loop dance

they walk to and from their escapes

oblivious to all other escapes

until they are apprehended by the

screech and smoke.

they contemplate the rush

then snap back into their deity

their lesser heavens at each end

of an assembly line of plaster molds

that bob up and down

rock back and forth

wobble side to side

some are empty except for

the hollow

(ants carry their crumbs with more dignity as the ecology embraces them).

all ceilings are gray now

some praise their Michelangelo

many have no time for art

their flesh hanging on the thorns

for the butcherbirds

though out of sight, still circling overhead.

black clouds

are at waist level and rising

becoming wisps of another world

as escapees chase the color of summer leaves.

When The People Have Had Enough

Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed – Martin Luther King, Jr.

Everyone knows that Dr. King not only talked the talk, but he also walked the walk. His dedication to championing the concepts of justice and equality was surpassed only by his courage, which he punctuated profoundly when he stated that “A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live.” Dr. King was clearly a man who was willing to die for what he believed in because he could not live with the way things were.

It appears that the wave of protest and revolt that is currently surging across the Middle East was triggered by the supremely sacrificial act of a man who was willing to die because he could not live with the way things are in his beloved country Tunisia. I don’t know exactly what 26-year-old Mohamed Bouazizi believed in, but I believe that it’s safe to say that he had had enough.

Mohamed Bouazizi had a university degree but was unemployed. To make a living he sold fruit and vegetables, basically trying to survive as an unlicensed street vendor. One day the authorities in the small city of Sidi Bouzid where Mohamed lived seized his produce cart, essentially taking away his livelihood, his means of survival. It’s been reported that Mohamed became so angry that he set himself on fire. He died a couple of weeks later.

But the impact of his act was instantaneous. The incident enraged witnesses and rioting quickly spread throughout the town. Reuters reported that “Riots are extremely rare for Tunisia, a north African country of about 10 million people which is one of the most prosperous and stable in the region.” I guess the obvious question would be “prosperous and stable” for whom? A relative of Mohamed was quoted as saying, “People are angry at the case of Mohamed and the deterioration of unemployment in the region.”

The majority of Americans have absolutely no knowledge of the social, economic and political dynamics at the root of what is currently taking place in the Middle East, but there are millions of Americans who do know a little something about unemployment in a country that is “prosperous and stable” for a select few.

As a recent commentary in The Nation pointed out, “While 22 million were searching for jobs in the US this week, Goldman Sachs tripled Chief Executive Lloyd Blankfein’s base salary and awarded him $12.6 million of stock, a 42 percent increase from ’09.”

Laura Flanders, who wrote the commentary, takes the position that it is the income inequality that exists in Egypt that has compelled people to take to the streets, pointing out that, “As in Tunisia, the protesters are driven by fury at poverty, lack of options and the looting of their state by the super-powerful.”

The income inequality that exists in America has been receiving major attention lately, especially during the recent tax cut spectacle. But what’s incredibly shocking and perverse in the comparison between the US and Egypt is that, as Ms. Flanders writes, “…the US actually has much greater inequality than Egypt—or Tunisia, or Yemen.”

That’s right, the income inequality in the most powerful nation in the world is worse than that of Egypt, Tunisia, or Yemen– countries located in a region of the world that at this very moment is being transformed by an unrelenting demand for the end of tyranny and the establishment of governments that are dedicated to the well-being of all citizens.

After hammering home the facts that the income disparity between the rich and the poor in this country is “anti-democratic” and that American democracy is “suffering,” Ms. Flanders concludes with the question, “What are we going to do about it?” For me the most significant question is: When will the people decide that they have had enough?

sermons

maybe the

inflections

are not

infinite/

the rising and falling of dubbed

messiah songs.

canals that open and close

like the gates to mythical domains/

rapture’s root stretched to the limit

laid out on nightclub floors

in spilled beer and blunt ashes.

the fire now. right now.

hymn-books made of sheets of

asbestos/

no binding hallelujahs.

just amen.

again and again…

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…

last night in the vestibule

i was hoping that it was the wind again

pretending to be an old senile actor trying to

carry a message

a warning

between forgotten lines

wanting to be born again

but giving up and dying

in the form of this man

whose features i had often given

to the night

whose voice i had often given

to the darkness

who was at my door…at my door.

he rang the bell as if all of his blood

had surged into the one hand, the one finger

like the one that pokes our chests or our foreheads

after each utterance of why

after each scream of why

like the one that belongs to grandmama, to granddaddy

or their grandchildren who don’t know any better

the finger that seems to always separate the blood

into explanation

blood that was about to be set free

flowing like declared independence

after alley-crack dialogue

filling lies where rock and sand have failed

no, the wind’s freedom is not the same.

maybe his blood was Ashanti…as mine became Dogon…

there were shadows standing along the drawn-up boundary

hearts beating like hands against a hollow log

he was a wanderer seeking refuge from the shadows

like an unplanted seed needing one last embrace from the sun

not caring to take root beneath infertile rhetoric.

he was a stranger

seeking refuge in a vestibule…in a village

Senufo…Bateke…no…yes…no…we were both african

but he could be conquered

his hand fumbling through the boot-legged images

that could bring death from the shadows

that could conceal death

but he could be conquered.

hearts beating like hands against a hollow log

a shared dialect heard above the babble

of fading shadows

…Ibibio…Yoruba…no…we were both african

i could feel it in the wind.

Make It Plain

 Note: This interview of Malcolm X took place in 1965 on CBC-TV’s (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) “Front Page Challenge” just a few weeks before his assassination.

he

who was

red

really ain’t dead

because his tone colors

what flows through

many veins

and arteries

sometimes clotting

because slogans

are slurred

during drunkenness

from dreams

or when

arteriosclerosis

becomes a

code name

for

agents

that infiltrate

the purification plants

and poison

the life-giving

sustenance

that is injected into

streams that are

red.

rosa verses/outkast

 

For Rosa Parks, who sued the rap group OutKast for defaming her name. Today is the 55th anniversary of her historic act of protest.

they should have

been able to sit themselves

in her space

they should have

been able to see the look

on her face

as she sat at the

threshold of birth

as she reversed the

spinning of the earth

but…no connection/no direction

trivializing

the struggle to fit

the rhyme

careless chants

do not echo from her time

she felt

the wetness on her face again

the spit and the spew and the

frost hurled from frozen lakes of blue

the complexities of their profane homage

deriving analogy from a historical stoppage

when a nation began to see itself through

the windows of mass transit…

something large, often empty and hungry for profit.

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…

Winter in America

It’s winter…winter in America…and ain’t nobody fighting, ’cause nobody knows what to save.

From the song “Winter in America” by Gil Scott Heron/Brian Jackson

Nowadays when I reminisce about being young and black in America back in the early 70’s I see it as a special time, a transitional period in different ways, on different levels. Personally I had successfully made the leap from grade school to high school and was reveling in my passage into the teenage years,  bolstered by the belief that manhood was just around the corner. 

But things were drastically changing in the world at large as well. Dr. King was assassinated in 1968, and I remember standing on the back porch on the second floor of the apartment building that we lived in and watching the sky turn reddish-orange and black from the flames and smoke during the riots that had broken out. Then a couple of months later I sat in front of our black and white television mesmerized by the news coverage of the assassination of Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

From what I was told these were good men that stood for what was right and wanted to help make this society, this world, a better place for all people. The fact that they were killed because of their benevolent beliefs was a signal to my young mind that this world was not as nice a place as I thought it was. I guess that it can be said that I had developed a higher level of consciousness about people and the society that I lived in.   

 

Then there was the music. The songs began to reflect the prevailing spirit of the times, questioning and outright challenging long-held notions and beliefs about America and it’s commitment to the principles of justice and equality.

One of my all-time favorite songs of this genre of music is Winter in America, by Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson. Released in 1974, the song still powerfully speaks to the pain and disillusionment that stems from decimated dreams and perverted promises and the spiritual toll of struggling against complex forces that suppress and oppress.

One can only hope and pray that there will always be those that will never stop believing in and working towards a changing of the season that leads to the realization of the highest of American ideals…

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…

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.

a garden segue

In the beginning there was…

i can’t imagine

asking the sea to accept me

as it’s kin

to reach out and embrace me

like the framed blackness

that lies before my

baptized eyes

as I peep through this

window of smoked pain

watching finales exchange

cold and ashy hands

that are wrinkled like

the breath that is vapor

like exhaust

from rattling machinations

or maybe even

emissions

from virgin serpents

…even eternity

had to start

somewhere.

two-handed schools (a lesson in Martin and Monk…)

 

the vibrating strings add melody

to words that vibrate the earth

the hands of a musician

the hands of a martyr

are clasped in an image

that goes beyond any piano

that goes beyond any pulpit

mere wood carved

and shaped and commanded

in immortal mold that maintains

the same breath, the same heartbeat

for both prayer and improvisation 

two hands can blur the black and white

that sits idle, that sits ignorant

absent the rhythm and the reason

the flow of blood and thought

that celebrates

life through composition

that celebrates

death through baptism

two hands are brought together in prayer

from right to left / from left to right

two hands caress and pound contrasting tones

(between heaven and hell there is harmony).

                                                             

The blessing of a functional toilet

I will never forget an exchange that I had with my mother many years ago regarding the toilet in our bathroom. It was an exchange that I now feel helped me to slice life into smaller pieces at a very young age and it still reverberates throughout the framework of the faith that I have today.

I can’t recall exactly what the situation was that led to the exchange, but I can still remember how stunned I was at what my mother said. I had made an innocuous comment regarding the fact that our toilet had never been stopped up to the point where my father had to rod it out, or worse, remove it to rod out the drainage pipe.

My mother meekly replied, “We’ve been blessed.” Now, you have to know my mother in order to fully appreciate what I’m trying to describe here (God I love her so much. I have truly been blessed). As she said those words she looked right into my eyes with a sweetness, a simplicity and sincerity that disguised the depth of the point that she was making.

Without this spoon-fed revelation my young mind would have never linked a blessing from God and a toilet together, understanding as I did what went into toilets and what was flushed down toilets.

Yet this was Mama who was telling me this. And I knew how serious she was about God and church, because she dragged me to church every Sunday against my will. But I still looked at her with what I’m sure she recognized as stupefied silence, a look that I’m also sure said, “Now, how you gonna sit there and tell me that God blessed us with a good toilet?”

She met my silent expression with a silent expression of her own, but her’s definitely wasn’t stupefied…