Please enjoy this bi-weekly bonus but unfortunately Joeless premiere episode of "The ILLiterists," a Burn & Rave production that shows a softer and more literary side of Ryan, the mechanic, and Sam, the professor.
In each episode, they share short literary, dare we say, Pulitzer-Prize worthy works they wrote and discuss the influence and impact of each piece.
The goal of this show is to inspire more creative writing, spiritual wellness, and to create a deeper connection with our audience and each other, but we may slip in a ball joke or two. I mean, come on, how can we not?
We hope you like our softer side because on the next BNR, we go hard!
Tune in, vibe out, share, and enjoy this iLLiterists' episode responsibly.
Remember:
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
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Hosts: Ryan Rosenow & Sam Pierstorff (@njapoet)
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Ryan's poem:
I’m takin some mutha f$@king ME time!
I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to smell it, clean it, fix it, say it, point it, or share it. I do not want to talk about it. I do not want to think about your shit. This is your shit, it is not my shit. And speaking of shit I do not give it about whatever shit it is you are conjuring up to break me down, toss me aside and jam me up.
I’m takin some mutha f$@kin ME time.
I will leave you now. I need to put some space between you and the sliver of self I have left with which I try and maintain a level of sustain that sees me thru to the end of another day. The sliver of self that dreams the dreams and forms the unique opinions that make it itself. Opinions never uttered, never to be heard. Opinions never to be heard because I am to small. These thoughts and ideas have been collected and researched. Gathered over the years and vetted by the grind and hard knock lessons of a life lived on the ragged edge fueled ever further by the autonomous drudgery which spews from your mouths like knives that aim to divisively divide.
I’m taking some mutha f$@king ME time!
I will take some time to stimulate, contemplate and reevaluate my position in life. Time to change the way I greet the day and stay in that space forever. Time to notice the unnoticed moments in which lives are changed and hearts are broken over and over again in this never ending saga called life. A saga to behold and be had by me and myself. A quest of enlightenment beyond your mistreatment of words of love from lands afar to reaffirm and help us learn to see the truth in every life not just the names upon your list.
I’m talkin some mutha f$@kin ME time
And now, with life a new I say to you and all your bullshit too. I do not want to hear it. I do not want to see it. I do not want to smell it, fix it, clean it, say it, point it, or share it. This is your shit. And all this shit, there’s a problem with it, for all your shit can only exist if hardworking folks who choose to enlist withdraw to themselves and blame all this for the pain in their lives that stems from need for human connection that seldom can happen by the wedges you driven and huddles you’ve risen in the name of almighty infotryanny.
I’m takin’ some mutha f$@king ME time!
So now I will take the time to make some time for these new friends of mine. And each of these friends will know my heart and they will know I want to be a part of the new start to a future where choices about people are made by people with knowledge and understanding collected while standing in the streets with their neighbors a sharing a moment that will live forever in the annuls of love and humanity that sing to the eternal glory of our collective heart. A happy ending to a beginningless book of deception and greed that seems to lead to the very first feet to tread on this earth and gaze upon the grandure of the very mother of life itself and say to himself, “Yep, I’ll have that”.
I’m takin’ some mutha f$@king ME time
We will rewrite the texts that gently caress the stories and pasts that take us back to the places we’re born, the scars that we’ve worn and the oaths that we’ve sworn. The places that made us the places that we make, special.
We will reclaim our minds and break the binds that keep us blind to all of your lies. When we see the roos and make our move to reclaim our truths and stake our future on love for one another with limits so vast they can not be found. And Your words dressed as news can no longer abuse the truths that confuse your narrow points of view. And when we turn our backs and walk away and the swelling in our ears begins to fade, a new day will bring new change, new change will bring new a chance. A new chance to set the record straight and recalibrate the state of our lives as we continue on a path set forth long ago by forces untold far larger than anyone can imagine. A timely end to a dangerous trend meant to bend and deceive not mend and believe in the power of ME and the power of WE as a species.
So now WE say to you, WE do not want to hear it. WE do not want to see it. WE do not want to smell it, clean it, fix it, say it, point it or share it. Cause
WE’RE taking some mutha f$@king WE time.
Sam's Poem:
FOOL'S GOLD for Ruhi & my kids –SP
My dad said I was born moral. My mother says (nearly every day) that I am going to hell.
(No, I did not say that. I said Allah will punish you and you will not enter paradise. I did not say hell.)
She's right. My mistake.
But this is the dichotomy of my life. And I am not saying that my white dad
is better than my Arab mom. That would be racist. (I think.)
All I am saying is that every day feels like we are Silly Putty being stretched so thin
we need to hide inside our plastic bubbles or else we will break.
So like some of you, I am trying my best to unearth the coffin of my mother's expectations
that have buried me so deep for so long under shovelfuls of God-guilt and disappointment.
Sure, she's proud at times. But like a lot of Middle Eastern Muslim mothers,
she was born with two contrasting hands: one to high five and say, "I am happy for you, Habibi!"
and one to slap you so hard on the back of your head that you never saw it coming.
And that's why her hugs never feel like they're real
because a fist and an open palm cannot interlock into a loving embrace.
I say this all not for sympathy. Believe me.
My life is just a metaphor. It's not even about me.
You too were born moral with an open heart free of hate
and probably too much hair or not enough
(you ugly Caillou-looking mutha fuggah)
But you gleamed in your bassinet. Even the nurse said
the birthmark on your back was a kiss from an angel.
That's how good and God-like and golden you were at birth.
But the world has its way of tarnishing gold until we all become fools
fighting for beliefs we were never born with.
Try if you can to recognize the rust that has accumulated around your heart for decades.
Release the shackles from your mind so it can stay open.
Breathe like you have just escaped drowning in the deep waters of depression.
This is your baptism. It might not happen until you're in your 40s, married two decades
with three amazing children, but when that day finally comes, you will feel born again.
You will relax and release and never look back. You will be free like a little boy
to run and play, and when you fall, someone will be there
to help you up and to hug you with two hands that understand
how to interlock and how to hold on
to something as precious as your life.