glassEyeballs

Grass Nap Hits 100 Downloads

2009-06-09T12:05:00.004-04:00

Today we reached an exiting milestone. My latest album, Grass Nap, has been downloaded 100 times. A big thank you to everyone who streamed or downloaded the album in the bit-more-than-a-month since it was released. I hope that you continue to vibe to it, and continue to share it with anyone you think will appreciate it. It is, after all, free.

In celebration, I offer you a bonus track. Inspired by Kanye West's 808s and Hearbreak, it is a new mix of the Grass Nap track Building Walls.

Download Building Walls (Heartbreak Mix) now!

I have also uploaded a new video to Youtube for the Grass Nap track Ballad for Jayme Langford. It's below.

Finally, don't forget that Grass Nap is still available as a free download. If you haven't already, download it now.

Screwdriver Poem @ Art Amok Finals 2009

2009-05-20T21:40:00.000-04:00

The performance of my untitled screwdriver poem at Mocha Match Café in Decatur, GA for the Art Amok 2009 team selection slam.

Grass Nap Released! Download it Now for Free!

2009-04-22T17:04:00.046-04:00

After much ado, Grass Nap is finally here.

I had a budget of literally $0 for this album. It was conceived, produced, recorded, mixed, mastered, marketed, and distributed almost entirely from my dorm room (admittedly, I did do some recording in the library). That being said, nothing is made in isolation. I had a lot of support from other excellent artists. Take a moment to look at the liner notes for more information about the people who helped make this happen. I personally put a lot of time and effort into bringing this out for you. I'd greatly appreciate it if you did one or more of the following to help me out:

Share this music with your friends on your social networks. I've included this handy little button to make it easy to share this page via Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, Digg, AIM, good old-fashioned e-mail, or a number of other popular web services. Free music for all!
Declare yourself a fan of Gripp on your favorite social networking site. I currently have pages at Facebook, Myspace, YouTube, Last.FM, and Amie Street.
Donate to glassEyeballs.com! The album is free, and while it's true that the creation of the album did not cost me anything out of pocket, hosting the album for download definitely does! I am charged based on data transfer, which means that every time someone downloads the album, I must pay. Even a small donation could help tremendously!

Enough chatter. Download Grass Nap now!

Grass Nap by Marshall "Gripp" Gillson is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Grass Nap Release Set for April 24—for Free!

2009-04-16T01:02:00.006-04:00

I plan on releasing my newest album here on glassEyeballs.com next Friday, April 24, as a completely free download. This album was brought from conception to completion in less than three full months; needless to say, I worked hard on it. I hope you come back to download it when it's available. It should be good. I've uploaded another track from the album to Youtube—no MP3 for this one until the disc comes out. If you've been following glassEyeballs updates, you'll recognize it as the verse from "Video Form, Part I." But now it's got a snazzy new beat from The Mad Scientist. He's dope. Check him out.

Here it is. Enjoy.

Java Monkey and the Grass Nap Cover

2009-04-14T21:07:00.004-04:00

On Sunday night, I competed in the team selection finals for a spot on the Atlanta slam poetry team. The night was crazy. The power on the entire street went out. Twice. The first time delayed the slam half an hour. Crazy. I ended up placed fifth, which makes me the team alternate. If all goes according to plan, then, I will get to attend the National Poetry Slam this year as part of the Atlanta entourage. Sweet! Ahead of me in the slam—that is, Atlanta team members for 2009—were (are):

Gypsee Yo
Miss Haze
Mista Funn
Fit

I can't remember if that's the order they placed. I think so.

On an entirely different note, I am finishing up my next album. Over the weekend, I finished all necessary recording. All that is left is mixing, and perhaps some other minor tweaks. It should be done relatively soon. My newest tidbit is the album cover.

It was designed by a friend of mine, Lawrence. You should look at some of his other art.

New Music and the Album Title Revealed

2009-04-03T18:32:00.002-04:00

Okay!

As you may (should) already know, I've been working on a thus-far-untitled new album crafted around my FAWM songs. Today you get to hear the first song from that album, and also find out its title. Read on!

Incidentally, this song was not written in February, but is another that I added to the album. I've also made an irreverent Youtube video to accompany it.

Without further ado, here is the song—Geek for Hire—from my upcoming LP, Grass Nap.

Download Geek for Hire now!

Do you remember how it was to be whole?

2009-03-23T01:11:00.002-04:00

Do you remember how it was to be whole?

I remember it like the thin, unaffected air
of spring, personal,
that traces over ribs like a dripping frost.

I remember it like the blushing anticipation
in the moment before that first,
most immature kiss.

Or like waking up alone
before you realize that you fell asleep.

Age is this tragic exchange:
potential for opportunity,
security for identity,
belonging for autonomy.

I imagine myself a ball on a roulette wheel
and wonder why I should care about my number
after I stop.
Today, the twirl is dizzying and
I inhale the disorientation,
but some days,
gratitude that I can catch the warmth
in the long desert of my skin
is not enough; nothing matters.

Those days, I dream of jumping ship
to backstroke, trading this earthquake mind
for a heart like cotton pajamas.

The closest I can come to
regression into my childhood
is indulgence in my fantasy,
neglecting reality’s shower curtain
and letting the suds of
bathwater spill onto the floor
until I melt into them.
I can’t tell where the universe ends and I start.

Maybe the world is an organism
and we are scampering its circulation.
Maybe we touch so that when we’re alone
we don’t forget what it feels like to
be part of something more complex than we are.

Maybe we’re all broken,
malfunctioning, missing pieces,
unprotected, unsafe, discontent,
sabotaged, emotional, hurt, burdened,
haunted, misinformed, or just plain weird;
but we are all one being. There is
no distinction between the atoms around us
and the atoms of us.
When we change, everything changes,
that configuration of the universe is lost.
So handcuff it to the bedpost of your recollection.
Tattoo it across the forehead of your character.
If you don’t, no one will.

Do you remember how it was
to have something you could look forward to?
The only things I remember are
the sound of expectation crumbling
like a handful of bone fragments
and the smell of contamination
from the water in the tub
before the humidity forced
the fiberglass to crack.

Which parts of our Potato Head personalities
did we exchange to be ourselves?
Didn’t you want to be an astronaut?
What happened?
Why did you stop going to your ballet lessons?
You were the best in the class.
When did we trade our potential for opportunity?
Why did we give up our aspirations for addictions?
What uninspired vessels are these adult bodies
that we have been commissioned to pilot?

Every day I have a staring contest with a different person
through the window above the sink:
more creases in the furrow of his brow,
shoulders held higher, muscles a little tighter.
He recognizes me only as the manifest of
the rolling tidal wave of his fate,
preparing to him return home.

We are all standing between two bookends of nonexistence,
and every day they pull closer together.
And the claustrophobic reality is
there is nothing
we can do to stop it.

Weekend of Slams

2009-03-09T00:53:00.003-04:00

As I mentioned, over the weekend I competed in two poetry slams.

The first was Saturday night at Mocha Match. The slam was crazy. One of the judges stormed out in the middle of the first round, which never bodes well for consistency. Plus, I drew the first slot in the slam. It didn't go very well. I was cut after the second round and therefore did not make the Art Amok team.

So on Sunday night I headed to Java Monkey in an attempt to keep my slam season alive. I needed to place first or second in order to qualify for the team selection slam there. I finished second behind Gypsee Yo, who continues to astound me every time she performs. The night was exhilarating.

So come April 12th, I will square off with a number of Atlanta's best poets for a spot on the Atlanta slam team. And, dammit, I want to go to nationals.

Dammit.

Art Happens

2009-03-01T15:48:00.003-05:00

It is now March, which means that my songwriting marathon has come to its end. As a reminder, the goal was to write fourteen songs in the twenty-eight days of February. I completed ten which, while it does not technically constitute completion, far surpasses my showing last year.

Over the next couple of months, I intend to edit and record the ten songs I wrote in February along with a couple of others I have sitting around. Hopefully this will lead to another full LP relatively soon.

Until more music starts popping up, listen to the demo versions of Black Sheep, Photos Rip, and Cold Open.

On another note, I will be competing in two poetry slams next weekend: the Art Amok team selection slam on March 7th and the final qualifier slam at Java Monkey on March 8th.

In summation, art happens a lot.

FAWM 2009

2009-02-27T01:02:00.003-05:00

Last year I discovered an interesting community of musicians online at FAWM.org. "FAWM" stands for February Album Writing Month; it's just what it sounds like. Each year in February, musicians from around the world—literally—challenge themselves by trying to write an entire album during the month of February. The goal is to create fourteen songs, one song every other day.

I tried to participate last year, but was unable to keep up. I finished one song and started a few others, but fizzled out early in the month. This year, I'm determined to complete the album, or at very least top last year's showing.

I will update this blog post over the course of the month to reflect my progress, and also to post demo tracks when applicable. Check back often to follow my balancing act of music madness, real life, and school.

2/1/09: Finished song number one: Black Sheep.
2/3/09: Finished song number two: Building Walls.
2/6/09: Finished song number three: Photos Rip.
2/8/09: Download the demo version of Black Sheep now!
2/9/09: Finished song number four: Sucks to Be You.
2/12/09: Finished song number five: Ballad for Jayme Langford.
2/15/09: Finished song number six: Dieting.
2/17/09: Download the demo version of Photos Rip now!
2/18/09: Finished song number seven: Speak to Him.
2/27/09: Finished song number eight: Walking in the Dark. I know. I'm way behind.
2/28/09: As the month ended, I finished songs number nine and ten: Kiss and Tell (Seismic) and Grass Nap.

As Knowledge Kills Beauty on Vinyl Meltdown

2009-02-18T19:32:00.002-05:00

As Knowledge Kills Beauty was featured today on Vinyl Meltodwn. Head over there to listen to some sample tracks, and buy the album if you haven't already.

Video Form, Part I — Cold Open

2009-01-26T21:44:00.004-05:00

Here is more new music, presented in video form. The song is called Cold Open. Stay tuned for more!

I've also ripped the audio track from the video so you can take Cold Open with you wherever you go.

Download Cold Open now!

Finally! New music!

2009-01-15T23:50:00.002-05:00

I've finally recorded and mixed another song. Produced by David Gonzales. It's called Boxing. Enjoy free music!

Download Boxing now!

PS&mdash See also.

Promise

2008-12-11T01:05:00.004-05:00

I found this poem while I was cleaning up my dorm room. I have a big stack poems and rap verses that I'll probably never show anyone, but here's one that seems worth reproducing.

Promise
I have known the futility of flight,
infant wings intimidated by the overwhelming gray pinions
of assured eagles, nests that smother speckled eggs,
pellets that whistle through the most stirring mating call,
crying children who cradle cadavers that their cats left,
hallways—whitewashed and sanded—that forget holes from the talons
of the most territorial fowl who dwelled there,
the ringing squawks that each one produced.
And I have seen, too how the penguin walks,
waddles, waits, and worries, wistful atop his mound,
clumsy but dignified, unrefined, distilled,
made divine by his own plague, proper, exact,
unconfined, for he dreams not of piercing the skies.

Flower pedals are pressed...

2008-11-20T22:19:00.003-05:00

Flower pedals are pressed

between a book's pages
like thumbs cradling them.

We breathe out,
close our eyes,
as they bleed tones,
pastel into woven sheets.

They too are forgotten;
we too are relics
living in books afterward.

People pluck pedals
to remember with wistfulness
the finality of blossoming.

Letter to President-Elect Brack Obama

2008-11-06T16:15:00.002-05:00

Letter to President-Elect Brack Obama
November 5, 2008

Mr. Barack Obama—
   Congratulations. I imagine that you have been flooded with adulation by nearly every person to whom you spoke today, but I want to add my praises regardless.
   Congratulations.
   The disbelief, pride, and bewilderment we felt last night as a collective, as a nation, were only tiny slivers of your accomplishment, the only pieces we got to share. The freedoms upon which America was founded make its identity a flower, its stem bending toward the cyclical sun of public opinion. Last night, you made the sun stand still, forced America to reflect on its own roots. You must have realized as you accepted the endorsement of this populace that the entire world was watching you. How did you learn to steady your voice while looking into the eye of humanity itself? Do you ever doubt that our trust in you is well-placed? Don’t ever doubt yourself, Barack. Question yourself, embrace your humility, but believe that you are where you are because of who you are.
   Over the next few days, you will attend the funeral of the grandmother who helped raise you. Does that make you think of your own mortality? Of Malia and Sasha living without you? Do you pray to make your grandmother proud? How will we remember your term? We both know that struggle never ends; you will be challenged many times by issues that will cling to your consciousness like leeches. America wants you to rewrite the despondent song it is whistling as an aria. It wants you to fix everything, but you can’t. The work ahead of you is daunting, and you should not be ashamed to be afraid. Your reason and your pragmatism are two of your best qualities, but do not forget that they grow from your compassion.
   And without that compassion, they will wither. Without your immutable commitment to fairness and justice, our commitment to you will not subsist. This, perhaps more than anything else, will define how you are remembered. America is reborn, a toddler learning again to walk. Without both of your hands to steady us, we will fall back to the floor. Barack, please don’t slip.
   I don’t mean this to be demanding or condescending. I am sure that you know more than I do about the whims of the American electorate. I seek only to inform you of one cynic to whom you brought a moment of relief, a pause of unexpected optimism. There are too many of us, pessimists who need to be startled from our apathy by a figure as unyieldingly compelling as you are. We don’t want to have to say, “I told you so.”
   Again, Mr. Obama, Mr. President, congratulations.

   Sincerely,
   Marshall Gillson

That little hammock is sunken back into memory like...

2008-10-29T23:06:00.001-04:00

That little hammock is sunken back into memory like
it was sunken into the night before the colors woke up,
like the portrait of the wavering moon was
as it resigned into the water.

The porch to which it was tethered creaked
its intimate disapproval when we moved to swat at the mosquitoes
that kissed my arms and not hers.

There was a digression
and the calling songs of the crickets in the worn-out shrubs
overcame our breathing;
the organic smells of seaweed and beachrock scared off
the thickness of our sweat.

My eyes were closed.

After that pause,
I followed her, blindfolded, through the rest of the house,
relying only on the tug of her hand for guidance,
and forgetting already the dusk on the sound.

Listen...

2008-10-23T00:29:00.001-04:00

Listen.

Silence is the sound of asteroids colliding,
reverberations of nothing,
like the universe is holding its breath.
In it I hear the hum of
our heartbroken divisions.

I pull you toward me
like holding my ear to the ground
to hear your thoughts before you say them.
I want to travel with you
like waking up in
a moving elevator’s amnesia.
Lend me your periscope, that I might
watch the story of your landscape,
the explanation of the hills’ undulating curves
until I feel the grassblades.

Our bodies are more our possessions than
our selves.
We barter them for reassurance
that our isolation is contrived,
but our awarenesses embrace like fish would.
We gasp for breath, using our devotions
like life rafts and Teflon
but they’re more like grappling hooks, ropes
from which we swing when
the wall is impassable.
You are hesitant to trade me your twine
and we are both slipping.

I don’t want to catch you,
but plummet next to you. So
tell me what you are hiding, or
hold me close enough
to hear it inside you.
I am listening for the hum
of your heartbreak,
but all I can hear is the chortling
of your demons.
I know we can’t reach,
but try. There is
importance in the space
between fingers about to touch,
even if they never do,
like an old woman's desperate stare
into her husband’s distant eyes,
even when he can't remember her,
like gravity redirecting a comet
around a planet it won’t hit.

I'm not asking you to love me.
I'm asking you to hold me like
you're not afraid of me,
like the rest of our segmented existence
was rearranging outside of our manic clutch,
like this curb was the lip of a volcano,
like this was your last chance.
It might be.
Anchor me while this sidewalk melts.
Tell me what you are hiding.
Hum me your heartbreak.
Weave your confusion into mine
and clench until we suffocate,
until we have no choice but to float,
until we are wound together,
an inseparable spool, a cosmic collision,
our fracture across instead of between us.

Hold me.
Suffer with me.

Then pick me off like a scab.
Shudder the pink of a new scar
as you disregard this protection.
Don’t look back now.
Supernova between us; we are distant.
Goodnight.
I will miss you.
Goodbye.

All I remember is the abrupt end...

2008-10-15T12:52:00.001-04:00

All I remember is the abrupt end,
a butcher-knife amputation of my right hand
then the sparkling fade to blackness as I hemorrhaged you.
My last thought
was, “Good fucking riddance.”
My God agrees with me
and I hope he takes from you everything you love.
I hope your convict boyfriend stabs you through the kneecap
with a screwdriver
twists it
and doesn’t get cited to his parole officer.
I hope that, when you hear this, the flesh on your face crawls
until you want to peel it off like a potato skin,
clawing long, legato gashes down your cheeks.
What? Did you think I would chase you?
Or that you could drag me along
like a reluctant poodle in the park?
Was this a chess move or a dice-roll?
Or are you just fed up with me like I am with you?

I know that I’m damaged.
You don’t have to rub it in my face.
Because even if I bathed in acceptance
of my regrets and mistakes
and you scrubbed me with a Brillo pad full of reminders
there would still be eleven steps before I’m fixed
and I’m not even willing to take the second one for you.

You want this
to weigh on me like Atlas holding up the skies
crushing my pride
to the resigned buzzing of a fly caught
in the swift plastic of a flyswatter,
its wings twitching ineffectual apologies aloud.
But pride
is far easier to maintain than intimacy.
Purposeful. Optimized.
This is a chess move, not a dice-roll.

You hacked with your pompous hedge-clippers
At the tethers that rope my inflated insecurities
to the ground,
keeping them from wafting away.
You cracked me in half like a coconut—
who I am and who I could be—
and refused to mix the milks.
We both chose ourselves over each other.
But I still miss you.

I just won’t follow you into the street, pleading.
You always wanted to know why I never
wrote a poem about you.
I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but
I am admitting that you hurt me.
And you couldn’t hurt me if I didn’t care about you.
This is as vulnerable as I’m ever willing to get.
It’s a risk. A dice-roll.
I hope that, when you hear this, you’ll accept its value,
because nothing else is coming.
It’s your move.

The Fall

2008-10-05T12:22:00.002-04:00

The Fall

You left me
with the sorts of vagaries
that I can only scribble on fast-food napkins,
a handful of adjectives with all of their paint scraped off
wrestling in a Ziploc.
You were the sketch artist
who drew my caricature and
shrunk the fracture in my life theory
instead of exaggerating the way its growling ripples played
across the skyline.
It’s high time I find my niche and you—
you dug a hole for me to hide in without
burying me alive
for a while. I
remember my childhood:
spinning in dark little circles like foreshadowing
mixed with naiveté and innocent play in
just the way that I thought I detested
then.
Maybe I’m a self-fulfilling prophecy or
consumed by sardonic justice
that blossoms in my gut like a black dandelion
as I heave my keys toward the wall
and watch them float through it
making the plaster ripple away
until the whole room stretches
from the impact. You
left me
but I forgive you
because in the lucidity that followed
I appreciated all of the ways
that you made life worse—
make life worse—
and I loved you for it.
You are a shape-shifter,
a weight-lifter,
a fantasy that reflects every contour of my perspective
perfectly, like a liquid mirror
dribbling into the acne-bump divots of my face,
smoothing my pot-bellied stomach,
and disguising my fetal penis.
You are a coat of armor,
a spacesuit.
You take root and lace through the plain moods
to cut my brain loose.
When I taste you I know I can make due,
but I hate you.
I don’t want you back, I just
can’t think of a way to
replace the missing bricks without
tearing down the whole wall and starting over.
It’s a hassle, and I’m already tired.
I can avoid it if you let me
because you left me,
but you can come back.
And I ask you
not as an appeal to your pride
or your morality or your loyalty,
but to your pity.
I don’t think I can be anything more
if I can’t have you inside of me again.

Qualifications

2008-10-05T12:06:00.000-04:00

Last night, I won my first slam in Atlanta. It was hosted at the Mocha Match Coffee Bar in Decatur, and it was a qualifying slam for the Art Amok team. I must place in two more slams before I'm eligible for the team. I should probably write more poems...

Next week, the first qualifying slam for the Atlanta team will be held at Java Monkey. I intend to be there to smash heads. I'm excited about this slam season. It's looking good...

I also will be posting some of my poems here, starting with one today.

Routine

2008-09-14T15:22:00.001-04:00

It has been quite a while since I made a post, so let me delve right in.

The National Poetry Slam went well. The Salt Lake City team came in fourth and second in our first and second bouts, respectively. Overall we finished 48th out of 76 teams, which is the best place ever for a Salt Lake City team.

I am back in Atlanta now, so I've been going to poetry events around here. I performed at Jazzman's on Thursday and Tilt Coffee Shop last night. Tonight I'm heading to Java Monkey for their weekly open mic. I finished writing a new poem that I will likely debut soon.

I've also been working on some new music. I've got a new concept album in the works. I only have a few songs to finish up before that one's done. I've also written a few separate tracks.

All-in-all, things are quite routine. I'm creating a lot of art, kicking ass at it, and rubbing it in peoples' faces.

NPS Bout Draw and More

2008-07-22T22:06:00.000-04:00

Okay. Time for more blogging.

First of all, the month of June saw two more reviews for As Knowledge Kills Beauty. The first was in SLUG Magazine, and the second was in In Magazine. Those links will take you to the pages with the reviews.

Also... buy the CD! Click the cover:

Next, I've been spending a lot of time with the Salt City Slam team, since I'm on the team. We're headed to nationals in just under two weeks, and we today found out the teams against which we will be competing in the preliminary rounds:

Bout 7:
New York Urbana
Los Angeles
Salt Lake City
Decatur

Bout 27:
Salt Lake City
Flagstaff
Atlanta
Fayetteville

In any case, I'm very excited about nationals. We've been practicing a lot, obviously, and I think that we're going to give great performances. Sweet!

On another note, I've been working on another glassEyeballs site overhaul. It's not very far along yet, but I would eventually like the site to not be just a blog again. Also, I'll be posting some recordings of my poetry soon. And perhaps more music. We'll see.

As Knowledge Kills Beauty on iTunes

2008-06-20T00:44:00.000-04:00

That's right, folks! Finally, As Knowledge Kills Beauty is finally on iTunes. I'm excited, and you should be, too. For your copy, you can click the link below:

It's an excellent CD. I know because my mother told me so. Buy it!

Ottava Rima for IHOP Waitresses

2008-06-02T01:46:00.000-04:00

Ottava Rima for IHOP Waitresses
The first was closely trimmed, aloof, and meek.
A second smoked, on break, outside the door.
The third had only worked there yet a week,
and swept the scrambled eggs up from the floor.
The fourth: an actress waning from her peak,
whose lost successes made her seem unsure.
And from the kitchen he would shout their names,
their lives the only power he retained.