BandSpoken WordComedy

"Asia is a verbal sketch of life in its glory and gloom. He writes for people, instead of to people and that's why they relate to him." - Will Da Real One" 2x HBO Def Poet


As an aspiring novelist / brain surgeon / ninja, Asia never thought spoken word poetry would be his calling. But as with everything else we encounter in life while dealing with the elusive astrological joke we’ve come to know as destiny, here Asia stands.
In the early months of 2006, Asia faced a battle with cancer. Asia spent the next few months contemplating retirement from poetry- convinced that his voice wasn’t unique enough to stand out. He didn’t know it then…but it would be cancer that would save his life.
In the months that followed the blessings came pouring. A feature on Russell Simmons’ HBO Def Poetry; 2006 Performer of the Year by APCA; 1st Place at the 2008 Southern Fried Poetry Championships.
Okay, so maybe he never became the ninja he wanted to be. But come to his show and he’ll guarantee you will have never seen him coming.



Written By: Asia

Every month
A med tech tests my blood by
swiping alcohol on the inside of my arm
wraps a tourniquet around my bicep
then waits for a vein to bulge
I am praying she pricks the vein on the first attempt
I am praying when the results return it won’t reveal I’m sick

This is the part about cancer survival no one ever hears about

My nephew
Fell from riding his bike for the very first time last week
And while bandaging the wound on his knee
He asks me
Am I gonna die?
Funny I asked my doctor the same thing after my first diagnosis
I tell him
No not today
At five years he is as relentless with questions
as I am with cigarette breaks on Monday
He asks
When I do die, where will I go?
I wanted to tell him there’s a war on the other side of the world
trying to figure out the answer to that question
But I don’t
This is not that type of lesson
And frankly
I don’t know

All I know is that children can find God way before
our religion can teach them how to do so
But somewhere along the way they grow
To be like me
Thirty-one years old
Riddled with paper cuts from pushing paper
to stack against bill collectors and
medical expenses and overdraft fees
First of the month you’ll find me
Kneeling at the edge of my bed
Bleeding fingers pressed against rosary beads
Praying God can stop the world from sipping the life out of me
Through my fingertips

The world is bleeding
Blood coursing through the veins
Searching for an open wound to erupt from
You can feel the suffocation in your lungs
The taste of iron on your tongue
The sound of stray bullets exploding in our guns

And we are still firing at will
Every pull of the trigger
Drowning out the prayers we whisper
For all the innocent blood we spill

And it spills
Cascading from the raised and covered wrist of the teenage kid
who decided to change his mind
It spills
Down the thighs of a girl
who’s eyes still sparkle like the broken mirror she was thrown against
It spills
On the surface of diamonds clutched in the palms of Africa’s hands
It spills
Against the walls splattered by the body of a suicide bomber
who saw this as the ultimate way to pray
(I am picturing God frantically flipping through scriptures wondering how we got the idea that this was okay)
It spills
Out of refugees with barbed wire scrapes on their knees
It spills
Out of stomach ulcers of children twisted into fetal position with disease
It spills
Out of soldiers trading amputated limbs for college degrees

The world is bleeding
Blood seeping through the dirt
Collected and sold for $3.50 a gallon
And there I am
Staring at a gas gauge gone past empty again
Hoping to have just enough to make it to work

And suddenly
My need to pay the mortgage doesn’t seem to measure up
In a world that bleeds from wounds larger than my paper cuts
I can’t compare
I won’t even try

I bandage the wound on my nephew’s knee
But can’t seem to look him in the eye
Until I figure out how to tell him
The world will bleed you for everything you’ve got
So you better find a way to heal
Before the blood has a chance to clot

His mother tells me she hopes the wound won’t scar
I tell her she better hope it does
Even if it’s small
At least then he’ll have something to remind him
To get up and lick his wounds every time he falls

Push past the pain
I see scars like I see plywood
Nailed against windows in the aftermath of hurricanes
Wounded but still standing
Destroyed but still divine
So roll up your sleeves and showcase the scars of battles we’ve left behind

It’s been more than a year since my last blood test
My doctor calls to ask me why
So I give him the answer I finally found fitting to give my nephew
Told him I stopped wondering what will happen if I die
I’d rather be here
Waiting for wounds to turn to scars
Thanking God
For managing a way
To keep me alive