C.R. Angel

By C.R. Angel

Spoken word.

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Hut of a Room

C.R. AngelNov 29, 2022

00:00

02:40

Shade of Green

Creative energy is all around us and includes all aspects of human expression. The "Shade of Green" artwork is created by Nex and written by C.R. Angel.

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Langston Hughes

Dedicated to the poet Langston Hughes and released on February 1st, 2023. One-hundred and twenty-two years after his birth.

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Read more poetry on my personal website: https://cr-angel.com/

Watch more content on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVXa5Ad3ZN_7uVOdd_sPZDA

Feb 01, 202302:01

Poet Behind a Driver

A poet's story that shares food, time, and humor with his fellow customer. A perfect piece that compliments his: Poet Behind a Register.

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Great to Great

Many legends live in the realm of jazz, but how did they get there, and what was needed for their journey to become great?

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Read more on personal website: https://cr-angel.com/

Watch more on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@cr-angel/featured

Jan 11, 202301:06

Poet Behind a Register

I've worked in a restaurant where families are invited to break bread. I would ask them how their day was and what they wanted to eat, whether it was pasta or a pound of calamari. Children often wanted a slice or a mac n cheese while they yelled their order before taking a seat. I'd stand behind my screen with buttons of purple, yellow, and red which separated the categories of all the food they said.

"Is there anything else you'd like, sir? Perhaps a bottle of wine?"

They'd often turn toward their table of demons that found freedom in a rectangular wave. I knew when to capitalize on their taste.

"I'll take a bottle of beer tonight."

"Of course, sir. Anything you wish."

He smiled at the sight of someone who was subservient because he knew not of what it meant to rule his own life. But that was my job in its own right. I was good at what I did, which was shown through tips at the end of our night.

Husbands would often walk away once they ordered a drink that left me alone to flirt with their wife while she think. I was ten of six at that time and only had a fix for women that were refined.

"What do you recommend young man?"

I'd tilt my head with a grin to ask her what she hasn't been fed. She'd look down and around to her lover who joined in plastic, iron, and aluminum. "A proper night in bed."

I'd lick my lips and console her desire with a hire of wine that I saw her eye before she was left to dry. She blushed to the color of her drink which she happily accepted into her cheek.

She took out a card to pay for the herd that sat for their meal. Tapping for their drinks.

"Would you like a receipt miss?" She smiled once more before she said "no, but I'd like to leave a tip." I slid a slice of paper with a line of gratuity with the utmost fluidity.

"Let me know if there's anything else I can do," I say. She finished her sign and made sure to smile her way. This is the price you pay for a poet who takes your order on the border of a register.

Dec 21, 202202:15

Cyst

A cyst on my wrist that I can't dismiss no matter the fist in a pissed aggression. The digression of my blissful state that I miss so much that causes me to hiss like the very snake I have become.

Oh wrist, my wrist, why do you insist on a wish that I never made despite the kiss above a crater of my wrist between tendons, joints, and carpels? Do you get my gist as I make a list of all the times I've missed this unfortunate twist of a bumpy love. A misty hate.

In the midst of flesh and ink, I assist with the one question of whether or not you should exist.

You see, I enlist a blacklist which lies in a cyst on my wrist that insists we can coexist.

Do you think so? I'm sure I'd say no.

I remember the deadline of the twenty-second of December and I render the fact of a possible pause up until next year.

Alas, my fear is a cyst on my wrist that I can't dismiss no matter the fist in a pissed aggression. Oh, my digression of a blissful state that I miss oh so much that causes me to hiss like the very snake that I have become.

Oh wrist, my wrist, look at what we used to be.

Clearly this is what I miss,

Never to write for my dear little cyst.

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- www.cr-angel.com

- Instagram: c.r.angel

Dec 13, 202201:37

Falling Fate

Never me. Can I see who I'm meant to be? No clarity in mind, trying to find my time, write a line, escape my shadow in a battle of a brain.

Have you ever heard of C.G. Jung? What fun it is to read his books and get weird looks from people who know nothing of knowledge. Nothing of hunger. I'll take one with my plunger just to prove their shit.

What's worse?

You face calamity in your reality while I hold four agreements to my Part X within. Hmm.

What's more?

I sweat an effort.

Smoke a joy,

I know when to close my eyes,

Know when to write.

To write is to live, to write is to breath, at least for me.

Not enough poetry, philosophy, while fictions at my feet.

There's much you've yet to see, the world is my sea, at least for me.

But what of you and who you're supposed to be?

A question that gets mentioned by the time you hit the age of three. You search your soul and mind to find the incline of perfection that was laid to you by dream and predilection.

And by the time you know; Your soul will grow old. So do your best. Impeccable with your word. Don Ruiz to every toltec of all those years that go way back.

Is that what you want? Is that what you crave? Falling fate.

Falling fate. Never too late. Do you want a taste?

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- www.cr-angel.com

Instagram: c.r.angel

Dec 06, 202201:29

Hut of a Room

Feathers on my door. Daily quests and lifelong goals with a collectors mentality that practically speaks for itself with the marvels and mickeys. It's written down in words that anyone can read and they'll see that I find a more gradual growth. My reality is a mountain of books that look like they're leaning a little too far to the left towards that desk of scrambled paper and pen. I have a calendar with the month of September and I wonder if I can really fix stupid. I have works of art that I look up to along with a Buddha who writes in water. I have a record for every cat and I make sure to clean my platter. How else are you supposed to play Lady Day? There's colors and cubes of every shade and I wonder how often you see a dodecahedron. I say that you can solve it, but then again, who would you believe in?

Below the grooves of Muddy Water and Langston Hughes, I find that I view another stack of bindings and books that bear wisdom to anyone that brings a mind. There's plots and Alan Watts, there's Rumi and Greene. So, tell me of power and its 48 laws. I assure you that everything isn't what it seems.

There's a chair and its chords in which I bounce my theories. There's circular speakers that charge an ekphrastic state. This hut of a room screams to question. This hut of a room invites expression. You can see it in my replica of Skywalkers saber. You can see it in my Nuka Cola cap. Am I nerd? Can't you tell? Do you see my flirt? Language is my well.

Alas, that corner that crowds a mess with strings and bags beneath the blue bass that itches to be played. It's been three months since I stroked its wire, but I tire of having it on the ground. Perhaps it's time I hang it on my wall, but is it too soon? Instead, maybe, I'll write within this hut of a room.

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- www.cr-angel.com

Nov 29, 202202:40