if i ruled the world...

Ode to the Asymmetric Penis

strophe:

What are you looking at?

What? What is over there?

Were you planning on landing a plane over there?

Why are you incapable of looking at me?

antistrophe:

That vein popping out of your forehead looks upset.

You look like the prepubescent version of you

Stand up & watch where you are going

Do the job you were made for

epode:

Damn. Pause.

That shit really is Slanted.

(booing)

Free Weezy

We're just a day away now ladies and gents from the release date of our beloved Weezy F Baby and the accompanying new album. SMilE big for re-entry into society.

The best part of his latest letter: the lady

"Now I must dedicated something to the woman in the picture…

…sitting on this bed with my back against one of the four walls I’ve been confined to, all I can think of is you. Staring at you staring at me, from the picture of you that I see. I try so hard to make the picture smile. You look so serious. Seriously beautiful. You, me, we are one. Then I look further to the right and there’s a picture of “the bed by the water”… where I dream to be with the woman in the picture that still won’t smile. I sometimes talk to the picture, but it never responds. Although, I’ve been told that a picture speaks a thousands words, I only wish that this picture would speak of four… “I love you too.” That would be the perfect response to what I frequently say to it. You see, the picture of “the bed by the water” has sand in it, and the woman in the other picture has sand in her hair… put them together, and she’s there. And when I dream, I’m there with her. Shhh… quietly these four walls become that place in the picture. And the woman in the picture begins to whisper… “I love you too”… she responds!

And now she smiles. Imagination is perfect.

Dedicated to the woman in the picture.

Gone!"

FULL LETTER

http://weezythanxyou.com/2010/11/02/letter-10-the-end-of-a-long-journey/

The Underbelly Project

A Secret Art Gallery Beneath the Streets

FACT: this is the coolest thing i've seen in years

Deep in the belly of New York City lies a ghost town of a subway station, where the trains don't run, but street art thrives. For the past 18 months, 103 artists have been covertly sneaking into the space to create and display their work on the dank walls of the pit.

Combining street art with spelunking, The Underbelly Project is a real collection of works that exists four stories beneath the surface of the City. But good luck finding it.

Street artists Workhorse and PAC curated the underground exhibit in an abandoned subway station, but the exact location won't be released to the public, for fear of legal repercussions. (If caught trespassing on or defacing MTA property, they could be arrested and fined.)
Each of the 103 artists had one night to finish his or her piece. One by one, Workhorse or PAC led them to the space -- which entailed a difficult and dangerous process of waiting for the active station's platform to clear and then maneuvering through an old entrance to the abandoned tracks of yore -- where they let their creative juices flow.

http://video.nytimes.com/video/2010/10/31/arts/1248069257891/the-underbelly-project.html?scp=2&sq=underbelly&st=cse

Under

I love the new york city subway. Now you guys who are just here for the evening, the weekend, or a business trip may think I'm crazy but in all the time I've spent here its one of the places that I feel the safest. In between intermittent glances exchanged by strangers, this time is the only time when new yorkers have time to breathe. Now the air may not breath with the freshness of california's majestic coastline, but it breaths real. It breathes the blood sweat and tears of a single mother in light blue scrubs who spends her whole day nursing everyone else back to heath that she cannot find time for her own. This city breeds an infinite number of the struggling. struggling artists, struggling lovers, struggling mothers, struggling husbands and struggling brothers. Its one of the only places you'll find new yorkers with their guard down. Strangers sit within inches of each other unified in one goal. Just get me home. Underground, the perils of the rest of the world stop. You can't get us. You can't text, tweet, email, call, bbm, IM, ghat or facebook me. You.can't.touch.me. The burdens that resurface when I hit ground level are temporarily at ease. The stress is gone because for the six stops between here and Carroll street the world does not exist. And should I be so lucky to hear the, "ladies and gentleman we are delayed because of train traffic ahead of us" I know I've stolen a few more minutes for my mind to be still. Be still. Be still with an ipod that is connected to nothing and just listen. Listen with every morsel of your being. You'll hear things in that "I am old fashioned" arrangement you didn't know were there and that, for the final time will have proven john coletrain's residence amongst the best. Read. Read a real book. Pause. Look around. And the look condescendingly at the hipster elitism that resides in the 9 kindles on your car alone because you just so happen to be going into brooklyn. Feel the pages, the grainy texture of a modern library classic creased four times at the most telling places that you can't wait to get to. Ingest every word as though it is a part of your diet that you cannot be without; for missing it means you would not have made you daily nutritional requirements. Feel the authors brush strokes as he paints the image that will continue to evolve with every page. "The artist is a creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim". Oscar Wilde's starting blocks to a journey to two hundred and sixty six pages of freedom from my own skin. Damn. "Please stand clear of the closing doors". Above ground. I'm me again.

dismantled.

yeah i do. i love you. and with all of me, i stand here wanting to
beleive you when you say "I've never stopped loving you." see, since
we haven't been together i've used these words like razors cutting the
insides of my inner thighs just to make sure I could still feel. For
every word you've spent trying to bribe my confidence back onto being
there, is a depiction far from fiction engrained in my mind. so for
every word used to console me, there is an empty warehouse in Brooklyn
between my two best friends houses that collected the five hundred and
forty six thousand three hundred sixty seven tears from emotions you
chose to leave unaddressed. adjacent, there is the feeling of looking
at you, hoping youd look at me with a morsel of the pride your eyes
once held. Its sits on a shelf next to the seven days a week by eight
months coming to two hundred and forty days that i asked you to lay
next to me only for you to look at me like you had forgotten that you
loved me and walk away... every time. Next to that there are the
three thousand four hundred and fifty eight memories of me wanting you
to talk to me, to let me in long enough to remember that a year ago,
you thought you wanted to marry me. How after knowing you for eleven
years and loving you for four could you have let so many days pass
that i couldn't remember what my sense of touch felt like. why, month
after month after month after month could i not remember what it felt
like to sleep next to the man that i love. how did you not see me cry?
every day. every week. for weeks. i could not remember what it felt
like for you to take my hand in yours. i could not remember your lips.

at the end of it all i knew. i opened my soul to you and let you carry
it. i opened my chest, peeled back every single one of my ribs and
laid my heart in your hands. I have never wanted to know what another
mans skin felt like. my love is irrational. It is blind and
unrelenting. Unyielding & glaringly true. so i bear this hurt in my
words and revisit these words as they point to you. And i'm forced to
acknowledge that the only time i've been able to feel...was with you.

and still. on you. i give up. i cannot be dismantled again.