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The thunder has ceased.
It's only now that I see
how I'll miss the sounds.
February 19th, 2007
January 29th, 2007
Something I'm still working on. It's nowhere near complete, but I'm trying to post more regularly and all that...
Tattoos:
the ink -
red, orange, yellow
but mostly black
all of them painful
reminders
all of them things
i once hoped
to become a martyr for
January 17th, 2007
Someone in my life made a very difficult decision. I wrote this to provide some solace for that person.
What I Said To The Strongest Woman In The World:
I began by telling her how
spell-binding she was
as she captured me with
her slender, refined arms
and deep, refined eyes
and that she captured more of me
in that blink of an eye
than even she might know.
I told her about my plans
to finally conquor my
youthful hesitations
and drink their blood.
I told her that I felt the tears
hitting the pavement like bombs
and that it was ok to weep.
I told her that ancestors
are watching over her
through cracks in the sky
and that she will not be alone.
I told her of the bitter-tasting
root-potions seeped
by fathers into gourds
and given to the mothers
in the mother-land when
the hardest decision
has been made
and that such potions are
as ancient as love.
I told her of the kingdom
of lights that awaits us all
once we're prepared
to shed this mortal coil
and that it is where everything
begins, or ends, or is.
I told her about this fabled
city of lights, where we all
become the stars in the sky
and that it was beautiful,
and that she always will be.
What I Said To The Strongest Woman In The World:
I began by telling her how
spell-binding she was
as she captured me with
her slender, refined arms
and deep, refined eyes
and that she captured more of me
in that blink of an eye
than even she might know.
I told her about my plans
to finally conquor my
youthful hesitations
and drink their blood.
I told her that I felt the tears
hitting the pavement like bombs
and that it was ok to weep.
I told her that ancestors
are watching over her
through cracks in the sky
and that she will not be alone.
I told her of the bitter-tasting
root-potions seeped
by fathers into gourds
and given to the mothers
in the mother-land when
the hardest decision
has been made
and that such potions are
as ancient as love.
I told her of the kingdom
of lights that awaits us all
once we're prepared
to shed this mortal coil
and that it is where everything
begins, or ends, or is.
I told her about this fabled
city of lights, where we all
become the stars in the sky
and that it was beautiful,
and that she always will be.
December 19th, 2006
Rain-Dancer
I never knew what to call her. With a name meaning "blessed arrival" in Ethiopia, she came to me first in an anxiety-ridden dream I had after I'd hit a Jersey Dutch a little too hard, and passed out, alone, on the floor of a friend's house during a stormy September night. The ganja-vision that I experienced in that state foretold her and I sitting in the bar where we later had our first date, and her speaking from utter disbelief to the fact that at that time, I had never done coke nor dropped acid. The whole dream was surrounded by an intense aura of panic, which tirelessly carried-over into the brief time we shared together in the conscious world.
Indeed, our first moments of requisite surface-level conversation were permeated with awkward silences, my voice cracking like a boy at a school dance, and the ceaseless subconscious jiggling of my right leg on the bar stools where we sat. She ordered a vodka tonic, and I ordered a beer in a bottle that turned out to be sour. To get my nerves to cease their spat, I followed my Heineken with a Seven and Seven, but, like my grip on my game that evening, found it to be weak and flat.
After further talk about this and that, I felt my muscles finally relax as, after stepping outside for a cigarette, we fell somewhat suddenly upon our first kiss: an electric exchange accented by the droplets of rain pouring down our hair and onto where our lips met with a sensuous energy - the sounds of Mos Def and Jill Scott proclaiming jubilantly in my brain as I realized the romanticism of it all. We parted flesh with mild smiles to wander together with clasped hands through the down-pour, me speaking from my white liberal readings about black militancy, and her patiently nodding, and both of us wondering what the hell I was talking about.
Later, after we'd made love over wine and Coltrane, we caressed each other, basking in that perfect silence where two souls exist on the wordless empathetic telepathy that only good sex can bring. I kissed her pierced nipples and circled her belly-button chain with my finger while she caressed my tattooed chest and ran her hands across the back of my neck. We fell asleep listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the gutters, and for the first time ever, I was able to nod off with a woman's head lying on my breast.
But as my stormy ganja-vision foretold, the sonata of our rain songs cascaded into a cacophonous clamor as the thunder of our personalities and past pantheons of storm-deities began to clash and drown out the sweet musics of Jill Scott and John Coltrane. She forgave me for warming my hands on the fires of her soul without ever seeming to want to step back and wipe the perspiration from my brow, but I was still never able to completely shake the anxieties of my ganja-dream. I paid too close a heed to my permeating passions to simply slip into the simple space espoused for those smitten by the spells of the sensuous species. We parted ways like the sun breaks through the horizon on fall afternoons: with the droplets of rain and clamors of thunder fading and fading until you realize that the storm has passed into a distant but intense memory, and the earth appears fatigued - but renewed - for all of the calamity.
I never knew what to call her. We never hammered out an affectionate moniker to our precipitous patterns, nor even really addressed the status of our address. We simply clashed with caressing confusion knowing we were in the midst of one of the sky's occasional violent obsessions with the earth. On what would be the final night we spent together, I heard Father Shango consoling Oya following one of his star-shattering showings of rainy anger: he called her his rain-dancer, and I watched as the droplets of emotion he’d laid onto the earth all culminate onto the ground, then flow seamlessly into one small stream to be captured by the Oba river, to then stream timelessly out to join the salty tides of the great sea.
November 12th, 2006
SO let me get it popping, like berry,
white on the mike, and flow slow,
with no stress or strife, just my
life, with you in it, no bullshitting,
just all grinning and spitting game
whether it's lame, or not, to make
you hot, for me like fists and bruce
lee, where we complimentary and not
advisarialy view one another like
nas did hova, or nasty vs jay-z
to give cream to the record companies,
cuz we deep, like wool on a sheep
or words on the street, cause when
we between the sheets, i like to go
deep and long, with that song that
i hope never goes wrong, then gets
gone, just because i'm too drunk
to see, that this ish don't gotta
be like bobby and witney, so,
once again, with my brain and my
pen, parden my obsession with
pressing the same motherfucking
questions - i love you, do you
love me, where are we, do you
want to leave me because I've
smothered, another riteous
mother of this earth, cuz since
the birth of this nation and
my contemplation, i've been waitin
on someone like you to sit me down
and take me to school about the
shit i do when i'm acting the fool,
in love, but not a teenager in a
rock-band, just a man with a rap
plan to make it big with the wigs
and then split for kinsasha like
a monster and come back strapped,
with ak's and an army of angry cats, to
get pay-back and then straight slap,
reparations on these, fat honkies
by any means necessary and i mean,
every word that i say, even if the
shit sounds crazy, but let me say,
i'd love to have you along for the way,
but hey - these thoughts are just
too deep and crazy to keep,
though we've beefed about them
before, i find it hard to ignore
how you make my mind soar with
visions, of roses and white pigeons
so lets stop this division before
the collision causes a distance
we can't ignore, and once more,
with my knees on the floor,
pardon this one more knock
on the doors of our walls,
the long halls, we still
have yet to span hand in hand,
just one woman and one man.
i wanna be good,
i wanna be great,
i wanna jay-z to become,
the president of the united states
by slanging foriegn policy
on CNN
and TNN
and mix-tapes.
i wanna be great,
i wanna jay-z to become,
the president of the united states
by slanging foriegn policy
on CNN
and TNN
and mix-tapes.
July 24th, 2006
Part I
It's hard to believe
that labor's revolution
is popping off with knocks
on the doors of grunts who
don't even hear the shots
wizzing by their heads as
they tread waist-deep in
trenches of despair -
who don't even know
that they're about to
become soldiers impressed
into a movement with so
few flickering lights
at the ends of long tunnels
save for the shining shillings
at the bottoms of whiskey
glasses, with orders to
"Drink up," and ignore
the hammer being swung
so they can be dragged
back to a ship.
In the campaign with no medals
for blood, sweat, or tears,
those starving for the flesh
of The Man shroud their
withered visages with smiling
masks and thread-bare robes
as each day that passes
leaves their throats and souls
a little more parched by
the dead-wieght of war under
a relentless summer sun whose
light cannot be questioned
if one wishes more for their
spoils than glory or God.
July 2nd, 2006
Questions From The Waiting Room:
Does Satan answer his minstrels
when they page him #666 after
catching a stray shot off his wars
on drugs, sex, and freedom while
leaving the Dominican with
souvenirs of lusty weekends with
women conveniently excluded from
social morality - who can later be
smeared for infidelity and assault
with deadly coat-hangers left-over
from the cotton gowns of health-care
tourism and pina-coladas on beaches
engineered for the straw-men
of Jesus to neglect commandments
and savor black Sundays?
And did your prayers of D-block
devotion get answered because
they were in English, rather than
Arabic or Punjabi, or because you’ve
got devils to call with your one walk
down the hall, unkempt, unsightly,
but unshackled and still employed
with the ploys of the sirens of hatred?
Or does today’s Tom Sawyer get high on
arrogance, his morality for rent without
commercial or intellectual interruption,
until he gets caught as a karmic irony
for all to behold? If what you say about
his company is what you say about society,
the mystery to catch is when will clinics
be featured in six-panel cruise brochures
next to pictures of fine dining and servile
domestic populations - perfect for radio
personalities, ambassadors to the United
Nations, or any other halo-packing
member of the international bourgeois
whose hemorrhoids are reason enough
to take a first-class flight for first-class
drugs and subservient legal infrastructures?
July 1st, 2006
The Limbaugh Limericks:
(found scrawled on the wall of a holding cell just outside of Miami)
Flyin in
and out
of DC,
carrying
a bottle a z’s…
I derived
from kan-tuck-e
no one will
mind
if I
just slip on by,
- high -
as a sky,
but not
limp-dicked,
like a liberal
…right?
O no!
O please!
O please
o sweet,
miss-tarred
Re-po blip-kkk-annes
please please release
your good ole boy,
who ain’t done
nothing wrong!
‘cause please,
I swear it
on the blessed souls
of G-Dub’s parents
I’m the one
out of every ten
leading white Christians
who ain’t a coke-head!
I, swear it
on the blessed souls
of G-Dub's parents
that I only allow
swearing
when it’s
just too apparent
that some activist’s
arrogance
has a clearance
to see past
all the shit
I let fester
in my mind’s eye
that’s been branded shut
with a triple-six iron
made out a coat-hanger
and a collection plate,
I swear it
on the blessed souls
of G-Dub’s parents
that I ain’t
like none of
them sinners
under the clamped
vice grip
of the war on
drugs, terror
and freedom
we villifie
or pardon as
"just trying to get by."
…so, no need
to keep me
in this
helluva cell
whose construction
funded G-Dub’s
binges to the
front office
from the back
of the fields that
have changed
one black gold
to another...
Help me, yall,
Help me!
If yall let me free,
I swear it,
on the blessed souls
of G-Dub’s parents,
not to squeal
about our stock
in stocks
or
our lock
on locks
or
the changes
from sails
and no wages
to jail
and low-wages
good only for low exchanges
in convenient store locations
we’ve owned since before“emancipation.”
So please,
purdy please,
pardon poor mister limb-aww
cuz I swear it,
on the blessed souls
of G-Dub’s parents,
I ain’t just
another bum-ass
Honkie
slurping my way
to the top of the dome
by running my mouth
like the Big Man likes
so I can collect
my sticky paycheck
and a STD test.
So, please!
O please!!
Remember the pharaohs
and let a fellow Christian
go!
O! Thank you!
Thank you G-Dub!!
Today, I solemnly swear,
on the eternally blessed
souls of your parents
to make an appearance
every single Sunday,
because, I swear it
on the souls of your parents,
that I’m the one
in every ten
Christian conservatives
who ain’t a coke-head!!
June 30th, 2006
The first poem posted on this blog serves as a bit of a corner-stone. I won't expand on anything at this point, and just let people sit back and ponder.
In The Echoes of The Thunder:
How will the Shepards of the false messiah
attempt to quell the tenuous inquiries
of the slumbering masses of Babylon
once the last prophet of the psalms has begun
to speak, and the lions of Judea start
to rise as oppressive shrouds of summer heat
give way to the thunderheads now gathering
off the hazy horizon, the air as thick
as slow death in the calm that exists only
before storm-clouds begin to gather their gray
tenacity and display forebodings of
hot lightning and ranked pan-pipes of aggression?
Or after the pre-storm solemnity soon
starts to sizzle with a thick precipitous
anticipation, and you witness uneasy
citizens of the last empire beginning
to take shelter in the steadfast stones
of their cellars, their wringing hands and calloused
knees assuming familiar pleas before
the bleached idols of Roman salvation,
their minds fixated on when they can expel
sighs of genuine relief because, as their gods
promised, the dreaded armies of karmic
righteousness have passed over their houses
without calamity or incident?
Or after the weathermen appear – spinning
sightings of the first deadly droplets of rain
as nothing more than the inevitable shouts
and tattoos of the time when generation x
must requisitely shirk off vanilla
notions with fire-sermons and sullen screams
of “Dayadhvam: I have heard the key.”?
In the moments when the air is calm no
longer, and the youth are no longer
beguiled by the light of Aegir’s floor;
after the breezes of anticipation
begin to stir, and the great oracles
of refuse desperately douse the dancing
harbingers of clouds with the dead mountain
mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit,
it is then, that mentors of sovereignty
begin to exclaim to warriors unlost
of the glory of Taranis, Shango,
and Chaac: “Behold the lion unto his
pride: deliver the words of war unto
the hands of the rain-makers, and allow
at last the writers of speeches to
proclaim: “The storm is coming.”