li'l boy & Josephine

Scratchin’ and Survivin’ Part II (excerpt)

2009-05-31T19:32:00.004-04:00

….When I was growing up, Aunt Retha tried to keep me out of the pool halls. I guess hustlin’ was in my blood though. Daddy would come over to Retha’s every once in a while and give her money when he remembered. Sometimes we’d go places together.

The only places he really knew were the “shooting galleries”, Smiley’s and the pool room down by 18th and Vine. He wanted to be a good Daddy, so because it was usually the middle of the day, he took me to the poolroom instead of the bar. He never took me to the shooting gallery. The pool room is where he taught me how to hustle.

“Chalk up too much and a nigga’ll think you ain’t sure about your shot.”
“Remember Jo-Jo, jus’ ‘cus a motherfucker’s drunk, don’t mean he can’t still shoot.”
“Boy don’t be one of them nigga’s scared to scratch on the eight ball.”
“Scared money can’t make no money.”

That was my Daddy’s advice growing up. It wasn’t no Ward Cleaver shit, but it helped me through some serious situations over the years. If you understand the code of the pool hall and how to work that table, there really ain’t shit else in this world you need to know.

Daddy taught me that sometimes you gotta shoot hard, sometimes you gotta shoot soft and sometimes you gotta put some “English” on yo’ shit. Most importantly, he taught me that if you always scared of missing the shot, you ain’t got no chance to win.

Taking chances was how he got the name “Scratch”. Joe Willie would take the most dangerous shots any nigga ever attempted. He never worried about scratchin’, balls flyin’ off the table, jumpin’ over balls or nothin’. When he was clean, it was some beautiful shit to see. When he was strung out, his ass looked ridiculous.

One time he jumped the cue ball off the table and broke out this big time dope dealer old lady’s front teeth. He had to leave town over that shit for a minute. Eventually that nigga Tut squared shit with the motherfucker so he could come back home.

Tut put this little underground tournament together. He was trying to make a big name for himself. He had the best players comin’ in from all over the country. Frisco, Memphis, Milwaukee, Buffalo, you name it. It cost twenty-five large to get in. Then you could take all the side bets, after hours action and hustlin’ locals you could handle.

The big payoff was $100Gs. If Pop wins he’ll be off the hook for almost everything he owes Tut out of his half. If he loses he’s gotta turn all kinds of tricks for Tut until they’re square biz. That’ll take him the rest of his life.

I hear the old man’s got a good chance though. I haven’t seen him play since I moved to Detroit a few years ago. The grapevine says he’s been off that “Boy” for a minute now and his hands don’t shake no mo’.

They say he was so strung out a while back that he was snortin’ “T’s and B’s” and livin’ in the back of Smiley’s. Then he met some church goin’ lady a couple years ago who put him up in her attic ‘til he kicked “King Heroin” cold turkey. When he’s clean he can beat anybody on the planet. Everybody came to win this motherfucker though.

I’ve been around the country with this pool cue. I’ve whipped just about all of these cats ass before. A couple I’ve never seen. The rest can’t be no better than the best though and I’ve beaten the best. Make no mistake about it, I came here to win. If Scratch ends up being the nigga whose ass I had to whip to get that money then so be it….

All Souls

2009-05-31T19:15:00.001-04:00

I have no fear of joining the great gathering, that great gathering of all souls

To join the spirits of the quickened and felled, both those of the young and the old

For the reaper is a callous dealer and is no respecter of high station or place

Fame nor fortune buys his mercy and will not stave off his relentless chase

A King of peace can be viciously murdered; a small-town boy can be mercilessly lynched

A dose of medicine can be doubled and your fate shall be irreversibly cinched

An ill fate abides for the preachers of love, as well for the prophets of pain

Be assured that idolaters shall be randomly spared, while the innocents shall be needlessly slain

Should you doubt his random nature, observe the body of the poisoned priest

While the reaper spares the life of the child, bearing the prophesied mark of the beast

From out of the earth arise the tortured corpses, from the blood drenched killing fields

While obfuscators and confidence men continue to tantalize and cut their crooked deals

The dutiful nun in the cloister prays in vain and dies with her doubts unrequited

Yet outside of the order the whores scarlet lecheries keep lust’s fiery flames ignited

Your tears upon their graves are a puzzlement; fore your fate may prove to be far worse

The dead have made their final reckoning and they know that sweet death is no curse

For most their release from this realm is a comfort, the certitude of death brings them peace

Still some tortured souls who knew not virtue, still long for worldly gains and increase

While those who perished in service, live on through golden deeds and true love

Fore their illuminated souls have ascended the heights and fill evils void from above

Marcus and Joan (excerpt)

2009-05-31T18:56:00.003-04:00

....For almost 600 years, Joan of Arc's story has stood as a testament to the power of faith, hope, strength and courage. The historical accounts of her story are all well documented and most have been proven true. One thing that is still a mystery is whether her visions came from God or from her own desire to see her people live free. Regardless of her motivation, her willingness to sacrifice her life for the cause of liberty is undeniable.

Saint Jeanne d' Arc was a little girl who was not borne of wealth or nobility of title. In spite of her common origins, she possessed the courage to lead armies, the wisdom to convince Kings and the strength to resist an empire. In the most recent century, only one world figure even approaches the same level of ecclesiastical vision, humanistic optimism and inspired leadership as Jeanne d’Arc. That man is Marcus Mosiah Garvey.

Garvey launched the most ambitious and holistic program for liberation of an oppressed people that has ever been formulated in modern history. Words scarcely do justice to describe the boldness of his vision or his deep love for his people. Garvey's vision was built upon a forward thinking strategy of combining political organization, business formation, cultural unity and nation building in order to unify and liberate an oppressed people.

However despite of his accomplishments, Garvey is not regarded with the same universal renown as “the Maid of Orleans”. Jeanne d'Arc was eventually elevated to sainthood and is now worshipped by enemies and devotees alike. Conversely, Garvey’s legacy has been dragged through the mud by his enemies and has become the punch line to cruel jokes told by the very people he loved and sought to liberate....

Brotherhood of the Rock (excerpt)

2009-05-31T18:42:00.004-04:00

Basketball is the most beautiful sport known to man. Every nigga who can’t play is jealous of every one who can. And boy were they jealous of me. I’m tall, slim, fine, good looking, strong and fast. I can jump over your ass, dribble around you, shoot over you, dunk in your face and there ain’t shit you can do about it. Then after I win the game your woman wants to sleep with me.

It not just all that stuff though. I swear to God, there’s something magical when you are out there on the court. Basketball players are special and everybody else knows it. They just might not admit they know it.

Football players need a coach or a quarterback to call the plays. Besides any fat bastard can do what they do. Baseball teams rely on a pitcher and the manager to run the show - the slowest show on earth. But basketball, man basket ball is 3 or 4 or 5 guys totally in sync, dedicated to one cause, playing with one ultimate purpose. Basketball is fast, it’s powerful, it’s beautiful – truly the greatest show on earth.

When it’s really on and poppin’, the entire team plays with one mind. Every man on the court can score. Every man on the court can win the game. Ever man can be a hero. At the same time, when the ball is in your hands, it’s like you’re the only man in the world. You can lose the ball. You can miss the shot. You can lose the game – all by yourself. But that’s what you live for. That’s what makes it beautiful....

Balcony Scene

2009-05-31T18:39:00.002-04:00

How must it feel to stand on the stage????

To show so many love, yet fuel such rage

What must it be like to look in the crowd????

To hear the cheers, then jeers just as loud

How did you manage those long nights in jail????

Wife left alone to tend young babies’ wails

How were you able to muster the strength????

To take the great struggle to it’s ultimate length

Like Brother Malcolm before, your life soon to end

If you could see us now, would you do it all again????

Even though days earlier you gave God all your fears

Was it all worth the fatherless babies and widow’s tears????

Surrounded by friends you were their greatest hope

Yet hate held you focused clear in its scope

Legends and Legacies (excerpt)

2009-05-31T18:04:00.003-04:00

....In 1974, Maynard Holbrook Jackson would take office as the first Black mayor of a major southern city – Atlanta, Ga. Almost immediately, Maynard would initiate programs to expand the Black business sector by encouraging entrepreneurship and increasing participation in municipal business. Although many people challenged such “affirmative action” programs at the time, it has proven to be successful way to create economic opportunity.

Atlanta’s example of awarding municipal contracts to “minority” businesses has proven to be a successful re-allocation scheme. A few instances of corruption, bribery and other criminal activities marred some of the success stories of this era. However, these are universal characteristics of similar situations where large sums of public money are transacted. Without question, the overall scope and activity of the city of Atlanta and the state of Georgia’s economies have been positively affected by the transformation that took place under the Jackson administrations. Without his visionary efforts, Atlanta would not be regarded today as a “Black Mecca” or the “Empire City of the South.”

Another similarity to post apartheid South Africa and the emerging “New South” of the Jackson administrations, was the opportunity to cure an adversarial and untrusting relationship between Atlanta’s majority Black population and the city’s law enforcement community. Atlanta’s segregated neighborhoods were not exactly comparable to the “Townships” of South Africa’s urban areas. Yet a similarly acrimonious relationship between the legal system and Atlanta’s Black residents did exist.

The presence of police officer’s in neighborhoods such as Vine City, “Sweet Auburn” and Mechanicsville seldom incited feelings of good will and warm feelings. Maynard realized the need to assure and secure the integrity and fidelity of the police department and the legal system. He spearheaded the appointment of a Black police chief, public safety commissioner and judges. He created an environment of safe communities in which all citizens were assured of fair and equitable treatment. Jackson understood this was essential to creating an environment where talented people from all walks of life would be allowed to thrive.

After the fall of the South African system of Apartheid in 1994, the country faced similar obstacles and opportunities as Atlanta following the “Jim Crow” era. The iconic South African anti-Apartheid activist Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela was eventually released from prison and ultimately became President of the Republic of South Africa in 1994. Twenty years after the ascent to power of Jackson in Atlanta, Mandela would confront similar issues that blocked the people's pathway to empowerment.

Although the “Jim Crow” era of the American south had ended, this parallel system of inequity had managed to drag on for another thirty years in South Africa. This fact alone makes it obvious that although the situations are very similar they are also very different. Mandela, despite his international reputation and magnanimous renown, could not achieve the same degree of success in transforming South Africa and empowering the Black population as Jackson did in Atlanta....

Clocks and Mirrors (excerpt)

2009-05-29T17:02:00.000-04:00

....My Dad had a bearing and countenance about himself such that no teenager would dare address him as "Homeboy" or "Playa" or "Pimp" or "G" like some young people are accustomed to greet "mature" men with these days. However, it's not just an issue of respecting elders, what I seem to observe is that men of a certain age that used to take pride in the responsibility of teaching young men respect, wisdom and all the other various life lessons of being a man, now take pride in the fact that younger men see them as a peer, a buddy, or a "homey" and would be more apt to smoke a blunt with them or drink a beer with them or hook up with some young girls with them, rather than teach them the lessons of respecting young ladies, saying no to drugs and mentoring them through the frontiers of getting an education, planning a career or starting a family.

I must say that, I have never really felt like an "adult" despite the responsibilities of high pressured careers, business ownership, home ownership or even being in a position of mentoring younger people. I think this is partly an assertion of our youth obsessed culture. Yet it is also a larger symptom of my generation’s conscious aversion to the community, family and organizational responsibilities that used to guide men and women through the maturation process.

It used to be necessary for men to "put away childish things" because they had serious commitments and responsibilities to community, family or "the Struggle". It seems nowadays that people have been taught that their only responsibility is to self fulfillment, self gratification and self satisfaction. We (I) seem to be in a constant pursuit of pleasure and self gratification rather than any other higher pursuits....

Ritual

2009-05-29T16:57:00.001-04:00

Soul Mates....

Coming Closer

Like Two Ghosts Playing Chess....

Who Will Make the First Move This Time

Complex

Facts of Life: A Family Vignette (excerpt)

2009-05-29T16:50:00.003-04:00

....The father, who was sitting in his favorite chair, tilted his head up slowly from his Essence Magazine. He looked over the top of his reading glasses at them quizzically, yet he was also somewhat relieved. He was so proud that his bright young creations had come to him for answers.

Yet at the same time he was very concerned about sharing this new and powerful knowledge about sex with them and the affect it could have on their lives. He pressed his finger against his temple and rested his firm jaw upon his hand for a moment. He began to think some more about what he would say to them. After a few more moments of reflection, he decided it was now finally time to dispense his well considered and sage advice. “Son, pull down your pants and show your sister your thing” He said.

“Daddy!!!!” His delicate young flower of a daughter exclaimed “I’ve seen his little thing before. We used to take baths together when we were little. Remember???? My God!!!! I don’t want to see that thing.”

Her father slowly rose from his chair. He looked his baby girl straight in the eyes. He gave her a look that only a Daddy could give. She knew he meant business.

“That is the only one of those things you've ever seen, Right????” He asked with a gentle sternness. “Oh my God Daddy!!!! Yes, that’s the only one I’ve ever seen. What’s wrong with you today????” She shrieked.

“Well good then.” He said. “Because let me tell you right now, them things don’t do nothing but make you fat. They're a big pain in the ass. They try to make a sucker out of you every time. Every time you see one coming, you’re going to have to clean up after it. You hear me girl?!?!?!?!”

The young lady was now so perplexed and bewildered by what she just heard that she couldn’t speak a word. When her dear father asked her to raise her skirt and show her brother her’s she barely heard him, but she did as he asked without question like any good daughter would.

“Now boy” he admonished his son “You see that thing there???? That thing right there’ll take all your money. I mean every goddamned penny of it. It won’t leave you any time to play with your friends or play by yourself. Every time you think you’ve got it licked, it’ll just leave a bad taste in your mouth. It’ll always have you going to the doctor. It’ll even have the government taking money out of your paycheck. Do you hear me boy????”

His two lovely children affirmed that they indeed had both heard him loud and clear and would heed his every word. As soon as he finished, they quickly asked if they could go to their rooms now. As they ascended the staircase to their rooms, they kept their eyes fixed on their father the entire time....

The Wooing of Maryanne Pureheart (excerpt)

2009-05-29T16:03:00.002-04:00

....The two gentlemen arrived once again at the same time to present their fateful gifts. It appeared that Ian was empty handed, but he informed them that his gift was outside. The curious ménage all three, preceded alfresco where wrapped in a red ribbon was a shiny black Bentley Continental GT - a very phat whip indeed. Marryane was quite thrilled and almost overcome with joy. It was now Truth’s turn.

He would surely have to be up on his hustle to top Ian’s bold display of mad skills. Much to Ian’s surprise, Truth’s heart did not pump Kool Aid and he stood his ground unvexed. From behind his back he brought forth a white box bound by a much smaller red ribbon, which was of curious size compared to Ian‘s big package. Marryane pulled out her platinum Tiffany scissors, cut the ribbon and opened the simple box. She gazed upon the beautiful red roses and silently read Ian’s heartfelt card. She was genuinely moved to tears. She tucked the note into her Prada bag and wiped away both of their tears with her pastel Versace handkerchief.

She chose Truth.

Ian was outraged. “I am reproached fair lady and I dare say Good Sir I shall demand satisfaction.” Ian exclaimed. “I spent a whole lot of time and hard earned scrilla trying to woo you – What’s the business baby?!?!?!?!”....

Transit

2009-05-29T15:55:00.003-04:00

….Black, fat and ugly - Do she have to be eatin' them bright red hot sauce drippin' wings on the train too????
Please let yo’ li'l girl have one so she'll stop cryin’ – Pleeeeze
….Grease all over her mouth - Lookin' like ghetto lip gloss
Jus’ had to sit next to a White man too - makin' us all look bad….
Lord have mercy Jesus
Y'all try not to look at her - Please.....
….Look at her - Leanin’ all up in her seat like she want you to see her.
Jus’ a hot mess….

....cd's...dvd's...cd's....dvd's....

….I bet she one a them “College Girls"
Them ho’s ain't shit – Steppin’ all over my new shoes!!!!
What she doin' on the train anyway????
I bet that ain't her real hair
I can't stand them ho’s!!!!
They thank they all that
I'll be glad when she get off this train
She bett’not look at me again neither
Forgive me Lord
....I can't stand them ho’s!!!!

….oils....incense....oils...incense....

….Lord have mercy, I can't wait to tell my roommate about this hoochie here
Blue hair, pink nails and a red thong
I can't wait to get me a car and get away from these Black folks
Child they a mess
Ain't no tellin' how many babies she got
What's that smell????
Lord please let me off this train….

....socks....footies....socks....footies....

….Lord, Please don't let that Nigga sit next to me
Damn!!!! Why every day some dirty construction job Nigga gotta sit next to me????
Where all the men with the “good” jobs at????
No I don't look familiar, so please don't ask….
Lord, Please let me get to my stop before another Blue Collar Nigga try to talk to me

....got that green....got that hard....got that green....got that hard….

Po' child, his mama must didn't see him leave the house this mo’nin’
Lord why don't that child pull up his pants????? Draw's all showin'
Look at that - the girls got they tails all hangin' out too....Oooh child - a thong
….Don't they mama's teach 'em nothin' no mo'????
"Oh….Thank you baby - Mama sho' do need to sit down today"
I’ll keep prayin’ for 'em Jesus, they still yo’ chillun

….cd's.....dvd's....cd's...dvd's....

Am I Black Enough for Ya???? (excerpt)

2009-05-29T15:48:00.003-04:00

....In a March 7, interview in the lowly Torrance, CA newspaper The Daily Breeze, former Democratic Party vice presidential nominee Geraldine Ferraro made a statement that has set an ill wind to blowing. In reference to the candidacy of Democratic Presidential front-runner Barack Obama, Ms. Ferraro stated that, "If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position," she continued, “He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept." This statement about the possible first “Black” man to be nominated to challenge for the presidency, has blown the doors wide open to discuss the race factor in Obama’s run for the White House.

The Obama campaign itself has tried to down-play race as a factor in his run for the White House. Mr. Obama has not ascended to the heights of power the way other “Black leaders” have, which is to say he has not been a lifelong crusader for civil rights, voting rights or even squatters rights for that matter. Because Obama was not groomed and mentored into his position by the “old guard” civil rights movement power structure, many powerful Blacks are opposed to him becoming the first Black President. They claim that he is not Black enough.

Barack Obama was born of an African father (a Kenyan national) in America (the state of Hawaii) and he looks like any “Black” man you might meet. So that surely means he must be an African-American. Cased closed. Well not so fast. The question is whether he has a sufficient amount of “Blackness” to satisfy Black voters and powerful Black people who might endorse him. Ay, there's the rub. What then does it mean to be Black?....

BB Shot (excerpt)

2009-05-29T15:36:00.002-04:00

....Most young Black kids did not go down to the basement and start Punk bands in large numbers. The lure of the thrashing guitar was not as strong as the booming call of the drum for most of us. However, R&B and Disco didn’t provide much of a platform for expressing the ideals of resistance and rebellion that many of us felt within. The agenda in “Hardcore Nation” would continue to be set mostly by bands of young White kids and populated by their peers. However there was an active minority of Black Punks.

Like all of the American musical forms that Black people created, it just so happens that the band that is considered the best, most talented and most influential band of the American Hardcore Punk Rock Music scene that started in California by skateboarding kids, is a band that originated in the "Chocolate City" of Washington, D.C. This highly influential band featured an entirely Black lineup of accomplished musicians. The group was called Bad Brains.

The Bad Brains were formed in 1979, out of the remnants of a Jazz-fusion band named Mind Power. Their roots in Jazz provided them with skills that enabled them to explore territory that their peers {who typically were not skilled musicians} could not venture into. Despite the fact that they chose to play a style of music that was “alien” to their cultural roots, the Brains wore “dreadlocks” and were practicing Rastafarians. The band itself was all Punk though and regarded by their peers as the band you never wanted to follow behind in a concert lineup....

Billie, Ella and Nina

2009-05-29T15:25:00.002-04:00

When the silence breaks, make no mistake, you shall remember what you've heard within these walls

This divine choir is rare, so be thankful you were there and well worthy to be here in this hall

I know the hour draws nigh, but these great divas are worth the wait I assure

Perhaps they’re still convincing the Duke, to play piano when Ella sings Azure

The ladies are as excited to be seen as you are to see them, especially Miss Lady Day

I understand, if you have to leave I won’t stop you, but you’ll regret that you did not stay

I would still be here and would sit here all year, to hear sweet Ella sing just one song.

No sir I did not say there would be only one, listen carefully and please don’t quote me wrong

With my own eyes I have seen them all three, though Miss Simone hath just arrived of late

Will she sing Mississippi Goddamn???? Well I suppose she will, if she finds herself in that mood or that state

Just be patient, they have some catching up to do, you must admit they’ve all paid their dues

“....Yeah girl, they had this skinny broad playing you and called it “Lady Sings the Blues....”

Alas, I can hear them laughing, it should be just a minute before they appear right here on this stage

Sir I’m sure if they take requests she’ll do Strange Fruit, but be warned, it still may send some into a rage

Pres will blow Tenor, Chick will play drums and Nina may play some piano if she so feels

Does Billie still drink? That’s not your business I think, did you come for the spectacle or their skills?

At last the lights have been cued, the curtain will rise, we shall hear an angelic trio for the ages

We should count ourselves blest, to hear the three best, to ever grace this or any other stages

The Letter S (excerpt)

2009-05-29T15:17:00.003-04:00

....“Yeah girl, I’m goin’solo, no mo’….I’m gonna hold on to this nigga…Is he fine??? Girl please, and you know this…How long have we been talkin’????? Since last Monday, but shit I already know….His status???? I don’t know how much money he makes. He works in systems sales, so I guess he makes pretty good money…..HIV status???? Girl what the fuck is you talkin’ about, that nigga is clean from head to toe….Yeah I know you see all kinds of different people down at the clinic, but he ain’t like that….Ok, I will girl….Allright, I said I’ll ask him, Damn….I’ll talk to you tomorrow girl…. Shiiit, I ain’t gonna lie to you, I’ll probably jus’ call you Monday, 'cus tonight I know what it’s gonna be and tomorrow I gotta get up and go to Sunday School….Okay girl, I’ll talk to you later.”

Sheila and Stan, young love in full bloom. Hot quick sex at lunchtime in the office building stairwell, wet and wild high times on the living room sofa and late nights spent making sweet love under satin sheets. Then all of a sudden, there are phone calls unreturned, no noontime rendezvous, no late night soul sessions and no early morning moanin’. Young love can be so fleeting. And so it goes.

…..“Stan!!!! Stan!!!! Stan!!!!, I know you in there, answer the phone, it’s Sheila!!!! I can see your Suburban sittin’ outside. I bet you up there fuckin’ some new skeezer. My girl Shirley says she saw you at the STD clinic. She says you got that shit!!!!....Stan!!!! Stan!!!! Stan!!!!”….

The Murder of Tupac Shakur Considered as an Illegal Street Race (excerpt)

2009-05-28T20:26:00.003-04:00

....It may be irrelevant that the winner of the race is still in question. The fact that the great Tupac was felled is not in question and was witnessed by all. The void he left in the sport after his departure has yet to be filled by anyone. To this day, none of his rivals have come forward to acknowledge their triumph.

Some of his fans were inconsolably affected by the outcome. They have taken to imagining he is still racing.

The race results will continue to remain in question. As is usually the case, there were no officials present when the race was decided. When they were asked to get involved in the disputed issue, they did not make much of an effort. They were rumored to have been paid in secret beforehand, to stay clear of the streets where the race took place. Others speculate that although the officials secretly enjoy these races, they have little regard for the participants that the sport attracts....

Agenda

2009-05-28T20:22:00.002-04:00

Tell me what you are trying to build, not what needs to be torn down

Tell me what you believe in, not what you doubt

Tell me what you love, not who you hate

Tell me who is right, not what is wrong

Tell me about your plan, not about your plot

Tell me about your leadership, not the betrayals of the past

Tell me who you will follow now, not how far we've come

Tell me about your organizing, not the conspiracies of others

Tell me about unity and culture, not political science and urban studies

Tell me who I can believe in, not that I should vote just because

Tell me what you’ve learned, not what they were wrong about

Tell me about your triumphs, not just our tragedies

Tell me what you did right, not what they did wrong

Tell me about our bright magnificent future, not the dark gloomy past

Who Responsible???? (excerpt)

2009-05-28T20:06:00.006-04:00

....Black Americans are in the unique position of being the only people on the planet whose sole agenda is to help another race of people to rule the world. We do not seek any power for ourselves as a group, nor do we aid in the empowerment of our own people abroad. We have no homeland. We are entirely at the mercy of our other peoples plans.

Our complacency with and complicity in this situation leaves most of us unable to recognize this as a problem at all. We consider ourselves solely as “Americans” because some of us have realized the “American Dream.” We don’t feel any connection to Africa or any other Black people in the Diaspora. Most of us feel that those other people must have either organized improperly to secure their liberties or that their “Great Emancipators” must not be as warm hearted or industrious as our American benefactors.

I will not debate America’s influence toward restraining the growth and prosperity of other nations and consequently the creation of their oppressed classes here. However, I do think it is worth noting that this is not the first time a “minority” population within a prosperous, Western society find themselves in a similar position as “African-Americans” in the twenty first century.
Prior to the “Nazification” of Germany, Jews enjoyed economic prosperity and legal equality, similar to and in some cases superior to native Germans. They settled into a certain complacency, satisfied that they were indispensable to the German way of life....

Mojito Sunset (excerpt)

2009-05-27T18:53:00.004-04:00

....The women, coming from town or market or work, walk miles on cobblestone streets in high heeled shoes. They walk with their backs straight as boards, gliding on legs that glow like bronze pillars. Yet they never falter or fail.

Cuban women are hot and cool at the same time. They ooze sexuality, while simultaneously they command respect. They have a certain poise that makes them all the more beautiful. I was as captivated by their full switching hips and long batting eyelashes as much I was touched by how they bore their endless struggles and countless burdens with dignity.

The old women are just as beautiful. Yet they are possessed of a certain melancholy that is not found in the young. They teeter through the streets carrying heavy bags in their hands and the weight of yesteryears sacrifices on their backs. I watch an old lady stoop slowly to play with a baby in her path. The innocent child caresses her wrinkled skin as if tracing the history of their country in the lines of her face....

Escape

2009-05-27T18:48:00.003-04:00

I was so high I had to do something

So I outstretched my bare arms, jumped in the air and landed on top of Kilimanjaro

Then came back to Earth and made love to Aset, on a fragrant bed of Nag Champa and Collard Greens

I sat on the Ashanti Stool at a platinum table and ate barbequed pig feet and drank passion fruit Alize in the presence of my enemies

I tore off a piece of Dead Sea scroll, so I could roll me another biblical blunt.

Then I flew up to Heaven again, but did not enter.

I just put my ear to the sky and listened to God laugh for a while.

I then began to think about regular men who appear similar to me, who go to sleep at 11, wake at 7 and go to work from 9 to 5.

Le Feu dans le Ghetto (excerpt)

2009-05-27T17:47:00.005-04:00

....I witnessed these phenomena firsthand over a decade ago while living in Aubervilliers, a suburb of Paris. I was there trying to carve out a niche as a hip hop impresario, away from the competition on the other side of the pond. To be honest, I didn’t get the sense that Jacques Chirac….don't like Black people when I traversed the boulevards of Paris itself. However, when in the boondocks of Aubervilliers, Neuilly and other places I frequented, you definitely got the sense that there were tensions under the surface that might give a better explanation of why Meursault killed the Arab.

Upon entering a café early one morning to enjoy a smoke and a cup of Joe, I was asked politely by the barista behind the counter “Did you know this is an Arab café.” Don’t get it twisted, the Black man has made an impression all over the world. Conversely, one night while scenery set trippin' in the wrong 'hood, I was followed by some young Arab lads who were looking to stick me for my paper. It was then that I realized that I was in the ‘hood and not all of Paris was a postcard.

I was told by my roommates that this was a big problem all over the city. Many people had been stabbed by poor little Aladdin-like jobless youth in pursuit of their purses. Despite these warnings, I continued to encounter various French youth of the entire plebiscite, of all genotype and phenotype. As ominous as the situation with the youth and the ghettoes were depicted to me, when you can see the Eiffel Tower peaking over the high rise buildings, the situation doesn’t seem quite as menacing.

Most of the young men I met didn’t have a job and were on the dole. On the other hand, some owned skateboard shops and clothing stores. Many of my friends back home were involved in some kind of dodgy business involving slippy money also, so young niggas hustlin' just seemed normal to me. Besides, I could hardly tell much difference between the Gallic B-Boys I met and their coal Black African émigré posse-mates. It just didn’t seem like anybody was less well off because of their skin color. It just seemed like none of them cared that much about money.

As far as the music goes, I did not ultimately find the next Run DMC that I could market to Francophone Africa. Yet, I was exposed to the urgent cries of Supreme NTM, Assasin, I Am, MC Solaar and my favorite Timide et Sans Complexe. These French hip-hops rapped with the ferocity of NWA and the urgency of Public Enemy while still remaining essentially French.

I must admit though, that despite their earnest cries of desperation, at the time I thought they were merely mimicking what they’d heard coming from their cousins in Compton and Brooklyn. Although it was hard to tell, my new friends insisted that things in Gay Paris were not quite what they seemed. Even back then, they insisted that the streets of Paris were poised to run redder than red one day....

Kings of Crunk (excerpt)

2009-05-26T17:53:00.002-04:00

....When people hear the "Crunk"- they can feel it deep inside. They like to pretend they don't though, because they went to college. We know they feel it though, because "Crunk" is what’s deep inside the Black Man - at least the ones who love themselves and don't give a fuck what nobody else thinks about them. No matter how many acts, bills and laws are passed to protect our civil rights, down here we know a man isn’t really a man unless he has something he’s willing to get “Crunk” for....

The Ballad of Young Robert

2009-05-26T17:48:00.002-04:00

Young Robert was quite lazy and did much to avoid work

Many hung around him, yet most thought him a real jerk

Young Robert’s looks brought him some attention and fifteen minutes of fame

Young Robert had nothing else of substance, no other honor to claim

Young Robert would steal for profit, or pocket an item for sport

Young Robert would tell great lies and even perjure himself openly in court

Young Robert covers his emptiness with silk linings and patches his holes with purple labels

Self proclaimed "the Great One" hero of tall tales and magnificent fables

Young Robert values old friends like the immortals value life

Young Robert cheats in business like he cheats on his gullible wife

Young Robert’s big house is empty, with nice cars in the drive

Greed is what sustains him and gluttony keeps him alive

If you dine with young Robert, you’ll oft have to pick up the check

In business he’s no better, his work you must carefully inspect

Young Robert says there is no God in Heaven and surely not here on the Earth

His pockets are swollen with borrowed money but his life has no worth

Scratchin’ and Survivin’ Part I (excerpt)

2009-05-26T17:40:00.003-04:00

....Uncle Curtis kept asking him if he’d gotten "some" yet, long before he knew what "it" even looked like. When Mama’s boyfriends met him for the first time, they would always comment with a mix of surprise and disappointment that he was big enough to be working with the men down at the stockyards. He noticed they seemed a little scared of him too, even though they were grown men and he was only about thirteen. Mama used to repeat their words about going to work sometimes when she lost her patience with him, which always seemed to be after she lost her job or between paydays.

That first girl called him "Lover Man". He was only about fifteen, so he really liked that. It seemed like she wanted a Daddy more that a lover though. Her mother even treated him like he was her “Special Man” too. It seemed like she couldn’t wait ‘til they were all one big happy family. She really just wanted “A Man” in the house that she didn’t have to be bothered with, but who could pay all the bills.

The girl used to tell him that her Daddy had left them because he wasn’t much of “A Man”. When the girl got pregnant, she realized that Tut wasn’t ready to be much of “A Man” yet either. The baby came too early. Thank God she lost it....

Nation Time!!!! (excerpt)

2009-05-22T17:05:00.004-04:00

....Mental Note: My School Days – circa late Post Jim Crow Era, P.O. (Pre-Obama)

“…We refer to this sound as a Tarzan yell. Class, this concludes our discussion of African history….” The schoolmarm pronounced definitively.

Memoir: September 14, 2035 (continued)

I once saw a picture in a Life Magazine of little African boys going to school. They had on navy blue short pants, crisp white shirts and blue and orange rep ties. They looked so European that I could imagine their British accents jumping off of the page.

I was looking rather Euro-American myself in my Izod-Lacoste shirt and some Calvin Klein jeans. Yet I always remembered how much I was affected by the man wearing the blue Dashiki who brought the big drums to class for show and tell. I was so excited by the soul stirring sounds they made, that the teacher had to tell me to stop acting a like a fool and quit dancing. I felt something that at the time, I didn’t really understand. Something shall we say - Behind the Music.

As much as everybody tried to literally and figuratively beat the "Black" out of me, I always felt the call of that drum, even though there was no place for it in my world of advanced placement classes, debutante balls and Baptist church junior usher boards. So I made good grades, did what I was told, stayed in school and didn’t act a fool. I finally marched down the graduation aisle and that Summer I partied a while. Then I went to “the House“.

Here I would try to make my mark amongst the most progressive young minds our race had to offer to the world. “….Dear old Morehouse…Dear old Morehouse…”

“….Can you tell me how to get to the Liberation meeting my Brother?”…

“Naw man, but I can show you how to get to the career placement office.”…

“I am sad to announce that Jesse Jackson will not be speaking tonight because we could not pay his fee….On a brighter note there will be a CIA job fair after chapel services have ended, so please tuck in your Africa medallions… and don’t forget the Greeks are stepping tonight.”

The Greeks are coming?!?!?!?! The Greeks are coming?!?!?!?!

“I must have read the wrong brochure....”