Quick thought:
We need to know what David Kay and the Right Honourable Lord Hutton know.

It's nuts.

Time for a reading renaissance. Here's the list of books I plan to get through one day:

Ella Baker and the Black Freedom Movement: A Radical Democratic Vision
by Barbara Ransby
Because the modern American civil rights movement is often reduced to MLK, Jr.'s "I Have a Dream Speech," people like Ella Baker don't get the recognition and credit they deserve. I'm glad this book exists.

Dude, Where’s My Country?
by Michael Moore
Though I'm disturbed by his endorsement of Wesley Clark, the book remains on my list. (I have no problem with his choosing to endorse per se, I just prefer him working from a critical distance.)

The Price of Loyalty: George W. Bush, the White House and the Education of Paul O'Neill
by Ron Suskind
It's astonishing how much of a pass the Bush administration gets. Astonishing.

One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel Garcia Márquez
I've read it twice. Started reading it again while on vacation in Florida. Dope book.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold
by Gabriel Garcia Márquez
More Márquez. More dopeness.

EVERY SHUT EYE AIN'T ASLEEP: An Anthology of Poetry by. African-Americans Since 1945
edited by Michael S. Harper and Anthony Walton Little, Brown
I really dig this anthology. I flip through it at night and meet some wonderful poets. We have a broad and deep tradition. It's a joy to experience and contribute to it with my own works.

John Henry Days
by Colson Whitehead
Whitehead's so dope he had me fascinated with a Black woman who inspected elevators (The Intuitionist). I can't wait to see what he does with my man John Henry.

Nor can I wait to sit my butt down and write, write, write. Like now.

Peace.

If you haven't seen Howard Dean kirk out after his third place finish in the Iowa caucuses-- or haven't seen it enough-- check out the video. There's also a funny piece about it on NPR's All Things Considered.

Turns out we have a real race for the nomination, what with John Kerry and John Edwards whuppin' that (Dean) ass!

I don't completely understand the Iowa caucus process, or agree with that which I do understand, but I do take heart in the passionate exercise of the franchise.

Being a resident of the District of Columbia, though, I have to rep our own claim to "first in the nation" status for the primary we held. Big ups to my peoples at DC Vote and to the DC councilmembers who made this happen.

Speaking of makin' it happen, big ups to Amy Goodman and the Democracy Now! crew for holding down the progressive space on the public airwaves. Today's session about the State of the Union speech was cool, although Arundhati Roy's phone call from India was hard to decipher. But don't fret, it doesn't take a celebrity breaker-downer to get you up; today's lesser-known guests will make you nod, too. (Or, at least, they made me nod).

Alright, gotta go.

tonight i took some time and worked on my "pushing through" project. my man and brother-in-law, djeurok, helped me work out the soundscape for the poems. i'll keep you posted.

it's the dawn of a new era, a few weeks into 2004, and things are looking pretty good. so what if the raiders went 4-12? the stanford cardinal are doing their thing. everything is everything.

all right for now. tomorrow my wife goes in for dental surgery. no worries, except for waking up in time. we already mapped out and practiced the route!

what? no new entries in the past four months? you gotta be kidding me! what kind of blog is this? is anybody working here?

ok, ok. i can't point the finger at anybody else. my apologies to my faithful readers. actually, that's "reader". sorry, jomo.

as for the updates-- after I leave work...

I've tried to write this poem three times

the first poem came knocking at 7am
after a night of shared solitudes left me
speechless completely confused I was
in no mood to write, so I left the page
blank called in sick and slept

the second poem fell among russet leaves
blushingly camouflaged in warm words that
said nothing but insulated against
the cold vulnerability of truth a poem
suited to the season, but not you

the third time I tried to write this
poem I got scared that you would call me
a fool that I was mistaking coincidence for
significance I doubted my Self, and burned that
crumpled poem to ash

so I still have no poem to give you
unless you read my heart

a banner week:
I was selected for inclusion in the DC Poets Against the War Anthology and received a rejection letter from the African American Review.

Progress...

first, i have to say, "what the hell's going on around here?"

no updates in a long while. the words hide too well sometimes for my pen to ferret them out.

anyway, i'm back in ee eff eff ee cee tee. to wit, and apropos thereof, an update:

that worldwide protest joint in my last post has some things to correct. first, the epigram's from a reference to matthew 18:7 that pres. lincoln made in his second inaugural speech. second, there are some mistakes an tipoes (sic)-- i must have been a little loopy when i transcribed the piece. third, i just found another version of the piece in my "poet's notebook". here it is:

worldwide protests
"Woe unto the world because of offenses;
for it must needs be that offenses come,
but woe to that man by whom
the offense cometh." (Matthew 18:7)

hmm... i can't find the latest version. time to dig through and organize the piles.

(note: this post will be continued as soon as possible, or sooner, if possible)

worldwide protests
"Woe unto the world because of offenses;
for it must needs be that offenses come,
but woe to that man by whom
the offense cometh." (Pres. Abe Lincoln)


and the bombs fell anyway
on everyone everywhere

caught in the crosshairs
of righteousness, suffering

aggression's pall; in the ruins
of peace prevented, diplomacy

left us to absorb
the callousness evil

perpetrated in the name
of freedom. everyone everywhere

watched in shock and awe as
impervious arrogance of power

made truth lie and
brought offences piously

Last Saturday, I sent an application packet to the good folks at the Cave Canem (CAH-vay CAH-num) Summer Workshop/Retreat. I hope they will let me come and play this June.

I first learned of Cave Canem through Black Issues Book Review three years ago. After much procrastination, I finally got some pieces together, and with the help of the woman I love/who loves me, put together a cover letter that will hopefully convince them I'm worth a spot in next Summer's cohort.

In the meantime, I have a book project to kick into gear. It's about time for the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities to send me a check. Time to really lay out the structure and selection of poems for this first chapbook. I want to come out of the gates full speed. I've been working toward this for years. I can't believe it's finally happening, and I want to make the most of the opportunity. With hard work and help, I'm sure it'll come off well.

The main thing is that it's a step in the right direction. One small step, but a step, nonetheless. Happiness...

"self-destructive" (haiku)
some days i forget
grace, walking instead in pain's
fog; self-destructive.

Time for some John Denver?

So here are some suggestions for the "Mention a Ditty" project, courtesy of my man Thanh:
1. Donny Hathaway "Someday We Will All Be Free"

2. John Newton "Amazing Grace"

3. Duke Ellington "Come Sunday" (There was a great cover of this from one of the post-Sept. 11 special at St Patrick's cathedral. The singer just moved me)

4. Tupac "Keep Your Head Up"

Thanks, Thanh!

I've been trying not to read the paper, listen to the news, or swallow the propaganda; but I have to admit, it's getting to me. The harder I try to tune it out, the more grip it has on me.

I need a healthier response to the madness. (Reading at the "Poets Against the War" event was cool, but we're still at Code Orange).

So I'm launching "Project M.A.D." (Mention A Ditty). Sounds crazy, right?

Like I said, I can't tune out the madness, so I'm trying to be conscious of how I tune in: to something life-affirming/justice-centered/soul-shakin. I'm serious, y'all. Don't make me bust out the "Keep hope alive!" Jesse Jackson archives.

I could use your help. If you are so inclined, please share links to uplifting music and/or inspiring lyrics. No limitations whatsoever with respect to genre, language, file format, etc. Just click the "send props or gripes" link at the top of the page and I'll post your suggestion(s) as soon as possible, without editorializing. If you dig a suggestion, cool; if you don't, make a suggestion. Fair enough?

To start things off, I gotta give props to DJ Eurok-- Self Realization and John Lennon-- Imagine.

Peace.

"untitled" as yet (still)

American Black buck shuffle jive
beamed worldwide 24/7 live
devoid of contextual clues, like
cargo moans to spiritual blues, and
jazz improv to freestyle dues

ghettoizing hip hop's conscious muse

not surprising since cash rules;
Bigger-ish nigroes use masters' tools
paradin through plantations draped in jewels
provin fame's just a cage for fools
who think "we real cool"

Sometimes I start sketching out poems in my Palm Pilot. Here's one that's still sitting in the "Memo" list, waiting for a gentle nudge toward completion.

"untitled" as yet

American Black buck shuffle jive
beamed worldwide 24/7 live
devoid of contextual clues, like
cargo moans to spiritual blues, and
jazz improv to freestyle dues

ghettoizing hip hop's conscious muse

not surprising since cash rules;
Bigger-ish nigroes use masters' tools
paradin through plantations draped in jewels
provin fame's just a cage for fools

I'll take a small break from the poetry musings to lament the Raiders' loss in Super Bowl XXXVII. Downright embarrassing.

Oh, well, we still have 3 rings to polish. The fourth is yet to come.

I have to give props to Michael Pittman. I remember him from over 20 years ago tagging around behind his older brother and sister, two of my childhood friends. Glad to see Michael have such a great game in our hometown. Much love to all the Pittmans.

More props, this time to coach John "Chucky" Gruden, who stuck it to his old team somethin' terrible.

Last but certainly not least, props to the TB defense: devastating and tenacious. I mean devastating. They picked off the league MVP 5 times and held Charlie Garner to 10 yards rushing (this, for a guy who had over 900 yards rushing and 900 yards receiving this season?). If I wasn't a Raiders fan, I'd really have to like that D. As it stands, they messed up what would've been a great night. Can't wait to see how much isht Warren Sapp/QB Killa's gonna talk now.

getting closer to what the poem wants to say.

"early encounters" (v.2)
Sensei circled the dojo as we
sat cross-legged in perfect rows

imagining a single point of light
in an empty night sky

"You are the light."
...breathe in... breathe out...

and the choir sang,
"Let it shine!"

soul-clapping "Hallelulah!"
till the church rocked

with praise, stilling
my stirred spirit

I started this about an hour ago. I didn't know I was going to write a poem tonight/this morning. Check the technique: I was just letting go after a long day and it morphed into a memory of early encounters with the Spirit. That sounds like a good title: "early encounters". I don't like the last three lines yet (corny as hell). Time to sleep on it and grapple with this a little more once I'm rested. Okay, enough exposition-- read below to see how a poem was born...


I want to write a heart-wrenching love poem about today, tonight, every day, and every night. But it's a little hard. (The loving is harder than the writing). Easier, too!

So much to learn and so little time. I breathe in hope; exhale despair. Close my eyes and look deeply enough to feel my way back to the rec room where Sensei circled as we sat cross-legged in perfect rows. "Close your eyes. Focus. Imagine a single point of light in a vast field of darkness. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. You are the light. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out."

Sensei circled the dojo as we sat
cross-legged and straight-backed in
perfect rows on the linoleum floor.

"Close your eyes.
Imagine a single point of light
in an empty night sky.

You are the light."

and the choir sang,
"Let it shiiiine!"
standing stomping shouting

"Halleluuulah!
Halleluuulah!"
till the church rocked with praise

stilling my stirred spirit

to meet each moment
with grace and compassion
"...breathe in... breathe out..."

So here we are: Brooklyn, NY (in a section some savvy real estate agents have dubbed "Bococa")-- brunch at Harvest; afternoon naps; conversation; and a night still unfolding. Happily, lazily enjoying the day...

It feels good to walk the streets of this neighborhood, with its funky little shops and hipster spots. The highlight of the post-brunch walk was standing in a corner deli that hangs cheese and sausage from the ceiling. (We bought some spicy Soppresato).

I feel wonderfully un-responsible, un-rushed and un-scheduled. The moment is all. The moment is enough.

So last night I bailed out on a writer's workshop that a friend invited me to. Turns out he couldn't make it, I didn't know anyone other participants, and I couldn't get the host on the phone to confirm the details. What does this all mean? Not much, just a minor setback on the path to better craftsmanship.

The evening wasn't wasted, though. Have you seen "Like Water for Chocolate" (or read the book)? Dope!