something often overlooked

why have i never spoken about Watsky?

well, mostly because i live in some weird state between being before the trends and so far behind i feel like i'm entering into a foreign world when i finally catch on.

yet, and as i think on it, i don't think watsky was ever on trend. objectively, pale kid raps really fast was probably an ingenious move on his part, but he's just too much too soon, i think. he doesn't have the panache of eminem, nor the showmanship of busta rhymes (though the younger watsky definitely gives the veteran rhymes a run for his money). i'll explain further why i think that watsky is well beyond his time.

i've said it before, not here but in my regular person conversations, the arts are always maligned and none more so than poetry.

we don't get it-- they're fearful of it. it creates uncomfortable feelings, ones where the cadence of the words are often so foreign it discomfits us. it pushes us to think differently, to find metaphorical meaning in the mundane or overlooked, and we're just aren't that creative.

 i know for myself, i hate baseball. i think it's boring and pointless, takes little talent and is literally the worst thing about the summer/fall. but the main reason i hate baseball is that i'm fucking awful at it. i think people hate on poetry because they suck at it. this deficit is perceived, of course, because literally no one can be bad at poetry. but they can't think of those neat couplets, can't find lyrical connections a la lil wayne that seems to make it worthwhile and have decided poetry is hard to write and they don't like it. understandable. i'm not going to one day wake up and decide i'm going to watch the entire season of the yankees. i'd rather scoop my eyes out with rusty spoons. but poetry... ya'll are missing that pop fly.

i've always had an appreciation for poetry. it was always my favorite unit in english all the way from primary school all the way through to university. i can appreciate it, can debate it, can write it (though, in this day and age, who has the time... another debate for another blog and century). poetry makes the life we're given just a little bit more in focus; a little bit more beautiful, sorrowful, vibrant or indelible.

and this is why watsky is ahead of the curve, yet will forever be utilized for his mad spitting skills which in itself isn't bad, but he's so much more than a pale kid who spits really fast.

stemming from a history of slam poetry victories in his native san francisco, watsky spits lines that could find their home in a well-curated senior level poetry anthology. sure, the speed in which he delivers these gems is blisteringly fast (i get trapped up speaking slowly to my U12 students... i couldn't imagine ever speaking that fast), but it's the content of these bars that have me wondering why people don't sing his praises more often, but completely understanding on why they don't.

hey, you hear the one about the fisherman who passed?
he didn't just off that ledge
he just stepped out into the air and pulled ground up towards him really fast
like he was pitching a line and went fishing for concrete
the earth is a drum and he's hitting it on beat

how could anyone hate poetry when it's written so fluidly?

the reason there's smog in los angeles is 'cause if we could see the stars
if we could see the context of the universe in which we exist
and we could see how small each one of us is
against the vastness of what we don't know
no one would ever audition for a mcdonalds commercial ever again
and then were would we be?
no frozen dinners and no tv
and is that a world we want to text in? 

all i gotta say, is don't sleep on watsky. sure, some of his stuff is... tepid, like lukewarm tea on a chilly fall day it sits in my mouth heavily, ruining the tableau of refinery that i want to project. while he may not be an entity like eminem, or a ye or jay, he's sure better than lil pump and the plethora of mumble rap that bungles up my radio and that's a huge win in my books.

either someone just microwaved popcorn, or i hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid succession. 

(tiny glowing screens part 2, watsky)