So remember last Friday when I said that one of my favorite poems was one that my friend, Ari, wrote? Well I have a copy of it now (you know, so when he becomes famous I'll be able to say I knew him when). He told me I could share it with you all, so here:

Somewhere in between bongo java chess games and chronic ice tea,
You'll find the beat.

Somewhere among Tommy, Ralph Lauren, quarter-store shirts, PSU hats, Jew boy yarmulkes, FUBU jackets, Adidas stripes, Nike swooshes, French connection collars, black boots, black shirts, black hats, black pants, black underwear, black everything,... among these,
You’ll find the beat.

Somewhere in between the dorky kids doing homework at 2 am and the cool cherry tree guys with Beamers and Vettes, Audi’s, and Rovers, cheating on their olive branch girls with cute blonds, “oh ain’t she sweet?” comments roam the halls, quick thrown cigarettes in bathroom stalls, and the dorky kids doing homework at 2 am are still trying to find a place to fit in. Among these kids,
You’ll find the beat.

Somewhere among Jack Daniel’s and post football game parking lot hang outs, freshman parties go from 7 till my parents get home, bring on the kegs, “but there’s only foam left, shit.” Mike’s Hard Harder, give me that Smirnoff and I won’t have to worry about History till Monday. Among these,
You’ll find the beat.

Somewhere at Ruff Ryders’ concerts, Triple 6 Mafia, maybe Busta Rhymes, Project Pat, and Outkast, let’s not forget that white boy rap, that soft stuff we like, Jurassic 5, 2na Fish is here to rock the house, The Roots, De la Soul, we like to pretend that we’re “Big Pimpin” too, even though we don’t understand it, we don’t feel it. Like when someone who isn’t Jewish throws up a violin and screeches out “Raisins and Almonds” or “The hymn of the partisans”. There’s that stoner music too that you can really feel in your heart. Kruder, “I’m never fake and never phony, I’ve got more flava than a packet of macaroni.” Those deep thoughts invade conversation during Algebra, and at lunch we can’t forget the old stuff, Jimi is bound to pop up somewhere, a common meeting place for history, for foxy ladies. Students rant out Purple Haze in desperation, Ruff Ryders in pride, Wyclef for a hope, Kruder for originality, and hey, teacher, leave them kids alone. In the lyrics,
You’ll find the beat.

Somewhere dorky guys wish that the could get with the homecoming queen, ugly fat girls are shunned by the cool guys, and dorky guys, and all guys, and the girls that study a whole lot always seem to go for the guys that just don’t give a damn. Some couples are getting married, or they’re engaged, and other couples can’t keep a relationship for a week. Some guys beat up guys that like guys but throw a party if there’s two girls, and half the time people can’t hold an hour conversation so they just make out. But there are some real relationships. People do love each other, and people think that they can’t because they’re too young, or because a black guy likes a white girl, or a Jew and Christian get together to split a vanilla shake at Rotiers. Among these couples,
You’ll find the beat.

Somewhere in between the kids who are filming everyone’s every move at every time and the kids who are writing it down and the kids who are capturing in a photograph or drawing it or painting it or sculpting it or reading it or playing it on their guitar there’ll be a beat. The chords stretch out to capture the rhythm of your legs walking to the beat, and then, some kid gets a guitar and plucks his first tune, and then realizes how easy it is for the beat to be beautiful. But even beyond beauty, there’s the bass, ugly and hardcore, lost and forgotten, but a bass works well to the beat, because it’s down to earth, just like the beat. But whether guitar or bass, violin or cello, there’s a beat. Whether Ruff Ryders or Beatles, Spice Girls or Hendrix, there’s a beat. Whether parting or studying, sleeping or cramming, there’s a beat. Whether you’re in your house or at the store, you feel the beat. On the street, walking, beat. At school, in the halls, beat. Sitting, sleeping in the classroom, beat. At home with your father, beat. Saturday Night Live, beat. On the soccer field, beat. In the recital hall, beat. In the church, beat. At temple, beat. At Mosque, beat. Sleeping, walking, running, sprinting, diving, soaring in American Airlines flight 119, beat.

If you ever see him, ask him to read it for you. He does a good job of that as well...