Kismet

I've taken to sitting in a little coffee/cafe spot on U Street, NW. Me and the other self-employed, wi-fi wanderers park ourselves at the few tables near electrical outlets and shamelessly don't buy much more than coffee or a nibbleable morsel in the span of up to six/eight hours.

My "m.o." is to get a Diet Coke and chocolate muffin at about hour number three. The staff doesn't seem to mind. They accomodate us right along with the paying customers. In a way, we're part of the decor, adding a certain digerati quotient that dovetails nicely with the nouveau soul soundscape, passable artwork, and an unrepentant menu that includes pig slicings, grits and chicken-n-waffles prepared by Salvadoran cooks.

Some days are just work. Other days, people drop in and break up the monotony. Last week my brother-in-law posted up for lunch. Today, an acquaintance dropped by and hipped me to the latest issue of Beltway . Lo and behold, after I finished clicking around the site, in walked E. Ethelbert Miller, whose poem I had just finished reading. Kismet. I dig kismet. Especially after a long day at the "office".

The National Debt Clock

So we're reaching a y2k-type situation with the debt clock in NYC. The deal is this.

I was worrying about the national debt a few years back, but I never imagined things would get to this point-- especially with so many so-called budget hawks controlling the executive and legislative branches of government for the past six years. Silly me (scroll down to #2).

ear music

poppin my lolli
See's candy jolly

vanilla flavor to savor

anxious no more
Dr. Goldsmith's sure

the vertebrae are okay

God bless orthopedic surgeons. My wife is no longer pained by herniated discs, and her recovery is going well.

I don't have anything to write today that won't be a lie.

Today's Fortune Cookie

"When you begin to coast, you're on the downgrade."
Luncky numbers: 20, 34, 22, 13,48, 9

I woke up to the sad news that Richard Pryor is dead.

His honest comedic take on the craziness of life continues to inspire me. He was, as was Redd Foxx in another way and another era, a great writer. His characters, his subtlety and brashness, came from a brilliant mind that occupied and took us to spaces of imaginative insight.

R.I.P.

Apologia, anyone?

NYT, art thou not complicit? Judith Miller spewed all the Administration's denials on your front page!

haiku

licking dry her moist
peach cream thick and sweet as hot
bread sliced by candy

the way it works is this:
i stop, breathe, take in
workmen digging up streets;
re-routing my path.

i corkscrew through
broken concrete and
tunneled asphalt looking
for a foothold.

--

Okay, I'm buggin'. Here's the poem I'm working on. That other stuff is just chaff.

whites seat from the front, colored from the rear

on a chill night when tens of thousands
exercised the right to shiver, I stood
in a mile-long line with my wife.

friends met us there—not dogs
or hoses, vitriol or spit—as we
honored and cemented

the memory of a woman whose
sitting down spurred uprising.
snaking through streets, parking lots

and the Mall, shuffling and waiting six
hours, sometimes singing spirituals,
parents with children months old

inched toward history. no church
hosts more sacred occasions
than our vigil for Rosa Parks,

trained at Highlander to moot the
sign above the bus driver’s head
written in black and white.

jails lost their power as cells became
crucibles; emboldened ordinary folk
changed from set apart, to set free.

fine tune-age
Here's another copy of "spit"; still trying to decide where i want to locate the poem. Top two contenders right now are El Salvador and South Africa. (It started out in El Salvador, but I'm open to other possibilities).

spit

they came with
mortars, torches, and death.
papi fled as planned.

his bullet pierced mami’s temple;
blood dripped like her spit down
the soldier’s face. neither flinched.

And.. another death-infused poem for your enjoyment...

I'm in a poetry workshop at the moment. Our last assignment was to write a poem in blank verse. Check it. I went the iambic pentameter route.

needle, vein, death.

a second left and all I want to know
is how the blade felt sliding through your ribs

I carved a turkey with a duller blade
but sharpened this one just for your demise.

I guess that makes you special; mi amor,
in death we reunite; I’ll see you soon.

work in progress

spit

the soldiers, or were they soldiers?,
came at night with no insignia:
just mortars, torches, death.

as we planned, papi fled to the hills.

his bullet pierced mami's temple;
her blood dripped like her spit
down the soldier's face.

neither he, nor she, flinched.

Work break WTF? moment of the day

John Aravosis posted this.

Amazing. The leader of the free world? Maybe he is back on the sauce. (Okay, it's from the Enquirer, but check the link in that story).

Anyway, I made up my own quote. To wit:
"When I look at the lives lost to Katrina and the war in Iraq, I think, 'The terrorists wish they could do this. But they can't.' I did it. (Pauses to reach under lectern for a shot of Stoli) I take responsi- sike! Who wrote this sh*t!" (Reaches for another shot).

Far-fetched? Maybe so, maybe no; liquor sometimes does give you a sweaty back.

Okay, I can't actually confirm the alleged drinking or link said allegation to the sweaty back. I just like the picture and wanted to post it on my blog.

Crispy Bacon (Cross-posted here)

There are things that, when done well, need no explication:
a good poem
a funny joke
crispy bacon (for the pork-eaters like my Self).

Frank Rich is crispy bacon, minus the grease and fat.

Jomo
(P.S., Link from NYT-- may require subscription).

Randy Newman via Aaron Neville

Louisiana 1927

Luckily, my family in Washington Parish is okay. So, too, my kinfolks in Baton Rouge and Hattiesburg, MS.

Praise Be.

Katrina

I learned just last Thursday that my "kinfolks" in Angie, La. are okay. But it will be a long time before power is restored and water is available.

Now I hear the Mayor of New Orleans has authorized forced evacuations. I don't know how I feel about that. On the public safety level, I see the point. On the personal liberty standpoint, anyone who made it this far has probably got more sense than the government that was supposed to protect them.

In any event, the money quote from the article above comes from Jefferson Parish President, Aaron Broussard, of Meet the Press fame:

(snip)
Jefferson Parish president Aaron Broussard was even more blunt.

"Bureaucracy has murdered people in the greater New Orleans area," he said on CBS' "Early Show." "Take whatever idiot they have at the top of whatever agency and give me a better idiot. Give me a caring idiot. Give me a sensitive idiot. Just don't give me the same idiot."

Word.

eyes on the un-claimed prize poem

untitled fragment (screed)

I roll thru streets where
Black Power sits threadbare
in folding chairs propped

against crumbling liquor stores.
revolutionary lore forfeited
by its electees, who: (a) got power

and (b) bullshitted. once (c) keeping the role
trumped all else, (d) patronage raised
its color-blind head; (e) people

showed their true colors (i.e., (f) their ass).
now, (g) what benefits have we reaped
from one of the most amazing

movements in human history? the
meek may well inherit the earth, but
(h) right now they still catch hell

in Detroit, Chicago, D.C.(HIV rate on the rise
for Black women—hello!), Los Angeles,
NYC (Black male unemployment at 50%,

motherfuck!), never mind the plight of
the Black farmer— see (i) Zimbabwe or
(j) anywhere in the United States.

Excuse Me, I'm Not a Book Burner

Ratzinger vs. Harry Potter
So the Vatican's score is:
Against- a work or fiction
For- clerics who sexually molest children

Because God said so.

Got it.

for Grandpa Johnny Will "Shoot Ya" Jones, Sr.

a shotgun house, bedsprings in
every room rusted by crop-raising,
braces for the summerstorm season.
the scrap-dog took cover under
flood-pillar-raised floorboards
soon as the wind started blowing
thunder clouds questioning Grandpa's
zinc roof and caulking this way;
no need: Johnny Will Jones, Sr. built
a house for fifteen children. instead of

setting a price for his family's
labor he gave away early peas, okra,
yams and potatoes like he gave away
a gangrenous leg to war. war his
sons fought, too, before setting out
for worlds un-plowed by part-Whiteness
or Jim-Crowed darkies. wars, his
daughters fought, too, against
his controlling nature and wounds
that may or may not ever heal.

weathered badly, no crops sewn for
a generation, the house still stands
a short drive from the main road
on a gravelly lane named after Grandpa.
summerstorms won't knock it down, long as
we stand as a family. having survived
many wars; we pray he rest in peace.

Mississippi Burned

Forty years later, justice served.

some haikus from '99 or '00

1.
generations know
survival means: dry season
sweats blood young and old

2.
still pond mirrors moon
footpath marked by lantern ligh
i hold you hold me

3.
why waste mourning for
what was while what should be is
you free to be you

4.
sometimes you just turn
my world west to east, sometimes
i wake up dreaming

5.
we packed memories
tenderly as night fell we
dueted goodbye

6. (for Gil Scott-Heron: 2000)
the pint? it makes it
possible to contemplate
the revolution

untitled (for Dad)

scene: interview of father
setting: patio lit by dusking sun

"who are you?"
"no one told me."

simple dialogue;
improvisational lore.

"how'd you find out?"
"i asked",

the playwright wrote;
the roles reversed.

I had a "first" today-- two, actually: I read "The Wizard of Oz" on my PDA. It takes a little getting used to, but I think I've warmed up to the idea.

The software came bundled with the Palm OS. Nice features, easy to navigate. I like the idea of taking digital notes as I go, especially since I am loath to skribble in books these days, and all the post-it notes I tack in ruin the aesthetic of the original design.

But how much am I willing to pay for the privilege of sitting in my doctor's waiting room, or on the metro, with my gadget? What's the going rate for convenience?

Being back in Cali for the week gives me time to hash it out.

On the subject of Cali, my state rocked me with a 6.4 mag tectonic shift this evening. Dorothy said, "There's no place like home." Trudat.

Word.

Digital Window Shopping

Time to blog? I think so.

I've been in a blog-reading loop for a few weeks. So much so that I haven't set aside time to write. Guess that's a feature of the blogosphere: digital window shopping galore.

Being in this ether doesn't require much more effort than the ability to click. Real-world window shopping involves a different level of effort-- the actual movement through time and space. Clicking through blogs, I have a sense of the ultimate and encouraging interconnectedness of the Web, but lose that all-important (to me) tactile experience of "fog on glass".

In my junior year of college, I took a class called "Utopian Political Thought". The professor included works by authors who posited "dystopia's" as well-- basically, anti-Edens. I had never considered the genre before, though I had become familiar with it (being Black).

A part of the blogosphere/Web clicking sensation reminds me of a story from that class that I have to dredge up; I believe it's by Borges. Anyway, it's one of those sci-fi tropes where technology performs most functions of daily life except human interaction, so that we become isolated. Isolated, ultimately, from ourselves.

The kicker is, of course, we've isolated ourselves by creating technologies that we hope will bring us closer to one another, make life easier, lighten our load.

Or maybe identity is shifting and I'm in the transition generation. I'm lamenting a loss of something that the next generation may deem quaint. There can be deep and sincere digital bonds, the same way there are shallow and deceptive relationships offline.

I don't know.

Nostalgia's a pendulum that swings non-stop between "what I knew" and "what I hope". When it hits the mid-point, I write-- like now.

So, another report that the U.S. rationale for the invasion of Iraq was a bunch of crap. (Note the Orwellian logic used in the last two paragraphs).

According to the Washington Post: "The report, which refuted many of the administration's principal arguments for going to war in Iraq, marked the official end of a two-year weapons hunt led most recently by former U.N. weapons inspector Charles A. Duelfer. The team found that the 1991 Persian Gulf War and subsequent U.N. sanctions had destroyed Iraq's illicit weapons capabilities and that, for the most part, Hussein had not tried to rebuild them. Iraq's ability to produce nuclear arms, which the administration asserted was a grave and gathering threat that required an immediate military response, had "progressively decayed" since 1991. Investigators found no evidence of "concerted efforts to restart the program."

Administration officials have emphasized that, while the survey group uncovered no banned arms, it concluded that Hussein had not given up the goal of someday acquiring them.

Hussein "retained the intent and capability and he intended to resume full-scale WMD efforts once the U.N. sanctions were lifted," Pentagon spokesman Bryan Whitman said yesterday. "Duelfer provides plenty of rationale for why this country went to war in Iraq."

No use having a blog if you don't update it once in a while, eh? So...

I sent my manuscript to the book designer/layout wonderful person. Progress, though years behind schedule. Now all I have to do is record the accompanying CD.

R.I.P. Saul Bellow.

A late night case of the hiccups has me blogging late into the night.

Here's a historical hiccup featured in my hometown newspaper. Strom Thurmond, the racist fuck, then 23, fathered a child with his family's 16-year old maid. (Question: did the Black mother of this child have a choice to fend off the advances of this man? Was it love, power, or some confabulation of the two?).

I have no sympathy for that racist fuck, no matter what his never-acknowledged daughter says. Fuck him. May he rot in hell forever.

But, God, forgive me for my sins.

Although I often skim their site, I don't think I ever cited them before. Seems a crazy enough place to start.

synergesis(haikus)
a.
we hung out, twenty-
somethings, days of headiness;
hip as hip can be.
b.
thirty-something crept
up faster than life-changing
decisions to wed.

Found out today that yet another friend-couple has bought a house in our neighborhood. Cool enough for me. We can all be in this debt thing together. No more need to congregate at a renter's crib-- we're all owners now!

Crazy.

Crazy Stuff

#1: Terry Shiavo
The Republican-controlled congress (lower-case "c" intended) has supbpoenaed a brain-dead woman. Visualize success: a brain-dead woman, in those hallowed halls, being interrogated. For background, check out these folks: AP story; the Rude Pundit (3/18/05); and Majikthise (3/9/05).

#2: Steroids
Why the hell do we need anyone in congress (again, lower-case "c" intended) to ask a bunch of jocks whether or not they used steroids? And why confine the testimony to baseball players? No track-and-field folks? No football players? No professional wrestlers?
Since we're so concerned about people's biochemical purity, how 'bout we have hearings on which congressmen use Viagra to shag interns?

#3: My Hometown
San Diego's bishop denied funeral rights to a devout catholic (another lower-case "c", intended) because he ran two gay bars. Nice. Check the story here (3/18/05 posts). Scroll through the comments, too.

#4: Balls Like a Motherf*cker
Paul Wolfowitz to head the World Bank? John Bolton(3/10/05 and 3/9/05 posts) at the UN? Alberto Gonzales at the Dept. of Justice? (As Dave Chapelle would say) "Cunnilingus" Rice at State? (I never liked her at Stanford, either). I won't even bother linking to anything about her.

#5: The Blogosphere
Even though reading blogs gives me more reasons to bang my head against the wall-- thanks, God. Where else would I read about all this crazy stuff?

"5000"

Sometimes I just get a jones for Ras Kass.

On another note, I couldn't help shaking my head at the headline of today's Post Express edition-- Battlefield Lebanon: Bush touts gains in Mideast democracy; nearly 500,000 denounce U.S. in Beirut rally".

That's only 430,000 more people than last Monday's rally to get Syria out of Lebanon.

I'll forego sarcasm and just re-state the numbers:
Monday, 70 thousand folks demonstrated against Syria's influence and presence in Lebanon
Tuesday, 500 thousand folks demonstrated against U.S. policies in the Mideast.

"The Bush administration brushed aside anti-American sentiment, saying it was happy to see people peacefully express their views".

I'm not making this up. I'm refraining from sarcasm. My country, the one in which I just bought a house, elected this man to a second term of office.

I find solace in the fact we're a constitutional democracy with Presidential term limits.

Two pieces from November 2004

1. (fragment)
I am the Black infant
mortality rate, more elusive
than census data portends
with tallies of death
per capita; I am

death in perpetuity.

breast-fed memories of
wet-nursing master's heir,
weaned at first breath
to hold my tongue and
swallow bitter milk

like it was honey.

2. Augusta(haiku)
inky starlit sky
seeping through Georgia pine, trees
sway rapturously

Words learned while reading Colson Whitehead (- Kai, check out his 13 essays about New York).

epigonic
carapace
recondite
appurtenance
plangent
funicular
adumbrate

Been so long since my last post that I almost forgot my login/passord.

Glad to remember.

I spent the past five days in El Salvador. My wife's cousin got married last Saturday. Nos disfrutamos La Misa y La Fiesta, and chilled aggressively.

I spent a lot of time there reading; W. Somerset Maugham's the man, as far as short stories are concerned.

I read a collection of his titled Cakes and Ale. The copy I read was apparently a gift from my mother-in-law to her sister(s), as it bore her inscription from 1968.

Nothing like good literature passed on lovingly. Word is bond.

Late at night, I'm most apt to write. Last night was no exception. I dug out my trusty copy of "The Pocket Muse: Ideas & Inspiration for Writing".

Here's a draft. In the next version, I'll replace the "we" and "ourselves" at the end with something more introspective. That said, I give you...

something about silence

“Write about a noise or a silence that won’t go away”
- Monica Wood

innumerable voices clog my
mind with histories buried alive

I cannot sleep through graveyard
cries, the desperate clawing clamor.

remembrance pricks my
conscience, pries open eyelids

crusted shut with slumber.
swabs clean ears plugged with

cotton promises that God will
deliver us from His evil Creation;

humankind. stuck on this planet
in the stillness of a universe too vast

to comprehend, stuck in consciousness
too minute to comprehend a universe

greater than our God. I, human,
being in this silence, hum a church tune

or invoke the Elder Words scribes
and griots gift generations.

still peace comes to me as it
comes to all in the moment

of accepting, quietly, the inevitable
loneliness we drown out with words

and song, or escape through ritual
myth and legend. we abhor the

smallness of life, elaborately gate
ourselves from real community

until silent stillness compels us
to hum a different tune

post-election haikus
1
my country, full of
liberal, open-minded
voters, will wake up.
2
i feel winter's chill
now, the moon's glow dims toward
horizon-rimed dawn.

3
ohio, buckeye
state. blackeye state. "bull-(connor)!"
...kerry conceded?

4
geographic'ly
a sea of red bound by blue;*
truth book-ending lies

*peep the Nov. 7th post-- and Pascal's analysis

A verse comes to me from somewhere...
"I got so much trouble/**
on my mind-- refuse to lose!/
Here's your ticket/
hear the drummer get wicked"
(Publice Enemy)

**cross-reference: Brother Marley

What can I say?

Thank God it's Friday.

In my post-election traumatic disorder, I'm re-ordering my Self along lines that have bolstered my spirits in the past, hence:

K'Alyn and Dub Ell.

Good-feeling music that you can smile and think to. Real artists.

Yes, I check the Drudge Report headlines...

This one's a gem-- "The Daily Mirror: A large pic of Bush with this caption: “How can 59,054,087 be so dumb!” "

I didn't see the pic despite my best attempts, but I imagine it looks like this.

Setting aside cynicism for a minute at this late hour...

The American people are not dumb. We have created an incredible space for human progress. Unfortunately, like every other system humans create, ours is vulnerable to demagogues who exploit our fears.

I am confident that hope outlives fear, that arrogant power ultimately yields to justice. So, it is for us, the hopeful and justice-loving people, to organize. And once we get power, we must meet the needs of our times with more complexity, maturity, and love* than these (4-syllable curse word)s.

*Too poetic? I hope not. I believe in the "Power of Love", like Luther.
At the same time, I ain't mad at Chuck D: "What we got to say?/ Power to the People!/ No delay/ Make everybody see/ In order to/ fight the powers that be" (from PE's "Fight the Power").

James Baldwin

The text from this card, part of a series by Robert Shetterly, reads:
"People who shut their eyes to reality simply invite their own destruction, and anyone who insists on remaining in a state of innocence long after that innocence is dead turns himself into a monster."

My brother-in-law gits bizzy. Skills enough to make your ear tingle.

Fresh from the Red Bull Music Academy in Rome, he's got a new single, "That's Life".

(P.S., Don't sleep on "In and Out").


who PJ be

Who'd 've thought Eminem would throw a political analysis into the mix?

Check out this article, which includes links to his video for "Mosh."

And don't forget our friends at GNN, who put up their own article on the-- sorry, I'm just buggin' to see this video. For real. I was a teenager when I first got the politico-hiphop bug via KRS-ONE and Public Enemy. It's hard to swallow the fact of Eminem making an overt political statement through music. Even harder to digest the fact that "Mosh" is #1 on MTV's "TRL". Somewhere, Bob Dylan's rewinding a reel-to-reel copy of his song about the time's changing.

(If the above links don't work, go to Launch. Then choose a "videos" search for "Eminem" and pick the "Mosh" result).

You make the call: did Bush wear a wire? If yes, his performance in the first debate is even more disturbing.

the fat man swimmeth

A nice poem alongside this picture might take your eyes off the mid-section. But I figure if I have to lug it around, the least you can do is look at it.

Feel my girth.

About those tree trunks in the background... they're coconut trees. This kid climbed up a ladder, chopped down the coconuts with a machete, chopped open the coconuts, and poured us pitchers of fresh "agua de coco"-- which blends quite nicely with some *in.

Fresh agua de coco with *in-- on a sunny day, by the pool, 50 yards from the Pacific Ocean, swinging in the hammock-- is dope enough to make agnostics believe.

a haiku about
agua de coco might look
just like this picture.

Ashlee Simpson on SNL
I know this is trivial, but there's only so much a sane mind can absorb.

First, she blamed the band.
Now, this...

Puh-leez!!

This excuse is too perfect: (a) she's got a medical condition, so be sympathetic, or you're an un-feeling jerk; and (b) because of the malady, she couldn't sing-- but she went onstage anyway: what a trooper!

It's sad to think of all the talented people who never get a break. Really sad.

El lago de Coatepeque - El Salvador

In August 2004, my wife and I spent a week in El Salvador with her family. One day, her father's folks rented a "microbus" and took me on an 8-hour tour of old ruins, different cities and towns, and (as you might have surmised) to this lake formed in the crater of an inactive volcano.

As the microbus arrived, we were greeted by a local musician. He, along with my wife's aunts and uncles and cousins, regaled us non-singers with an impromptu little concert. Dope.

who i be

Haven't yet figured out how to put the pic next to my profile-- a blatant robbery of Kai's style-- so hold tight. I'll figure it out sooner or later.

After viewing the video, I feel compelled to make you feel as disgusted as I do:
watch the short Votergate documentary.

The promo script: "Set aside the 15 minutes you'll need to watch this compelling documentary about electronic voting machines. Using interviews and demos with hackers and computer scientists, Votergate presents a picture of the myriad ways machines could change the election outcome. And if you have the choice, make sure to choose a paper ballot on Nov. 2."

I'm not gonna hype the film. My only commentary is what I said to my wife after viewing it: "Two words-- paper ballot. That's all I'm sayin'."

Word is bond.

My man Kai keeps talking about how I should update the blog template to allow for comments and RSS-stuff. Well, that presupposes I (a) have a blog strategy that (b) would benefit from said changes.

As it stands, I don't update the blog enough. Extra functionality won't change things until I change, eh? The watchwords: commitment to content. Is this a start?

I give you my brother-in-law, DJ Eurok. He's just returned from the Red Bull Music Academy in Rome, Italy. I'm digggin' the new tracks he put down while slipped into the boot.

Word, for now.

Listening to the second Presidential debate, I have to say this:

it's all I can do not to throw my TV out of the window whenever George Bush speaks.

On why he won't allow generic drugs to be imported from Canada:

"I wanna make sure they cure ya and don't kill ya!"

Thanks, George-y.

"what's at stake"

lies spun about economic indicators
won't pay off your medical bills
or decrease corporate welfare.

despite boundless optimism,
lost jobs don't replace themselves.
'cause election day is nigh

we need to get real, people.
it's not the war on terror: it's your
government that's the issue.

can it protect your freedom
with the Patriot Act? can
it save you by cultivating fear?

little time between work and
picking up the kids to read
the newspaper or voter's guide

but the clock ticks and tocks
toward a reckoning we visit on
the world ignorantly, so stop

look and listen closely, breathe
deeply, and remember the God you
worship created all the universe

not just your piddling country.
don't reduce God to the borders
of your fear-stifled imagination.

It's a start people... At least I'm writing again...

"the home front"

sans beard and turban you might
miss him, American terrorist, extremist

(sometimes Veteran) draped in flags
of good ol' days and good ol' boys

bent on bombing past and present
into a future no God promised

Ode to Bill Cosby...

Published on Thursday, July 8, 2004 by the New York Times
The New Cosby Kids
by Barbara Ehrenreich

It was such a dog-bites-man story that I almost skipped right by: Billionaire Bashes Poor Blacks. The only thing that gave this particular story a little piquancy is that the billionaire doing the bashing is black himself. Bill Cosby has been attacking the poor of his race, and especially the youthful poor, for a range of sins, including using bad words, "stealing poundcake," "giggling" and failing to give their children normal names like "Bill." "The lower-economic people," Cosby announced, "are not holding up their end in this deal."

They let me down, too, sometimes — like that girl at Wendy's who gave me sweet iced tea when I had clearly specified unsweetened. She looked a little tired, but, as Cos might point out: How hard can it be to hold a job, go to high school and care for younger siblings in all your spare moments while your parents are at work?

But it's just so 1985 to beat up on the black poor. During the buildup to welfare "reform" in 1996, the comfortable denizens of think spas like the Heritage Foundation routinely excoriated poor black women for being lazy, promiscuous, government-dependent baby machines, not to mention overweight (that poundcake again). As for poor black youth, they were targeted in the 90's as a generation of "superpredators," gang-bangers and thugs.

It's time to start picking on a more up-to-date pariah group for the 21st century, and I'd like to nominate the elderly whites. Filial restraint has so far kept the would-be Social Security privatizers on the right from going after them, but the grounds for doing so are clear. For one thing, there's a startling new wave of "grandpa bandits" terrorizing rural banks. And occasionally some old duffer works himself into a frenzy listening to Cole Porter tunes and drives straight into a crowd of younger folks.

The law-abiding old whites are no prize either. Overwhelmingly, they choose indolence over employment — lounging on park benches, playing canasta — when we all know there are plenty of people-greeter jobs out there. Since it's government money that allows them to live in this degenerate state, we can expect the Heritage Foundation to reveal any day now that some seniors are cashing in their Social Security checks for vodka and Viagra. Just as welfare was said to "cause poverty," the experts may soon announce that Medicare causes baldness and that Social Security is a risk factor for osteoporosis: the correlations are undeniable.

And the menace posed by the elderly can only get worse, as ever more of them sink into debt. What's eating up their nest eggs? In many cases, drugs. How long before the streets are ruled by geezer gangs mugging us to support their insulin and beta-blocker habits?

All right, before the AARP issues a fatwa against me, could we please acknowledge that the demonization of welfare recipients wasn't based on reality either? Contrary to the stereotype, welfare moms in 1996 averaged two children per family, not six, and in surveys always expressed a desire to work, should child care become available. Incidentally, only a minority of them were African-American.

As for the black youth who so exercise Cosby, their pregnancy rates aren't "soaring," as he reportedly claimed; in fact, they're lower than they've been in decades. Ditto with crime rates. And if Cosby's worried about poor grammar and so forth, why isn't he ranting about the Bush 2005 budget, which would end a slew of programs for dropout prevention, recreation and school counseling?

Or, if he's looking for tantrum fodder, what about the fact that a black baby has a 40 percent chance of being born into poverty? You can blame adults for their poverty — if you're mean-spirited enough — but you cannot blame babies, and that's, in effect, what we're talking about here.

As the sociologist Michael Males, who monitors youth-bashing outbreaks, told me: "Younger black America today is struggling admirably against massive disinvestments in schools, terrible unemployment, harsh policing and degrading prejudices, and they're succeeding amazingly well. They deserve respect, not grown-up tantrums."

But it must be fun to beat up on people too young and too poor to fight back, or the elderly rich wouldn't do it. Cranky old rich people: now there's a demographic group that qualifies as a genuine Menace 2 Society.

Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904-September 23, 1973)

I met Pablo Neruda in 1996 at a bookstore in Palo Alto, California. While perusing the poetry section, I skimmed a copy of his "Selected Odes", which I later bought as a birthday present for myself.

It is now 2004, and I have twice given away that book. An editorial in the New York Times reminds me that I need to get a third copy.

Happy (upcoming) Centennial, Pablo!

Big up to Marlon Brando (R.I.P.):
Full Article
"In 1963, Brando marched arm in arm with James Baldwin at the March on Washington. He, along with Paul Newman, went down South with the freedom riders to desegregate inter-State bus lines. In defiance of state law, Native Americans protested the denial of treaty rights by fishing the Puyallup River on March 2, 1964. Inspired by the civil rights movement sit-ins, Brando, Episcopal clergyman John Yaryan from San Francisco, and Puyallup tribal leader Bob Satiacum caught salmon in the Puyallup without state permits. The action was called a fish-in and resulted in Brando's arrest. When Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in 1968, Brando announced that he was bowing out of the lead role of a major film and would now devote himself to the civil rights movement. Brando said "If the vacuum formed by Dr. King's death isn't filled with concern and understanding and a measure of love, then I think we all are really going to be lost.." He gave money and spoke out in defense of the Black Panthers and counted Bobby Seale as a close friend and attended the memorial for slain prison leader George Jackson. Southern theater chains boycotted his films, and Hollywood created what became known as the 'Brando Black List' that shut him out of many big time roles."

If you're not sure which finger and which motion to give someone, check out the Field Guide to the North American Bird.

My man, Mike, did the illustrations. He also laced me and my wife with some artwork.

Yes, Paul Krugman is at it again. I look forward to his columns.

Check this one out:
Noonday in the Shade

June 22, 2004
By PAUL KRUGMAN

John Ashcroft seems to be neglecting real terrorist threats
to the public because of his ideological biases.

Full Article

I heard about this story a while back, perhaps on AlterNet.

(Reminds me of my friend, Timothea, who predicted the DC snipers were probably driving around in a Cadillac while everyone was on alert for a "white box truck".)

If we continue to think extremist Islamist elements are the problem, we will never solve the problem of extremist elements.

Some days you have to pull out the Jungle Brothers and just deal with the fact you're old, and reminisce about "the good ol' days" of rap.

Nostalgia tends to romanticize, but I know you can make the argument that rap's commercialization was already in full effect by the time the JB's dropped Done by the Forces of Nature. I'll grant you that.

Just don't ask me to stop smiling when I hear "Doin Our Own Thang".

Because that was 1989... "a number/ another summer (git down!)/ sound of a funky drummer/ music hittin ya hard/ cuz i know ya got soul! (brothers and sisters)/" and at age 16, I was diggin' the Native Tongues.

Now, in my old age (31), I've moved from Chuck D on wax to Chuck D on Air America Radio.

"Say word. Word, I'm sayin" (dialogue from Prince Paul's "A Prince Among Thieves").

Ted Rall's got some cool comics. But what I'm talkin' about today is his op-ed on Ronald Reagan.

"reagan haiku"
sometimes collective
memory lies, erasing
what really happened

I remember my mom working in a battered women's shelter through the reagan years, wondering whether federal funding would be renewed. I remember first seeing homeless people, first hearing of AIDS, never hearing government could be part of the solution. I remember documentaries about the Berkeley free speech movement, accounts of Reagan's naming of names during the McCarthy era. I remember that Reagan negotiated to keep Americans as hostages until he was inaugurated. I remember Central America's death squads, and Negroponte's wink-nod alliance with killers. I remember air traffic controllers/working people getting shafted. I remember a lot more than "the Gipper" or the "Great Communicator". I remember nuclear attack drills in elementary school.

As an adult, I've learned a lot more about his administration than I care to believe America let happen-- but history doesn't lie. The man won two terms. I believe that says more (terrible things) about the American voting public than about Reagan's supposed greatness. Guess we get the rulers we deserve (Jefferson?).

Kai's link seems too good to pass up without passing it on...

You also need to get up on Wild Style and Scratch.

I watched "Scratch" on the train from DC to NYC, on my way to my friend's wedding. The X-ecutioners, Scratch Picklz and all the originators put the art form in perspective for those who don't know, and accentuate it for those who do.

Head noddin' acceptable...

I'm on a listserv for The League of Independent Voters.

Are you?

I have a copy of How to Get Stupid White Men Out of Office.

Do you?

Whatever your choice in November '04-- VOTE!

Paul Krugman in the NY Times (which didn't deliver my damn Sunday paper yesterday!).

Yeah, it's agitprop. So what?

Check out the trailer for Fahrenheit 9/11. Some shit's about to jump off when the film opens, June 25th! Can't wait till next year's Oscar speech.

Remember what Moore said last year? Get ready for more Moore.

(I wish I'd saved the link to an article where Moore said he made this film because he didn't want to leave it up to the Democrats to fuck it up and lose the election. If it weren't after 1am, and I was a teenager, I'd search for it. But for now, I have to say, "Goodnight, Dick".)

mo' betta...

for Pearlie and Johnny Will Jones, Sr.

we listened to cicadas sing that afternoon, sitting on the porch
looking across the road named after Grandpa toward Cousin Huey’s
fields. as the darkening sky thundered, rain and wind cooler than
inside ceiling fans chased humidity off to the swamps, past the
clearing and log camp, around by the Flying Eagle

where you two sold 'shine and fish sandwiches. hard to believe you
ever set foot in a jook joint, but Uncle Charles and Uncle Leroy drove
me and Huey and Spanky past the spot last time we had a reunion.
Up the road, near Bogalusa, we all stood by the tree Grandpa hit
when the Klan ambushed him. Fools thought they could kill a deputized
veteran moonshining farmer easy as that? Imagine if Grandpa had two legs.

almost a century since you married, decades since you passed we Joneses
have become Grahams and Saintens and more, left and returned, fought in
wars, buried our young and old. We no longer work the land, citified and
spread in every direction; but we still depend on those roads to bring us home, on the rain and wind to stave off heat, on those trees to sing with cicadas
on afternoons like the ones we shared before you went home to God

I don't know where exactly I'm going with this. Any comments? Click the "send props or gripes" link above. Thanks.

for Pearlie Jones

you were here the last time. sitting on the porch, looking
across the road named after grandpa to cousin huey's fields
and the darkening sky. we listened to the

afternoon ricochet between earth and heaven. cicadas
thundered and the rains came cooler than inside
ceiling fans caked with dust.

testimonial

my man knew Un-American
oxymorons better than
they knew themselves

and did not edit
his words in margins
of errant ideology

I have a cynical streak mitigated by a sense of humor, as exemplified in this poem by Roque Dalton:

OAS

The President of my country
is called for the moment Colonel Fidel Sanchez Hernandez
But General Somoza, President of Nicaragua,
also is President of my country.
And President Stroessner, President of Paraguay,
is also a little the President of my country, though less
than the President of Honduras, namely
General Lopez Arellano, and more than the President of Haiti,
Monsieur Duvalier.
And the President of the United States is more President of my country
than the President of my country,
that one who, as I said, is for the moment
called Colonel Fidel Sanchez Hernandez.

Ta-Nehisi Coates writes with fire, not ink or binary code. I've enjoyed/winced at his stuff for years. So it comes as no surprise that Bill Cosby gets lit up in the Village Voice after waxing ridiculous about "the lower economic people" last week at a gala event commemorating the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education.

(On background: earlier Coates articles)

Here's a nice little story about a movie I won't see for a while (no cable, friends): Something the Lord Made. It's about the first successful open heart surgery, performed by a white surgeon and a black lab technician.

Or, was it Dr. Daniel Hale Willliams who performed the first successful open heart surgery? That's what I always heard, about once a year, usually during Black History Month.

(NOTE: This post was inspired by NPR)

nudistry

clad in shadows
stitched with fear,

i hear you
coax me to the light.

threadbare, i
give my cloke

to you, with
love, nakedly

(see Matthew 5:39-40)

There's this big ol' San Diego Experience Map that I brainstormed last year. It includes about a eighty bulleted items in four categories: family, family friends, friends, and memories.

The idea is to write a poem or sketch an idea for each bulleted item. Here's an extended sketch of Mr. Sweet. I'm still undecided whether I'll go with liking or not liking him in the poem. As of this writing, I'm trying to have it both ways.

The Ice Cream Man Cometh
Mr. Sweet lied to us
(used an alias)
gave us candy
our parents said not to eat
rotted out our teeth and made
us go to the dentist
left sticky fingers, wrappers
and stained shirts in his wake

but I still felt sorry for Mr. Sweet
when Papa Joe rolled into the
neighborhood with big fresh hot
glazed chocolate filled donuts

Mr. Sweet was no gentleman, lying as he did to children through an alias of confection. Against our parents’ orders, he contrived to shove candy down our throats, rot our teeth, ruin our appetite for dinner, and to make us spend what little allowance we got on his grab bags, sour balls, and pixie sticks. Mr. Sweet was a menace.

I didn’t feel sorry for Mr. Sweet when Papa Joe rolled into the neighborhood with fresh, glazed donuts and enough candy to make Willy Wonka blanch. We all rushed across the street from Mr. Sweet’s jalopy to crown our new king. A twinge of guilt I failed to stop made me turn and look, let me see Mr. Sweet crying. But I didn’t go back, and now Mr. Sweet is dead.

I’m sorry I ditched you, Mr. Sweet, so I could stand at Papa Joe’s window and smell the fresh donuts that were only really fresh for the first few stops in the neighborhood. And his grab bags cost more for less; I never got army men with a parachutes or whistle-pops, just a lot of pixie sticks and rock hard gum. He didn't remember our names, or make us laugh like you did. I don't need to know your real name to know how nice you were to me, to all of us, before that charlatan lured us away.

"clinical poetry"

inertia exhausting as
depression, dizzying as fear.

i pass out and come to
without blinking, dust off

and start again, running
through dense fog

that seems stronger
than any sun i ever knew.

A work in progress...
“untitled”

we have all run away:
from the law in St. Louis to a new name
in the Louisiana bayou;
from the farm to metropoles and military tours
in every war of the 20th Century.

we have all run away:
great-grandpa’s steed; grandpa’s bootleg-mobile;
grandmas from their fathers’ homes,
but never from their children, who could not bear to stay;
shotgun houses turned to kindling

when they ran away:
tired of always running; generations running on empty,
in place, in circles, out of breath;
almost run-down. always running into walls they could feel,
but not touch.

I was sent this link as part of one of those emails you receive at work, that has nothing to do with work, that actually leads to a deviation from work. You know the type.

If you are at work reading this, click on and take a break... 3rd Grade Test.


I haven't gone back and edited the Feb. 17th poem yet. I look at it now and see how sad and resigned I was at the time I wrote it. What I'm searching for, through that poem, is the hope that underlies the momentary loss of hope. It's there, and I'll find it. And I'll write it, too.

Peace.

State of the District 2004 (draft)
for Jahkema Princess Hansen (14) and James Richardson (17)

there's nothing new about this story
nothing new about parents rushing to a
DC public school where one student has been shot,

another killed. we know that beefs lead
to tragedies, that the coldly inspired
find ways around security checkpoints.

sadly enough, the shock seems familiar
as again, the victims' essential goodness
and potential could not shield them

from the bullets, or stop the blood, or
prevent the screaming friends' trauma, or
help us hope this won't happen again

especially when the next day cops stop a fourteen
year old child driving a car who carries a handgun
and a mac-11 with a full clip tucked in his sweatshirt

while the mayor, school board president, council
members and school officials sit in Ballou's gym
fielding questions from residents whose grief-stricken

pleas embody the real State of the District

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!

coming on the heels of the holiday season, a poem (go figure!)

"after Sunrise Service"
mom's commute and dad's schedule
gave us plenty time to peel and peek
at gifts stashed in their closet

the knowing as exciting as tearing open
silent morning; never mind Santa--
no snow or chimneys this year in San Diego,

just a basketball, Stretch Armstrong, Simon Says,
and soon-to-be-broken toys unlike any
my parents had growing up

in Louisiana, before migrating West where we
danced ankle-deep in wrapping paper
every year, after Sunrise Service.

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

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

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

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"