room service

staring into the hell-house mirror

219 suddenly becomes a 187

another death by distortion

he can’t help but wonder

who allowed her eyes to enter

into the room

he dialed lust for murder

but the line went dead

as cold as the snow that speckled

the windshield like drops of love

frozen and fractured

during the long journey back

to the beginning…

he stared at it

wondering if it was as long as

the ones her friend whispered about…

back to the beginning-

blood trickles

down the side of his face

though he is surprised

that he has any left

the tears have sapped his veins

been on the rack for a long time

down deep where no one can see

brought up every now and then

and put on display-

today’s mannequin for madness

that reigns throughout the lonely castle

made from the plastic of

childhood toys molded and mangled

like memories that mold and mangle…

a staff made from cuervo gold

is the only thing that he can hold on to

his soul oozing through his fingers

like wax from a candle that can’t be

blown out

he stares at the gimmick in the mirror

and starts to cry…

back to the beginning-

issues of manhood and money

his face (from an old photo)

taped onto a counterfeit bill

small denomination

he knows that he’s worth more

but the bill-of-sale has faded

since 1619…

denomination

the caste of brethren

that he shares the room with

damned by paper-thin divinity

and devotees they pay love to…

funeral for a doll

so fragile it was

so fragile it is

a porcelain offering from

a man without false shine

alabama hardness that often hid wealth mined

from beneath the carnage he often

reached the bottom of, acting as if he had

discovered some new form of extinction

in a land he defended as if it was his alone…

but her smile always lit the exit tunnel

when he choose to suffer the surface of things:

he would rise from the bottom slowly

as if lifted on a scaffold of crud and circumstance.

she smiles and giggles, as she did back then

remembering the way he handled her firstborn

pulling it out of a greasy bag that was

as rippled as the wine it once held gently

the same way he would hold her

from time to time, his breath smelling like that church

on the corner- he said it was his church- where the

men and women preached funny when they came out…

he would preach funny sometimes too

but he didn’t preach at the funeral for her little baby

that broke after it fell off the kitchen table when

he slapped her sister, sending her flying underneath it

into one of the already rickety legs.

he said that he was sorry about what happened to her baby

he grinned and said he would try to buy her another one

she really didn’t believe that he bought that one

but his teeth shined just like her little baby did

so she just smiled back and giggled…

Big Pimpin’: No longer easy

“If the word has the potency to revive and make us free, it also has the power to blind, imprison, and destroy.”

Ralph Ellison  

In Ralph Ellison’s book Invisible Man the main character narrates the book as an unidentified black man who is invisible to society because he is seen as a stereotype and not as a living and breathing human being. The opening chapter of the book presents the main character as an exceptional student who was chosen as his high school’s valedictorian and was asked to give his graduation speech- which was based on a paper that he wrote about the struggles of the average black man- to the upper-class white people of the small southern town where he lived.

But before he was allowed to demonstrate the God-given ability and intellect that earned him the title of valedictorian he was forced to engage in a humiliating spectacle that featured him being blindfolded and made to fight nine of his classmates, all of whom were also black and who were also fighting blindfolded.

Mr. Ellison called the spectacle “The Battle Royal” and I believe that the powerful symbolism that he illustrated with that scenario can be easily applied to certain elements in the world of Hip Hop that have existed for some time now. When you reflect back on the MC battles and beefs that have taken place through the years and that have led to people being hurt and killed and consider that the tragedies stemmed from individuals being blinded by fame and fortune (as well as self-hatred), all the while providing a grotesque form of entertainment for many who were far removed from the realities of being black in America (i.e. white fans), I believe that one would be hard-pressed to argue with the analogy. Add to that the denigration and vicarious vixenization of black mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, wives, grandmothers, and lovers, through the use of lascivious lyrics and images in videos and you pretty much have the ingredients for a self-genocidal gumbo.

Which is why when I came across the article in The Wall Street Journal where superstar rapper Jay-Z expressed regrets about the lyrics of one of his biggest hits, Big Pimpin’, I took notice. Here is Jay-Z’s response to a question that he was asked during the interview regarding how it felt to see his lyrics written down on the pages of his book, Decoded:

Some [lyrics] become really profound when you see them in writing. Not “Big Pimpin.” That’s the exception. It was like, I can’t believe I said that. And kept saying it. What kind of animal would say this sort of thing? Reading it is really harsh.

Talk about profound. This very public, and apparently very painful, admission of egregious error is truly stunning, and it’s significance should not be lost in the trash heap of yesterday’s hot topics.

I’m not going to waste time speculating on just how genuinely disgusted Jay-Z is with the lyrics that he conceived that served to glorify what is probably the most vile and dehumanizing vocation there is this side of chattel slavery. Some have already cynically suggested that it’s easy to admit to mistakes when your estimated worth is $450 million and your wife is the beautiful Beyonce’, who is a superstar and icon in her own right.

But this goes far deeper than mistakes. This is about mentality. Rather than speculate on how for real Jay-Z’s regret is I choose to focus on the clout that he has amassed in the music industry and how he can use that clout to undo some of the damage that he and other rappers have done to the psyches and souls that they have affected with their words. As Mr. Ellison indicated, words can revive and make us free. Here’s hoping that Jay-Z doesn’t become invisible to the light that he has shined upon himself. 

Ntozake Shange: When the rainbow prevails

When I die, I will not be guilty of having left a generation of girls behind thinking that anyone can tend to their emotional health other than themselves.

Ntozake Shange

With Tyler Perry’s movie For Colored Girls opening today, I felt compelled to devote a post to the vision and influence of the woman whose literary work the movie is based on, Ntozake Shange. I believe that this is a day to celebrate and that the celebration should be about something far more significant than any success or failure that may be assigned to the movie.

In preparing for this post I came across an interview of Ms. Shange that was done several years ago. When asked why she decided to become a writer she said, “I couldn’t find anything that truly reflected what I thought was my reality and the reality of other women my age. Since I couldn’t find it, the only responsible recourse was to write some myself.”

The movie will be introducing Ms. Shange’s play for colored girls who considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf to a new generation, specifically a new generation of African-American females. Ms. Shange survived several suicide attempts to become one of the most accomplished and recognized writers of our time. Her story is not only one of survival, but also of triumph against destructive forces that besieged her from both within and without.

In another quote from the interview Ms. Shange shares that “…the imaginings of women of color are particularly sacred to me. Those are things we cannot afford to lose when we are being beaten down constantly.” Those words still resonate with raw relevance today, and regardless of any reactions or reviews that the movie may incite, I believe that it will serve a far greater purpose than for the pursuit of profit or praise…

voodoo

the echoes of men

crying out

screaming out

her name

can be heard in the tone

of her incantations

he watched her for a long time

before seeking the remedies of her science

before summoning her style of divination

so preliminary  so momentary

now there she was

chanting an erotic syllabus

of liberations

simple sighs between day-to-day breathing

her power comes from

the ways that she is worshipped

that which is desecrated and disposable

becomes astral

a priestess becomes a savior

her spell is synonymous with others

except for the eyes

they search

they sear

they solder souls together

she never senses the veil

that was placed upon her face

long before she appeared.

lost sketches

death was not so much final as it was finished

like a chalked profile slowly filled

with asphalt and aspirations

blackness as texture and tone

the mixture for pencils broken in desperation

upon the outlined emptiness

within the outstretched hands

(the grabbing and pulling back)…

we sometimes die like unfinished sketches.

I can see him sitting in the basement

in the darkness, for long periods of time

staring at the dusty, webbed, gray paper

(and the occasional unopenable window)

holding, caressing, the tinted skin

he had poured himself into

(brown like himself and just as fragile)

a prop for the art,

the partial depictions of the man

that he had run away from,

of the man he had become,

with each stroke that he didn’t make her

scream out his favorite portrait,

or simply appraise him as a man

within the walls of that gallery

(uneven alley of self-portraits bought and sold)

where each of their works were displayed

(it was her motions that often formed

the brush, if not her tongue)…

there is that portrait on the elder’s wall

confirming that he had compared sketches with the sun

and had exchanged notes with leaves that fell out of season

beauty both portrayed and betrayed, turned against,

within the walls of that gallery

(collections of reproduced conscience bought and sold)

where his profane works were the most celebrated…

we are sometimes forgotten like lost sketches.

Black Dating in a Hip Hop Society

It might be wise to attach a disclaimer to this post: The views expressed in this video are not necessarily the views of The Muse Minefield (namely me). And there is some explicit language.

I simply see the video as a creative look at the complexities of the black male/female relationship today, particularly as it pertains to the Hip Hop generation. But after all is said and done it’s one man’s (who refers to himself as GQnupe) perspective that, from what I can tell, has attracted some attention and has sparked spirited debate.

Sometimes debate is good. Here’s hoping that it leads to more meaningful dialogue than it does deepening division. Hey, we can always hope…right?

mandingo

if she truly believed that a woman’s

words can kill a man

why wasn’t she more careful?

like the alarm that promises July’s radiance

but only delivers the narrow eyes of the blinds

searching through a shackled greyness

her moans often sound an empty dawn.

someone said

that the true test of a man

is the woman he loves…

she weeps this proverb

into the pillow that she hugs

as they make love facing her favorite painting

of an African woman carrying her manchild

on her back as she stands in the middle of a village

laughing with another woman.

he often rests his head upon that same pillow

struggling before he’s able to sleep

as he tries to recreate the same old dream:

that her old lovers were conquered in the moaning…

When a death video goes viral

“For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.”

Proverbs 1:16

There are few things more precious than a Mom and Dad’s memories of their children, of guiding them through the laughter and the crying, the discoveries and the disappointments. Watching the twinkle of innocence in their little infant eyes develop into the sparkle of wonder and anticipation during the years of adolescence, to become the brilliant star of a promising adulthood.

When those memories are unconscionably violated by images that are impossible to erase it is nothing short of an abominable tragedy. 

When I came across the news story that the parents of Dayna Kempson-Schacht received a graphic video of her just moments after her fatal car accident, and that the video had been posted online, the first question that popped into my mind was: Why would anyone want to do that? How can someone be so callous and insensitive as to send grieving parents a fresh reminder of such a devastating loss?

It was suggested that the video was sent to the parents only to make them aware that the video existed. OK, I can see warning the parents that the video existed, but did they have to send them the actual video? I guess that one person’s good intention is another person’s grievous invasion, separated only by the thin line of common sense, or lack thereof.

But is it merely a lack of common sense, or something deeper and darker?

With this incident coming on the heels of the coverage of the Tyler Clementi story I’m certain that the conversation regarding the sometimes catastrophic combination of technology and temptation will intensify. The thing is that while technology presents its own set of temptations it is simply modernizing those temptations that have plagued mankind since the beginning of time.

But right now my thoughts and prayers are with Dayna’s parents. I can only imagine that the day that they received the video they woke up determined to get through another day, armed with only the loving and lasting memories of their daughter. I’m sure that it never occurred to them that they would be dragged down into someone else’s spiritual poverty.

I figure that someone has to be living a pretty miserable life to pull a stunt like that. But like my mother has always said: Misery loves company.

blow

the notes explode

coming from nowhere and everywhere

singular/plural

notes stone-written

on a dark primordial sheet

subsequent sheets notwithstanding

their authors the authors of death

sheets of ice

sheets of glass

let the historians argue about

texture and truth…

the trumpet never lies

when it whispers or sighs

that jazz is the woman

that is yet to be born.

she can be heard

at the occasional commemoration

the erection of a statue

centerpiece

of a dysfunctional fountain

of gray stone

of grey stone

the color of evolution

of ecstasy and aesthetics

smell the sound

smell the sound from the horn

beautiful

african funk flower

delicious

caribbean funk flower

precious

diasporan funk flower

midnight notes

the moon disappearing

an eclipse forced into

a pink envelope

sealed on third thought

the notes scramble the darkness…

the trumpet never lies

whether it moans or cries

that jazz is the woman

that is yet to be born.

she is the romance that

shines like brass

making eyes water and weep

blurring the reality

blurring the unreality

destroying all the scholarly discourse

invoking the intercourse

of an esoteric era

nubian notes

embraced only by the graced

who may or may not

give grace…

salvation

a screaming solo

that commands the chaos.

impromptu

you are so unrehearsed…

with you, dusk cannot be forced upon the morning

with meaningless whispers

the half-filled wine glass is no longer

my shallow pond

it’s rim is no longer

my circumference:

i stumble from the stage with each smile

like a child who has just become aware

of his existence

of his surroundings

this is where, and how, i bow:

afraid to look down for too long

or you may be gone…

Jealousy is cruel as the grave

Recently someone confided in me that her mother had spread a vicious rumor about her throughout their family. Tears welled up in her eyes as she recounted the instances where she had given emotional and financial support to her mom during the past couple of months, a time period that featured her mom spiraling deep into despair and depression, even though it appeared that she had so much to be thankful for.

To compound all of this, it became quite apparent during my conversation with this person that her mom was jealous of the beauty and strength that she possessed, that enabled her to overcome obstacles- both without and within- that her mom is presently unable to overcome.

This person’s pain was convoluted even more by the fact that other women in the family were all too willing to embrace the hurtful lie as truth because they themselves shared the bitterness of unfulfillment and broken dreams with the mother.

So here you have a woman, with a truly humble and loving spirit, that can no longer find comfort in either the emotional or collective womb that she was developed and nurtured in for so long.

I walked away from our conversation amazed at how we can be so fragile and destructive at the same time, like two sides of a primordial coin that God flips to test those that we love and those that love us.