recently written and/or revised:
oasis of bones
she cried more often
than not, grief-salt staining
the embroidered geometry
of her mother's last chador,
now wrapped as a shroud
around her crumbled frame
and planted with the others
in the oasis of bones
crusade
sky, shrapneled, bleeding
metallic rain of aimless
death, sewing flesh-soaked
battlefields, reaped by
rebels yet unborn
mount pleasant/sidewalk sleepers
campo of my dreams
hills loroco green
blown to smithereens
nights echo with screams
12.24.2002
12.05.2002
homecoming
by 1976 my family had crossed the country twice thanks to the U.S. Navy I grew up two thousand miles away from my birthplace in my siblings’ birthplace, San Diego. I was three when we moved into the house on Patriot Street, a gentle slope of stucco tract homes nestled on the edge of a canyon filled with military families many drawn like mine from the rural, Black South who traded years, freedom, and certainty for a ticket to the world brought back piecemeal to the house: silk pillows, wicker chairs, shot glasses, knick-knacks evidence and explanation for months of separation and static-y ship-to-shore calls that made homecoming such a joy
(c) 2002
by 1976 my family had crossed the country twice thanks to the U.S. Navy I grew up two thousand miles away from my birthplace in my siblings’ birthplace, San Diego. I was three when we moved into the house on Patriot Street, a gentle slope of stucco tract homes nestled on the edge of a canyon filled with military families many drawn like mine from the rural, Black South who traded years, freedom, and certainty for a ticket to the world brought back piecemeal to the house: silk pillows, wicker chairs, shot glasses, knick-knacks evidence and explanation for months of separation and static-y ship-to-shore calls that made homecoming such a joy
(c) 2002
11.13.2002
I have only one thing to contribute today, and that's a link to James Baldwin's "My Dungeon Shook", from his seminal book, The Fire Next Time.
Go there. Read it. Take it to heart.
Jomo
Go there. Read it. Take it to heart.
Jomo
11.12.2002
Last weekend I took a trip to San Diego to introduce my girlfriend to my family. Check back for the highlights this Friday.
For now, please enjoy the article linked below from AlterNet
"Bush Lies, Media Swallows"
For now, please enjoy the article linked below from AlterNet
"Bush Lies, Media Swallows"
10.31.2002
links
Legendary DJ shot at recording studio
Site with fan tributes
MTV News
"Thirty-seven Years Young"
I have lived long enough to know that death comes when it comes, that there may not be an answer or reason or even consolation. Death is a void we must all face. I pray his survivors find comfort in a time of shock and devastating loss.
It's early in the morning and I don't really know how to talk about this. Should I talk about being in a little hotel in a little town in Louisiana? It was 1987, and my mother's family was amassing for our first real family reunion. A few of my cousins were staying at the Clifford Motel in "downtown" Angie, Louisiana. Among other things (lying about girls, mostly...), we bobbed our heads to the sounds pumping out of the boombox. LL Cool J was talkin' 'bout "Candy" and how "bad" he was. But he wasn't as bad as Run DMC. They almost single-handedly pulled hip-hop from the block parties to the top 10. And who was that on the 1's and 2's? Jam Master Jay. Adidas'ed down, fat chain swingin', Jay put the needle on the record for the Kings of Rock.
He always looked like he was having so much fun back there, hypin the crowd; a one-man band. I can close my eyes and still see his head bobbing to the beat, his smile channeling joy from a bygone era. Jam Master Jay was lucky, perhaps, to be in the right place at the right time, to be a part of hip hop's ascendancy. And some of us were lucky enough to be there with him.
"continuing"
for my hope, i thank the many
the marchers, boycotters,
rabble-rousers, litigators
and saints.
i thank the ones who sacrificed
safety, jobs, fear and life
to bring freedom songs, freedom
rides and freedom ring;
sacred acts of love
into the world.
i thank the unknown
and unknowable martyrs
whose memorial is our continuing
struggle, courage
and hope
that each tear, each drop
of blood, each life lost
on the journey to
build a beloved community
will be redeemed;
and our humanity
affirmed; and the sacred
rendered commonplace
(c) 2002
for my hope, i thank the many
the marchers, boycotters,
rabble-rousers, litigators
and saints.
i thank the ones who sacrificed
safety, jobs, fear and life
to bring freedom songs, freedom
rides and freedom ring;
sacred acts of love
into the world.
i thank the unknown
and unknowable martyrs
whose memorial is our continuing
struggle, courage
and hope
that each tear, each drop
of blood, each life lost
on the journey to
build a beloved community
will be redeemed;
and our humanity
affirmed; and the sacred
rendered commonplace
(c) 2002
10.11.2002
Looking back on that last post, I realize I fell into the "clash of civilizations" mode for a second. Right now (it's late right now), I'm more in the "some people are just nuts with the conclusions they draw from simple propositions" camp. That assessment cuts across cultures, across history, nationality, etc. Not quite a unified theory of "why" but it's helping me think past what I pick up from the Washington Post & the NY Times.
Anyway, what I really sat down to share this lovely morning is a piece I did as an exercise for a writing workshop I'm in. The exercise involved selecting an object, and then writing about the object in "objective" and "subjective" perspectives. Here's my subjective look at the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle:
There's only one day each week I dare to venture outside in my robe and flip-flops-- Sunday. Sunday morning, to be exact: crossword time!
Many of the people I know-- college friends, colleagues, news junkies, art aesthetes, travel-happy continent-jumpers, investment bankers, and coffee shop pundits alike-- all find a section of themself in the Times. But none of their sections is quite like mine; none quite achieves the delicate balance between the written word and empty space, like mine.
The coquettishness of its flirty clues excites my imagination and challenges me to give it what it wants: the answer it requires to be complete. There is only one answer. I must complete the grid, cross-checking clues against a world of knowledge soaked up year after year... I am a fact-sponge; a media baby; a Navy brat, a nerd-cool hybrid; a descendant of slaves with a Stanford degree; an un-televised Jeopardy champion; jack-of-all-trades and master of one: the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
Can I love it, knowing it was created to vex me? I do! I confess, I do! I do love its symmetry, its blend of certainty and mystery. The more I hover over the Crossword, the more I understand it as a metaphor, as talisman, as amulet and symbol for life: rooted in culture(s), textured by experience, unforgiving and rewarding, with a built-in, predictable (and sometimes perfunctory) ending. It's all there in the grid.
There, each Sunday...waiting on the stoop... sheathed in diaphanous blue plastic, folded safely between other peoples' sections... my New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
Anyway, what I really sat down to share this lovely morning is a piece I did as an exercise for a writing workshop I'm in. The exercise involved selecting an object, and then writing about the object in "objective" and "subjective" perspectives. Here's my subjective look at the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle:
There's only one day each week I dare to venture outside in my robe and flip-flops-- Sunday. Sunday morning, to be exact: crossword time!
Many of the people I know-- college friends, colleagues, news junkies, art aesthetes, travel-happy continent-jumpers, investment bankers, and coffee shop pundits alike-- all find a section of themself in the Times. But none of their sections is quite like mine; none quite achieves the delicate balance between the written word and empty space, like mine.
The coquettishness of its flirty clues excites my imagination and challenges me to give it what it wants: the answer it requires to be complete. There is only one answer. I must complete the grid, cross-checking clues against a world of knowledge soaked up year after year... I am a fact-sponge; a media baby; a Navy brat, a nerd-cool hybrid; a descendant of slaves with a Stanford degree; an un-televised Jeopardy champion; jack-of-all-trades and master of one: the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
Can I love it, knowing it was created to vex me? I do! I confess, I do! I do love its symmetry, its blend of certainty and mystery. The more I hover over the Crossword, the more I understand it as a metaphor, as talisman, as amulet and symbol for life: rooted in culture(s), textured by experience, unforgiving and rewarding, with a built-in, predictable (and sometimes perfunctory) ending. It's all there in the grid.
There, each Sunday...waiting on the stoop... sheathed in diaphanous blue plastic, folded safely between other peoples' sections... my New York Times Crossword Puzzle.
9.10.2002
Tomorrow is the first anniversary of the September 11th attacks. It's a "national day of rememberance."
If that's the case, let me remember where I was about a year ago...
I was sitting in my apartment, getting ready to turn in early so that I could take a nice morning walk with the woman I love.
I was naive, or at least less imaginative, about the resolve of those who abhor Western civilization-- or, at least, Western imperialism.
I was me. The same, 'cept different.
I've been reading editorials, watching tributes to the victims and investigations of the hijackers on PBS. The swirl is a bit much, somehow making more (info) less (comforting). There are no easy answers, although the clamor for war-- against terrorists, against Iraq-- grows louder by the day. It is truly troubling to realize that the current administration is doing now what it did in the aftermath of the presidential elections: mounting a clever marketing campaign. I feel like much of the American public, deep down, doesn't have a clue or a rationale as to why Iraqi women and children and men and combatants and non-combatants should be bombed. For what? To make us safe? From who? If we were a little Boy Scout troop sitting around a campfire this would be an interesting diversion before hitting the sack: "There was once this evil monster named Saddam..." But this is a nation making a monster of a man (who has done monstrous things) in order to send American troops to kill and die. For what? For who? We cannot bring back the people who died in the September 11th attacks. We can only, in our anger and grief, lash out with our own weapons of mass destruction-- for that is what they are, despite our talk of "smart" and "laser guided" and "unmanned" materiel. They are intended to inflict mass destruction. To pulverize and eliminate life. And, by some rationale I do not understand, to bring peace and security. (?).
Bob Marley said that if we don't fight war the Rasta way, there will just be another war. I wish more people thought that way. Not "Rasta", but peace-like. Fighting back just keeps the fighting going. I don't know. There's got to be another way.
If that's the case, let me remember where I was about a year ago...
I was sitting in my apartment, getting ready to turn in early so that I could take a nice morning walk with the woman I love.
I was naive, or at least less imaginative, about the resolve of those who abhor Western civilization-- or, at least, Western imperialism.
I was me. The same, 'cept different.
I've been reading editorials, watching tributes to the victims and investigations of the hijackers on PBS. The swirl is a bit much, somehow making more (info) less (comforting). There are no easy answers, although the clamor for war-- against terrorists, against Iraq-- grows louder by the day. It is truly troubling to realize that the current administration is doing now what it did in the aftermath of the presidential elections: mounting a clever marketing campaign. I feel like much of the American public, deep down, doesn't have a clue or a rationale as to why Iraqi women and children and men and combatants and non-combatants should be bombed. For what? To make us safe? From who? If we were a little Boy Scout troop sitting around a campfire this would be an interesting diversion before hitting the sack: "There was once this evil monster named Saddam..." But this is a nation making a monster of a man (who has done monstrous things) in order to send American troops to kill and die. For what? For who? We cannot bring back the people who died in the September 11th attacks. We can only, in our anger and grief, lash out with our own weapons of mass destruction-- for that is what they are, despite our talk of "smart" and "laser guided" and "unmanned" materiel. They are intended to inflict mass destruction. To pulverize and eliminate life. And, by some rationale I do not understand, to bring peace and security. (?).
Bob Marley said that if we don't fight war the Rasta way, there will just be another war. I wish more people thought that way. Not "Rasta", but peace-like. Fighting back just keeps the fighting going. I don't know. There's got to be another way.
7.19.2002
6.25.2002
"Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin..."
The past couple of weeks have been pretty incredible. Topping it off of course is the American President's delayed speech about "the vision thing"-- his proposal for Mideast peace.
"Much ado about nothing," if you ask me. Nobody did, but I thought I'd go ahead and say something on the topic before heading home for a restful evening.
Escapist entertainment is fast becoming a necessary sedative these days. The news out of Washington can keep you up all night with a migraine.
Was it ever any different? Were the old days really better than this? OR is the best yet to come, yet to be borne of our best imagination?
"rfp"
ATTENTION ALL ARTISTS!!
the future needs your dreams
imagination incantation and diligent
suffering labor to resurrect and nourish
our creative instinct
while we dream what is
help us imagine what is possible
let us be your canvas
The past couple of weeks have been pretty incredible. Topping it off of course is the American President's delayed speech about "the vision thing"-- his proposal for Mideast peace.
"Much ado about nothing," if you ask me. Nobody did, but I thought I'd go ahead and say something on the topic before heading home for a restful evening.
Escapist entertainment is fast becoming a necessary sedative these days. The news out of Washington can keep you up all night with a migraine.
Was it ever any different? Were the old days really better than this? OR is the best yet to come, yet to be borne of our best imagination?
"rfp"
ATTENTION ALL ARTISTS!!
the future needs your dreams
imagination incantation and diligent
suffering labor to resurrect and nourish
our creative instinct
while we dream what is
help us imagine what is possible
let us be your canvas
6.13.2002
Now, I'm not so cynical as to think the current administration would generate hysteria and fear to create political cover for its security lapses and dictatorial agenda, but there are those who think otherwise:
Britain's Guardian agreed, declaring, "By their words and actions, George Bush and senior US administration officials may be doing more to terrify American citizens than the al-Qaida terrorists they have vowed to destroy." The editorial concluded, "Too much of what Mr Bush and his officials say … looks politically-driven, partly by a belatedly rising tide of domestic criticism, partly by a rightwing agenda. Too much of what they do lacks perspective. When fear usurps reason and becomes the ruling principle of governance, terrorism wins."
Britain's Guardian agreed, declaring, "By their words and actions, George Bush and senior US administration officials may be doing more to terrify American citizens than the al-Qaida terrorists they have vowed to destroy." The editorial concluded, "Too much of what Mr Bush and his officials say … looks politically-driven, partly by a belatedly rising tide of domestic criticism, partly by a rightwing agenda. Too much of what they do lacks perspective. When fear usurps reason and becomes the ruling principle of governance, terrorism wins."
5.21.2002
It's good to google yourself once in a while. Tonight I found a link to an article about my trip to South Africa. Back in 2001, I was part of a delegation of young leaders that participated in a leadership exchange program.
...which gives me something to write about. Hey, even better-- I have a nice little slideshow to convert and post. Word up, I have content! Coming soon...
Thing is, I've gotta dig my journals out of the muck of my recent apartment move.
Peace.
...which gives me something to write about. Hey, even better-- I have a nice little slideshow to convert and post. Word up, I have content! Coming soon...
Thing is, I've gotta dig my journals out of the muck of my recent apartment move.
Peace.
5.13.2002
Got to give it up to Moms.
“guiding hands”
you’ve been a firm affirming hand
guiding us through childhood’s transformations
into adulthood,
like an alchemist
your love changes “other people’s” children
into brother sister daughter son;
cherished
Family.
because of your example
I thought it was normal to help
battered women, counsel families in crisis
and help clothe siblings “back home”
I am blessed with these memories, of
tagging along to your college classes, of
visiting South East Emergency Quarters,
and walking down Johnny Will Jones, Sr. Road…
memories that guide me.
the life I live reflects your love.
it, along with this poem is my gift
To You.
Happy Mother’s Day
Jomo
“guiding hands”
you’ve been a firm affirming hand
guiding us through childhood’s transformations
into adulthood,
like an alchemist
your love changes “other people’s” children
into brother sister daughter son;
cherished
Family.
because of your example
I thought it was normal to help
battered women, counsel families in crisis
and help clothe siblings “back home”
I am blessed with these memories, of
tagging along to your college classes, of
visiting South East Emergency Quarters,
and walking down Johnny Will Jones, Sr. Road…
memories that guide me.
the life I live reflects your love.
it, along with this poem is my gift
To You.
Happy Mother’s Day
Jomo
aYesterday I picked up the paper and started worrying about the national debt. I don't ever worry about the national debt when I'm not reading the paper. The conclusion to draw from this is:
a) I don't worry enough about the national debt
b) I worry about the national debt in proportion to my susceptibility to national press coverage of domestic affairs
c) I need to turn in my ghetto card
d) I just started contributing to a retirement plan, and realize I'm gonna need some government support one of these days
e) any and/or all of the above, except "c"
This is nuts. Up in New York City, there's this huge billboard that constantly updates the national debt. It's right across from the HBO headquarters (42nd Street?). Anyway, there's the constant re-calculation going on 24/7/365. The kicker is the little "your portion" calculation that divides the debt by the estimated U.S. population.
I don't even like to open up my credit card bill at the end of each month. Why the hell do I need to see "my portion" of the national debt increasing second by second?
Share my outrage! Go to a site that tracks the national debt and see for yourself what a huge hole we're in.
a) I don't worry enough about the national debt
b) I worry about the national debt in proportion to my susceptibility to national press coverage of domestic affairs
c) I need to turn in my ghetto card
d) I just started contributing to a retirement plan, and realize I'm gonna need some government support one of these days
e) any and/or all of the above, except "c"
This is nuts. Up in New York City, there's this huge billboard that constantly updates the national debt. It's right across from the HBO headquarters (42nd Street?). Anyway, there's the constant re-calculation going on 24/7/365. The kicker is the little "your portion" calculation that divides the debt by the estimated U.S. population.
I don't even like to open up my credit card bill at the end of each month. Why the hell do I need to see "my portion" of the national debt increasing second by second?
Share my outrage! Go to a site that tracks the national debt and see for yourself what a huge hole we're in.
5.01.2002
For those of you who don't know, DC has a little habit of bestowing its new residents with a little token-- allergies. Usually takes about 5 years to kick in. Know who just got hit with the 5-year itch? I'm official, baby!
"Seasonal allergic conjunctivitis" is what the doctor said.
I said, "What, I'm gonna get pink eye every Spring?"
Actually, I can't complain too much. Some people, like my man Kai end up in the hospital for eating a honey-roasted peanut.
Short-term tourists need not worry. Just make sure you read up on the zone system for taxi fares. For the intern-to-pundit/staffer tribe, ask about the medical plan. Everyone else, pack your inhaler and pay attention to the daily pollen count. (No joke, it was 2500 last week, on a scale where 90 is high).
Peace.
"Seasonal allergic conjunctivitis" is what the doctor said.
I said, "What, I'm gonna get pink eye every Spring?"
Actually, I can't complain too much. Some people, like my man Kai end up in the hospital for eating a honey-roasted peanut.
Short-term tourists need not worry. Just make sure you read up on the zone system for taxi fares. For the intern-to-pundit/staffer tribe, ask about the medical plan. Everyone else, pack your inhaler and pay attention to the daily pollen count. (No joke, it was 2500 last week, on a scale where 90 is high).
Peace.
4.26.2002
I've been digging through the poem bin lately, trying to come up with one that fits the current mood more than the latest
"our crusade"
sky, shrapneled, bleeding;
metallic rain of aimless death,
seeding flesh-soaked battle
fields reaped by
rebels yet unborn
(c)
Note to self: stop watching the late-night news. And find something happy to wrap a poem around.
"our crusade"
sky, shrapneled, bleeding;
metallic rain of aimless death,
seeding flesh-soaked battle
fields reaped by
rebels yet unborn
(c)
Note to self: stop watching the late-night news. And find something happy to wrap a poem around.
4.25.2002
4.22.2002
so this is it, my first official entry. i'm getting a little tingly with blog power.
a fleeting feeling-- it left as soon as i calculated the odds that this stuff will actually be read by someone.
...maybe i should take a minute to sketch out my plans? a few simple questions to jump-start things a bit:
1. should i use capital letters?
2. wouldn't it be better to learn html, dreamweaver, flash and photoshop so i could design my own site? something dope like Blackalicious' website?
3. should i pay the 12 bucks to get the dang banners off my blogspot?
4. can i somehow get folks to dig this stuff enough to give me the 12 bucks that will get the dang banners off my blogspot?
guess i'll go chew on that and get back to work--oh, hold up-- it's lunchtime! time to walk and read "the lexus and the olive tree" by thomas friedman. i just started this morning on the way to work. (making the most of my ambulatory commute).
so ends the first entry. more questions than answers. such is life.
"poemusing" (haiku)
questions and answers
the circuitous riddle
of life continues
(c) 2002
a fleeting feeling-- it left as soon as i calculated the odds that this stuff will actually be read by someone.
...maybe i should take a minute to sketch out my plans? a few simple questions to jump-start things a bit:
1. should i use capital letters?
2. wouldn't it be better to learn html, dreamweaver, flash and photoshop so i could design my own site? something dope like Blackalicious' website?
3. should i pay the 12 bucks to get the dang banners off my blogspot?
4. can i somehow get folks to dig this stuff enough to give me the 12 bucks that will get the dang banners off my blogspot?
guess i'll go chew on that and get back to work--oh, hold up-- it's lunchtime! time to walk and read "the lexus and the olive tree" by thomas friedman. i just started this morning on the way to work. (making the most of my ambulatory commute).
so ends the first entry. more questions than answers. such is life.
"poemusing" (haiku)
questions and answers
the circuitous riddle
of life continues
(c) 2002
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