Marc Marcel

Marc Marcel

BandSpoken WordAlternative

This is Spoken Word at it's Rawest, Highest level of performance! Seeing Marc Marcel Perform is like breathing in a new experience. He has inspired thousands internationally that witness his art form. His work is original, but yet historic, while making you think, dream and live.


Internationally known Spoken Word Artist Marc Marcel has toured throughout the world, showcasing his seasoned craft at colleges and venues since 2000. A dynamic Spoken Word Artist, Novelist, Producer and Speaker, Marcel was raised in Baltimore, MD and got started writing in Atlanta, GA.
Marc originally began his career by writing novels in 98. He started writing poetry several months afterwards, merely to give a conclusion to one of his books. Since, he has published a Novel, a Poetry Book and 9 Spoken Word CD’s. Through his work, he promises to capture the emotions and feelings of several issues including politics, love, spirituality, self-revelation and the struggles of life.
Along with performing in over 100 cities, he has traveled abroad, touring Bristol, London, Munich, and Prague. He has also showcased, performed and/or held workshops at numerous of Universities, with Harvard, Yale, West Virginia University, Georgia Southern University and Arizona State University just a few to name.
Having made 4 National Television appearances, Lyrics Café, The Jimmy Kimmel Show The Poet’s Corner, and No Reservations, he has also graced the stages of many legendary venues, performing at the Smithsonian in Washington DC for the 2009 Presidential Inaugural Peace Ball. He is also regularly featured in Articles and Interviews across the Nation, with such publications as the Rolling Out Magazine and Good News Magazine. Additionally, he has also appeared on countless of radio stations across the country, whether as a guest or having his poems played on the air.
Marc works just as hard off of the stage as he does on it. His commitment to his written work is taken very seriously. Throughout his career, he has written thousands of unreleased poems, several unreleased novels and has produced hundreds of underground tracks.
Sleepless nights are second nature; his commitment to his craft is endless and his devotion to his Art is reflected in his great body of work. Marcel lives as if his next second, is the most important moment he has.


9 Lives

Written By: Marc Marcel

I was born into the world screaming, speaking in languages doctors hadn’t possibly lived enough years to understand

And using forbidden diction because I just wasn’t strong enough to fight em’ off by making fist, out off my hands, so I just started cursing em’ out in tongues only my past lives could comprehend, and Life, it isn’t that it’s not a beautiful thing, it’s just that I wasn’t prepared to relive this shit all over again

And you should be able to tell this by the stretch marks on my mother’s umbilical cord, just trying to hold on because out of the 9 lives I’ve had to live I only got 1 more of those left to spend

And if you could talk to my soul by the signs in the crossroads at the seconds when my first life began, maybe you’d be able to understand why I continue to walk with my head held high

Like I was just walking around with the pride of knowing men use to call me Pharaoh and my bed use to reek with the scent of just having made love to queens and mistresses, so you can imagine my hustle for selling CDs when I stroll up in poetry events, if once, I just united and combined Upper, and Lower Egypt

So I guess that why when I was reborn in 356 BC, I went back, just to have a city named after me, Alexandria, when men call me Great, and I established world centers for commerce and learning…right after I just got finished from conquering Persia

And I still see the jealously in their eyes, gravediggers running through my tombs for rubies and jewels, but truly people I had already worn out my use for em’ by the end of my 2nd lifetime

And the third times a charm, so I just hope I owned up to the experience, and even though they butchered me during my last 12 hours of existence, put thorns on my head and nails in my wrist, I still own love for them

So I came back, revived from my crucifixion, just for em’ to do it to me again, Joan of Ark, betrayed by men that wanted me to denounce that me and God has conversations, and so I had a few lives to waste, so hey, they burned me at the stake

And so I return, reincarnated to live out the 5th time I existed as the baddest mother fucker that’s ever jumped off a slave ship…with school systems that never taught their kids about the African that took a few White men with him

And on my next lifetime, they called me strange for thinking this world’s just too fucking cold to live in, so I cut off my ear just so I wouldn't hear em’, Vincent Van Gogh, putting my life into paintings, just wanting to be appreciated, only to turn around and have art collectors getting rich of me in death, but sadly, when I was alive, I wasn’t receiving checks

But I guess it all comes back around, because on my next life I found myself in Cuban mountains, listening to Che Guevara kick revolutionary poems, just before we marched down and took the whole system out, lives were lost, mine I don’t know if it’s something they’ll write about

And when I was reborn, I found myself in a village in Vietnam, looking at things that shouldn’t be witnessed by young daughters, watching your mother being rapped by America soldiers, just before being executed because they figured lodging a round of bullets in my chest was in order

But I'm breathing again, here into a world full of sin, going down common trends, back, just to tell my tales and give my previous lives something it can comprehend, back, just trying to hide out from 6 feet, like, I got another reason for breathing, so believe, I value the path I have

I guess that’s why I always seem to be struggling to hold onto my mother’s umbilical cord, like, it’s my only safety net I have, and hiding out close to the womb, like, I was just trying to catch my breath

And, trying to keep them close to my chest, because I know, I only have one life left

Begging 4 Change

Written By: Marc Marcel

I’ve often found the opportunity for people to see the roads their life could take, resting in the hearts of the homeless that roam by exits just before you get on the highway, begging for change

Begging for people to see, that all they’ve ever believed was equality, they never needed the freedom to build big buildings, if it just financially took away their chance to get fat off of the meals other men throw away and dispense

Because while some people pay rent, the food was all they’ve ever needed for a roof over their head, and you can see the appetite in their eyes just before you get on interstates like 95, where people pass em’ by everyday hearing their same hunger pains

And you’d think the President would be getting daily briefings on how they just rock ‘Will Work For Food’ as gold cardboard chains, but this cat has yet to get in his government sealed limousine and drive pass the highway handing out job applications

I mean, from all the officials leaving his cabinet, you’d think people would’ve inquired what we don’t know, that they do know about his actions, so I stay steadily thinking it’s the wrong mother fuckers leaving and being relieved from their government occupations

Because billion dollar corporations profit off killing, with enterprises like herbal remedies and spiritual healing try to stay in business, so you tell me whose best interest they got at hand

And the American way, is just to go into countries like Brazil to stop their importation of the drug trade, but the United States isn’t doing this by investigations, they’re exporting these nations with guns and grenades just so when they invade all they’ll have to do is put the bodies in a grave

And it’s all over this globe, the crusades, and the spread democracy that has people’s culture in ruins, and if you don’t see it on television, it’s not that they don’t have special interest, it’s just that most countries don’t have oil running through em’

So you see where I just find it hard to believe that we can finance wars, but ignore a cure and act like we don’t have the means to provide homeless men with the change they’re looking for

I’m talking about, selling the constitution on e-bay and handing out reparations with all the money they made from the highest biding, and this time, instead of the winners, letting the losers write history, because their stories are just being buried underneath public school systems

And the Native’s, they’ll tell you what they’re over there doing in Iraq, is about to be Vietnam all over again, with soldiers massacring villages, but this time the only difference, there’ll be prostitution parlors with Muslim women

And fuck preaching to the choir, maybe we need to start setting up poetry venues right outside the state senate, and, declare this shit our settlements, and kick radical pieces until some left wing politician just starts vibing off the shit

And starts Xeroxing the poems out our chat books just to spit to congress to bring our troops home again, and I need for us to praise em’, much like we should homeless men begging things not to stay the same

Begging for change, roaming by freeways, while people pass by em’ disregarding the messages they give em’ just before they get on the interstate, thinking the answer’s always in their pockets and unaware that there’s just so many different routes and turns you could make and take

So stop turning you nose up at em’ when you’re getting on the highway, and give these dudes their change, for a change, because and all they’ve been trying to do, is tell you, you’re been going the wrong way

All My Life

Written By: Marc Marcel

I keep telling myself…maybe you’re someplace in Egypt gathering up information on creation…

You’re probably in the middle of the dessert, somewhere learning ancient philosophies and studying the teachings underneath prophets, taking in as much knowledge as you needed before you finished off you pilgrimage…and found you way back to…to here

Or maybe you’re somewhere in Africa, Zimbabwe, volunteerin for relief programs, and clutching onto children, dying of Aids, and telling him hold on…God’s on his way, or, maybe you’re just in Europe, Rome, Italy, protesting Popes, or in Indonesia or Mississippi - helping to rebuild homes

So it’s not like you just stayed there a week or 2, just so you could see it, and put it in your poems, or, maybe you’re just somewhere in the Bronx, kicking Spoken Word like you was just Angela Davis undercover, rocking pieces so revolutionary, the government knows about ya

So there’s got to be a big conspiracy, I mean, what else would keep us from meeting, so you’re probably somewhere traveling from city to city with a suitcase full of clothes, just in case you needed that 1 way boat ride to Cuba

And this is a big world for us to get lost in, so I keep marking my refrigerator with all kinds of road maps just to keep track on all the places you’ve been

Someone told me they saw you in Somalia, on retreats, I never told them who I was looking for, I just listened to one of the workers describe this woman that took the breath away from some of the workers that were there to help out on the relief

Said you was there for 3 months, explaining to em’ how you missed your little brother, and your lover, but seeing the children’s faces made it a little easier, you told em your Man was somewhere in the United States, spitting poetry, he’s a poet, I didn’t tell em’ you were talking about me

I just took the information I needed, maybe my mind’s just playing tricks on me, but I swear, I thought I saw you from the back getting in a taxi, and I’m not so sure though, and I thought about following you, but, you know they ain’t letting black men into cabs in Washington DC

Someone told me I just missed ya when I was in California, they waited for me to get off the stage just to grab me and tell me you were in the crowd when I was performing, I don’t know, maybe you had somewhere to be, hey, I was hoping I would’ve gotten the chance to give you a CD…just so you could at least listen to me

New York City, I heard about this woman that was performing miracles during Christmas, handing out presents to underprivileged families, I’m wondering if it was you, no, I’m sure it was you, I was almost there, but the taillight out in my rear had me getting stopped by the police

But at least I got the chance to hear over the radio the operators talking about you making moves on up to North Dakota to start up Health Programs for Natives, Damn Sugar, it’s like you just rolled with the slogan, life, is what you make it

And knowing you, I’ll probably be hearing about ya somewhere in Afghanistan soon, or maybe in Sudan, just trying to help out with the refuges, or maybe even Haiti, just trying to help them establish some kind of government so they won’t have Warlords running, riot and looting in the streets

And Baby, every day without meeting, I’m just trying to look at it like you’re living your dreams, like, maybe you’re in somewhere in the middle of South and North Korea, or in between Pakistan and India, just trying to bring peace

So, Sugar, wherever you are, or are traveling to be, it’s alright, go ahead, grab everything in sight, because when we meet, it’s just going to give us so much more to talk about, when I ask you where you been hiding all my life


Written By: Marc Marcel

I got a call 1 night, and it took about 4 rings to finally break me out of my train of thought, and that was a good thing, because all I was doing was staring at the walls with the lights off

Thinking about all the goals that my family and friends bestowed, and questioning myself if I'm really living up to the potential that they once gave, or if I'm just making a pretty good example of someone that just wasting his life away

Now the voice on the other end knows me better than I know the lines that run across my own palms, better than religious cats know their psalms, and a how lot better than I know the verses I recite in my poems, I’m telling you, I really don’t have to say a word, this man knows when something’s wrong

So when my father asked me what was the strange tone in the way I answered the phone, I told him, “Right now, whether wrong or right, I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything in my life

And he knows what I've put forth on my strides, so he asked me why, feeling in his heart that I was my own worst critique, and that it was only a matter of time

So I told him, shit’s hard, I'm getting by on dimes when I put priceless thoughts into my rhymes, and value meals may only be 3 bucks, but every now and then I’d like to get my bank account super sized

Then he asked me what if I had a few funny face for every second I spent working on my craft, than would I feel like I've achieved something, so I thought hard and long, and even though I know money really doesn’t mean nothing, I confessed, and I told him, “Yes”

And that’s when he said, “See, there you go basing money on your accomplishments, you shouldn’t tag along dollar signs to all the time you spent dedicating to perfecting your gifts”

Now these words hit me strong and deep, because my Pop’s knows the hours I keep, I'm trying to live by example, so when I tell poets to live their art, that means my art gets no sleep

He knows how I hit the road, spending nights in a cold van because it was too far to go back home, and we needed to save our dough, plus we couldn’t miss the opportunity the next day to get on the show

He knows all about the self tours and how I rocked mikes at Harvard and MIT, he knows how I branched out and spoke at a few Universities, he read my articles in free editions, and interviews in a few magazines

And now these chicks calling me telling me they saw me on TV spitting poetry and talking about the scene in D.C., and damn, these mother fuckers just don’t know what goes into putting together a quality CD

But he knows how my first 1 never really hit the streets, and I told him how the 2nd 1 almost never went through because some producers quit, and the system glitches had us losing the beats

And he knows how much heart I put into my art, because he knows me, and just listening to him, and reminiscing made me realize there’s really no kind of figure that could truly represent my achievements

No house with a yacht on the Lake, no fast car that hit’s 90 in 6 seconds but can stop as soon as you put on the breaks, shit, I don’t even eat mash potatoes and steak, and I don’t need maids serving me breakfast as soon as I awake, because none of that, it won’t compare to what I've put in weight and placed on my back

So again, I must confess, and yes, I do feel blessed, and even though every day adds stress, if I have to die broke, than just cremate me in a paper box made of all my poems attached, and let’s burn with the wind, because nevertheless, I know this is priceless

God is a Woman

Written By: Marc Marcel

I believe God is a woman

With jet black hair that reaches down to the basement of her sandals, so she has to walk around carrying the strands in 1 one arm fold, just so it stays clear of being dragged on the filth from the land she walks on

I believe God is a woman with fingernails the length of the breaths taken by newborns, with, tattoos of the names of all her children spread throughout her back and forearms, and the body, movie stars could only dream of

And I believe God is a woman, with the completion of watching the sun rise and the elegance of a dove, with blank pupils, white like the way the light shines, so when you’d look into her eyes, it would almost be as if she were blind

But it just makes it so she can see pass the deception tongues speak and listen to the honesty in people’s souls, and judge that man for his deeds, the way he lived and eventually what he died for

And I believe she walks among us, dressed in long black shaws that extends down to her feet, taking the time to sip on Turkish coffee while sitting outside of cafe shops in New York City, watching children running in the streets and innocently, ignoring just how cold the world is

But each day, losing a piece of the innocence they were once born with, and I believe she has no religion, I believe she relies on faith and not belief systems, while understanding the predicaments our youth are in, so I believe she walks corners at night, because she knows she has to go to them

And I believe she has a heart big enough to forgive even history’s most heinous sins, whether it’d be the holocaust or trading Africans, whether it be government massacres of Iraqis or Palestinians, I believe even she would never find it in her heart to confine her children to the evils they live in

And I believe she’s been scarred and butchered by men, I believe she’s walked this earth before and has been raped by kings, slave owners, American soldiers and even jealous boyfriends

So when it comes to Christ, it’s only people’s ignorance that would compare her crucifixions, but each lifetime she spent, she remains all the more beautiful, and her wisdom, all the more fruitful

And I know she’s had way too many conversations with school girls, telling them the ugliness of the world, warning them of men, scriptures and preachers that try to make you believe Eve, is the cause for all their natural temptations

And sitting around campfires in rocking chairs, holding onto toddlers while teenagers comb her hair, surrounded by convicts and children, the condemned, the innocent, and sharing her words and restoring the faith of those that have even a second to take the time to listen

And I believe she’s witnessed the most wickedest things, I believe she’s seen her village being raided and burned of Natives and spent time in concentration camps, and even sat in American Embassy’s, watching terrorist leave the premises, just before the ceiling, starts to cave in

And, just before the first tower fell, I know she was somewhere in the building, and I believe God is a Woman, that’s lived through way too many Holy Wars to believe that the 1 we’re living in right now, we’re just rehearsing the last pages revelations marked out for us to witness

And I believe she walks among us, with hair that reaches down to her feet, and a love for Turkish coffee like it was the 1 addiction that could have the Lord falling victim

And I believe God is a Woman, because if God were a Man, somehow, I think I’d lose my faith again

Heaven's Haiku

Written By: Marc Marcel

Some of the most beautiful poems lay right across the hedge of tombstones, may you rest in peace

And I’ve never witnesses or spit anything that was more profound and complete, so just so it hits home, so just so it hits home, I keep trying to get inspired by sitting right in the middle of cemeteries, forging verses with my headphones on, like, Scott La Rock was just about to start digging out his grave and jump up on some turn tables and start playing me a beat

So honestly, I can’t take credit any poem I’ve written, what most friends tend to think is a gift, most my words were just motivated from all the spirits that just guide me

So I keep hiding out in gravesites at night just so when I die, the Lord’s Poet Laureate would’ve have to go too far to come and try and find me, and I know they’ll hear the God in me, like, I’ve just walked around with this type of confidence of knowing that all poets get to go to heaven

And I’ve never taken advantage of my talent or gifts, I’ve, always slaved over my lyrics like, you should be able to play the CD backwards and hear Rumi breathing on the back of the disc

And I keep putting my life in this shit just, just so my God Brother can recognize me in the afterlife and meet me at the crossroads just to direct me and let me know where the closet poetry venue is, and I’d just stroll up in there and see Miles Davis and John Coltrane playing back up for the performers at the Spoken Word event

And even though admission was 10, I’d, humbly be lead in, because in Heaven, it was always free for wordsmith if they wanted to get up there and spit, and, my jaw ’d just drop to the floor from seeing some of the poets that have already performed

So I’d just be hoping they’d do a round robin because I couldn’t believe Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Langston Hughes and Gwendolyn Brooks were just some of the names that I just missed

And as usual, I’d take my natural position, in the rear, just so I can get the surround sound to hear, and noticing cats like Malcolm X, Bob Marley and Marcus Garvey getting inspired and feed off words by Dyland Thomas, ee cumming, and Walt Whitman

And, I could just stand there and witness Ernest Hemmingway, Jack Kerouac, Pablo Neruda and James Baldwin, reciting verses no one’s ever heard from poems they say were just written, so I’d find myself getting inspired all over again, like I just hit the Open Mic scene all over again

Sweating and getting anxious and knowing that the second I was called up to recite the Host Redd Foxx would just stop the show, and say, “What a minute, people…we got a virgin on the mike”

And, they’d serenade me with all the warm I once received the first time I showed up at a set with some poems in a journal that I use to walk around with, and maybe, before I begin, I’ll just fumble over what I was saying, nervous like I was just trying to impress the ears of Plato and Socrates just so they could see that I at least did, get something out of life

And, maybe while I’m gathering my composure, I’ll notice the eyes of Pinero, Ida B Wells, Cluade McKay, County Cullen, watching me, waiting to see what kind of skills I gathered during my existence that I may’ve brought with me into the afterlife

And, for all the verses I could’ve stood up there and recite, still, I’d have this confliction of trying to bare it all, like, 1 poem was never enough to get off your chest, so I figure I’d just take a step back, and take in being around the energies of Muhammad and Jesus, with Moses having next on the game of Chess

And so maybe deciding to spit em’ one of my pieces, maybe I’ll just pay their life my respects by plagiarizing a line from some miscellanies poet I have yet to meet… and spit em’ a Haiku…“Some of the most beautiful poems lay on tombstones, May you rest in Peace”


Novel - Saint Thomas
Poetry Book - Unchained
Spoken Word CD - The Day You're Born
Spoken Word CD - Never Look Back
Spoken Word CD - Gunpowder
Spoken Word CD - 3 Days & Waiting
Spoken Word CD - Have You Ever Lost Faith in God
Spoken Word CD - Have You Ever Made Love to a Poet
Spoken Word CD - Smoke
Spoken Word CD - All Around the World
Spoken Word CD - The Number 9

Set List

Marc Marcel's performances usually range from 20 to an Hour, and given proper notice, he can perform well into the 2 hour bracket, performing poems heard nationally and internationally.
Marcel also has a great background in skills for Speaking. He has a strong presence that keeps his crowd attentive throughout his set, drawing them in closer in between poems, with his comedic improvisation.
Depending on the occasion, he can run a performance for 20 minutes while performing 5 to 6 poems, or he can run up to 2 hours, while holding a lecture style performance. He has also held workshops, usually best organized throughout a 3 day period.

Poems that are usually included:

New Money
Still Moments
The Mis-Education of the Negro
Cross Dressers
Only in America
Louder Than Life
The Boy King
9 Lives