming now?
What’s coming next?
Cause I’m a categorical, colorful mess
Awaiting the morning with a heaving chest
Finding comfort in hum of Night’s unrest
I’m under the gun
Hidden under my vest
Under-distinguished but
Packed for success
Attached to the past
Through a glass and a mesh
But the rye and the mash
Couldn’t mask the effects
As a matter of fact I’m past all this stress
Taking to the streets
Strapped and undressed
Running through these hills
Like I’m off my meds
Yelling at the skies to accept my request
But they keep pouring on me
And every forward I step
There’s a hole in the road
And a storm up ahead
So what the fuck-
So get on get on up now
Get up out your seat
There’s a mayhem and a madness
Rolling down the street
A river filled with sadness
Flowing to a sea
Filled with metaphors and adverbs
A monster in the deep
A boat set adrift
Floating far from its fleet
Charting a course for a foreign beach
Where the men will storm the shore
History will repeat
And the story will be printed
Pinned to doors and to cheeks
The scores will retreat
The storm will recede
And a monument built
Where the first did bleed
A church will be built
On a book that will read
Like a lyrical prism
We all see what we want to see
Tools and divisions
Fools and Pharisees
Moves and the missions
The Scourge and the Siege
Revelations not lost on me
Just a puppet on a string, sitting here, sitting here…
Spinning out wheels we are trapped in a loop,
Trapped in a loop, yes, trapped in a loop.
Spinning our wheels, trapped in a loop…

 

For more takes on music, culture, politics and more, visit JP Lime Productions.

 

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Wise Words with Bruce Wise

 

The Nurturing Tree
          by Secwer El Dubai
          “By 2070, the Gulf will be too hot for humans.”
              —Elfatih Eltahir, MIT professor of hydrology and climate

This year the country Qatar has Earth’s top per capita,
although its serf-like immigrants aren’t counted in the tab;
but they are there beneath the Doha panoramic view,
skyscrapers gleaming silver in the un-bear-a-ble blue:

Aspire Tower, like a giant gleaming torch at night;
Tornado Tower’s hour glass in hyperbolic flight;
flat pyramidal Sheraton with bunker on the top;
Al Fanal’s twisting spiralled minaret qua ziggurat;

the IM Pei Museum of Islamic Artist bling;
the Doha Tower with its Mashrabiya patterning,
with reinforced columnal dia-grid, lace-like façade;
the Hamad International; and Qatar Fuel Woqod.

But all’s not perfect in this rich niche on the planet Earth.
A Saudi-coalition has cut off Al Thani mirth,
for its support of Al Jazeera and terror in the blood,
al-Qaeda, ISIS, Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood.

 

Secwer El Dubai is a poet of the Gulf States. Oil wealth has created a great deal of architectural wealth, as in the case of the tallest building on the planet, the Burj Khalifa. From the cahiers of Abdul Seecweir:

“The Burj Khalifa is the tallest building in the World, rising 2700 feet above Dubai, a shiny, tin-like, brilliant spiral minaret of stainless steel, finned, textured, spandrel panels, and aluminum; th’ exterior-used cladding to withstand the heat. A quarter of a million gallons flush its plumb diurnally. Outside below, its fountain’s jets shoot streams of water to Bassbor Al Fourgakum and many other songs. An observation deck on the 124th floor shows the jin, a miracle of oily cash-splashed derrick nets.”

_________________________________________________________________

MOF-801
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

Although two-thirds of Earthians have water shortages,
a new device can generate H2O potages,
in desert air, by only using sunlight powering.
The time it takes to do it is completed hourly.
The black-top painted layer when exposed to solar light,
heats up releasing captured moisture from the air on sight.
The vapour in the said container, by condenser cooled,
converts it to a liquid o’er which thirsty throats can drool.
The metal-framework has been named MOF-801,
its microscopic, spongelike pores mixed with a copper foam.

 

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a boring, studious, socially inept poet, who actually did enjoy going to “school,” which is the pronunciation of his surname. He likes tinkering and reading about inventors and inventions. His favourite American writer is Ben Franklin.

 

_________________________________________________________________

Benfranklin Say
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

Benfranklin say:
He who lie down with dogs
come up with fleas;
but he who have Borax
drive them to their knees.

_________________________________________________________________

At Ecole Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne
          by Alberce Deswui

Led by Kosmas L. Tsakmakidis at EPFL,
researchers have remodeled K. S. Johnson’s bubble shell—
Q Factor—where a resonator has two likelihoods:
broad bandwidth OR long storing energy—misunderstood.
For now it seems that physicists and engineers displayed
a hybrid resonant, wave-guiding system that is made
of a magneto-optic substance that can stop a wave
and keep it, hence, accumulating energy that’s saved.
The limit, bested by a factor of 1000, means
the applications possible are greater than once seemed.

 

Alberce Deswui is an admirer of the New Millennial French philosopher Bruno Latour’s prose and his work in STS and ANT. He admires Latour’s advocacy of antimodernism, defending a much broader, less polemical Middle Kingdom, where there’s less fear of spirit, rationality, liberty, society, tradition and God.

_________________________________________________________________

Ode on an Ocean Urb, or 48 Hours in LA
          by Cal Wes Ubideer
          for Dana Gioia

Touch down in LAX, an hour on the tarmac lanes,
oh, then one tries to flee from all the people and the planes.
At last one finds escape, an empty, giant corridor,
of walls and ceiling, windowless, and unappealing floor.
Outbound one waits for transportation, pick-up at the curb;
and so begins one’s journey in a built-up ocean urb.
One leaves behind the flying saucer seated on four legs,
air traffic’s towering control, and egg-white, lamp-light pegs.
One drops one’s baggage in the trunk and gets into the car,
and takes off for the highway, like a darting, shooting star.

One merges on to 105, and heads into the sun;
one speeds upon the concrete lanes along with old and young.
One travels eastward on the slightly curving, freeway’s range,
until one then arrives at the 110 stack interchange.
Next one goes northward past the campuses of USC
and enters downtown LA Metro in crazed ecstasy,
skyscrapers rising high above the palms along the way,
the hotels, banks, and business plazas, shiny, steely-gray,
that soar above the mind, names neatly posted at their tops,
before the concrete dance of the four-leveled swirling waltz.

One heads up 101 amidst the traffic curbed and curled,
bypassing East LA, the busiest in all the World;
past Capital’s turntable stack and HOLLYWOOD’s signed cast,
north by northwest, one drives across bland Cahuenga Pass.
One ends up at the Universal City for a night,
but cannot see the starry skies for all the neon light.
One listens to the tales of one century ago,
the founding of the studios, the manic, frantic flow.
There’s no time for th’ Observatory’s cosmic castle keep,
and after over twenty stories one falls fast asleep.

At dawn, one rises to the warming, waking and alive,
a breakfast ice, a nice repast, off to Mulholland Drive;
house after house precariously situated there,
along the rising, narrow, winding, road-dense laissez faire.
One motors past the Bowl to the beknighted Boulevard,
and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, gauche, hideous and hard,
crowds gawking at the handprints, footprints, and the signatures
of entertainment personalities across the years;
the Walk of Fame of stars and names, along the dirty streets,
one looks in vain to find some peace or satisfying sweets.

One leaves behind Egyptian-Movie-Palace, lavish smarm,
and heads off to West Hollywood down Sunset’s funny farm.
One comes to the Rodeo Drive and Beverly-Hills stores,
the gaudy ostentation and the haughty semaphores.
The mansions in the hills are filled with fancy gardeners,
who drive Mercedes past the shade trees and the carpenters,
where walls and hedges mark the boundaries of the estates,
and nouveau riche create neat nests behind wrought-iron gates.
O, mindless-whimsy, stylistical illiterates
create faux French and Spanish flourishes on cigarettes.

From there it isn’t far off to the Avenue of Stars,
Fox Studios, and Century’s skyscrapered, business czars;
past Culver City’s plastic-rainbowed Sony Studios,
one travels by Marina-Del-Rey’s gleaming, harboured boats,
and north to thin canals of Venice in America,
wall-tattooed murals, beach, and whacky circus-like boardwalk.
Then off to Santa Monica, a pseudo South-of-France,
wood Pier with ferris wheel, carousel and seaside dance.
Where are the birds? Have they all gone up north to Oregon,
like seagulls on the dismal, gray-sand coasts of Washington?

One leaves behind the ocean and takes off for 405,
and if one stops, it’s at the Getty where one will arrive.
From parking, one rides on the hovertrain funicular
to art and architextures, if not too particular.
One climbs Sepulveda to 101 past twisted oaks,
dry chaparral, and alium’s white lollipopping pokes.
Then east to Burbank, Disney, Warner Brothers, NBC;
there’s Mickey-Mouse ears on the fence posts, dwarves upon the eaves.
Aft touring Universal, Psycho, Jaws, and City Walk,
one’s lying down to rest, shoes off, not far from Forest Lawn.

Wake up in Universal City, time to pack one’s bags,
a salsa omlette, waffle, juice, and coffee—human gas.
It’s time to flee the people and the places one has seen.
Morning commute, conjestion thick: Where is the golden mean?
Down Cahuenga Boulevard, down Vine and Rosmore Ave,
on to La Brea, missing Tar Pits, and the traffic’s laugh.
One goes on to La Cienega’s swamp of vehicles,
and cuts to La Tijera’s ditch past oil derrick culls.
One gets to LAX and gridlock, concrete berms and all;
and hides one’s patience as one inches to one’s terminal.

 

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet and literary critic of the West, and California, in particular.

 

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Bamboozled No More! They Speak Like They Want Me Dead with a Cherry and Sprikles on Top

 

It was like I was invisible and unheard
I said, These people speak to me
with such spite and untruths
it is as though they want me dead.

It was like I was invisible and unheard
that those bearing false witness against me
stole all the air in the room,
creating space for only one-sided stories,
half truths and lies.

It was like I was invisible, unheard, misheard,
My words were too often misplaced, dismissed,
conveniently lost, whispered, forgotten, and misquoted
rarely, if ever, included in reports,
sworn statements in courtrooms,
classrooms, boardrooms, business meetings,
team meetings, yearly reviews, job interviews

It was like I was invisible…like it always is/was
when no one wants to hear another’s truths or pains
or avoid blame for bad behavior

It was like I was invisible,
had to be invisible so no one could
confirm liars are tolerated for their ability
to play to the audience, not ruffle feathers,
and employ drama to avoid otherwise
awkward silences, historical misdeeds, and bullies.

It was like I was invisible…today,
so you could be you…
perfect and blameless.

 

Janet Cormier is a painter, writes prose and poetry, and performs comedy. JC prefers different and original over pretty. She loves collecting stuff, but cleaning not so much. Janet also talks to strangers… a lot. Her column now appears weekly on Oddball Magazine.

 

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The Underground Garden: Werk Black Market Werk!

 

Mr. and Mrs. Grant of Roxbury are Truth. T.he R.eal U.nifiers

T.hat H.appen

They have brought to Dudley Square The Black Market, a space for

independent creatives and vendors to share their visions with shoppers and the community alike. This is beyond special. This is action.

According to founders Kai and Chris Grant, “The Soul of Roxbury, our community’s beloved A Nubian Notion closed its’ doors in February 2017 after 50+ years in business. It was the only Afrocentric family business in Dudley Square that’s ownership heralded from Roxbury and lives in Roxbury. In the Spirit of the Soul of Roxbury, A Nubian Notion, we honor that NOTION by actually being the NOTION—and launching a retail platform for Black Entrepreneurs and Artist to create sustainable wealth for generations to come.” ACTION.

Not only does Black Market stand out for its elevation of entrepreneurs, its space also welcomes a dance. Tonight, Thursday, June 29th, legendary DJ SPINNA will be playing for Black Market’s WERK NIGHT, a 7 p.m. to midnight musical experience all are welcomed to be a part of! Joining DJ Spinna will be the captured moments of Boston’s Contemporary Deep House Scene by the only one ever, John Rodrigues Brewer of Brewer Photography!!! Beauty in sound, movement and sight. Do Be A Part of This! “Werk Night is an evening of classic house music. The purpose is to release the stress of our jobs through the dance form of jacking and housing. Werk Night hours are scheduled during a work night with hours allowing you to still get a good night’s sleep (refreshed for the morning grind).” YA’ DIG?!

Tell alllllllll of your creative people and taste lovers that the BLACK MARKET IS HERE! Interested vendors can register for a table for one or both days at Black Market’s FREEDOM Pop-Up Shop on July 8th and 9th here!

Do not forget, FREEDOM Pop-Up Shop will also be tuned by DJ Chris London and there will be a public reading of Frederick Douglas’ THE MEANING OF JULY 4TH FOR THE NEGRO.

Community in action. Artists supported. Love gathered. #BLACKMARKETDUDLEY WE THANK YOU.

 

Liza Zayas is a lover of writing and dancing and celebrates both as a singer and songwriter performing as Luna del Flor. You can hear her collaborative sounds and experience life through her storytelling. She invites you to dance. Her poetry seeks to initiate dialogue by intentionally expressing consequences of love, lust, ego and self-respect.

 

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It’s All One Thing #190: Coming Back

 

going away all they could talk about
was the failure to pass “repeal of Obamacare”
coming back all they could talk about
was the passage in the House of Representatives
of a bill to defund Obamacare by voiding
the tax that funds its insurance subsidies
and “pay for” this tax break for the rich
by taking funds from Medicaid of the amount
given back to the rich and then meanwhile
I knew about the 59 cruise missiles launched
at Syrian airbase and the biggest bomb ever
unleashed at last on Southern Afghanistan
and the “Armada” setting course for N. Korea
that ended up being in exercises near Australia
but I didn’t find out until much, much later
that everyone (in the lamestream media) decided
Donald J. Trump was really president when they
saw how beautiful those missiles looked blasting off
ships with the U.S.A. U.S.A. flag flying in foreground

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. Van Looy leads the Labyrinth Creative Movement Workshop, which his Labyrinth titled poems are based on. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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The Oddball Show with Mitch Krpata

On this edition of the podcast, the Oddballs welcome Mitch Krpata, Senior Story Developer and Narrative Designer for StoryArc Media, the company behind the popular kids’ game series, Poptropica. He is also the author of the ‘Poptropica’ graphic novel series, the third installment of which is due this September. We are excited to discuss the unique joys and challenges of writing for children’s media, what’s next for the worldwide “Poptropica Worlds” game series, and his beginnings as a video game reviewer for the Boston Phoenix.

Follow The Oddball Show on iTunes.