Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Summer Madness


Sunlight pries open my
eyelids like
a newborn’s head
squeezing through
recently-lost virginity.
Heat burns my
thinking
to a slow drip
like the sweat
under my armpits

Summer in the city…

Hydrant relief
until the house burns down.
Cocoanut piraguas
dripping sweetness
down skinny
dark-skinned arms.
Box-fans offer
token resistance
in 15 story tenements
clustered together,
baking
like the beef patties
Mr. Hershel sells
at the corner bodega.

“Stay out the sun,
it’ll make you black!”

told to countless children
of all shades
in all languages
by those who know…

Coolness only
comes with the
night
but...
darkness has it’s price.
Many who sought
the coolness
in a late-night stroll
have disappeared
into the abyss
of blackness.
Only to be uncovered
by the
redundancy of
summer madness.

Tempers short
as the fuse
that connects
palm to cheek
fist to belly
foot to ass.
Explosions of
heat-fueled
rage
that kill
quicker than
raindrops
drying on pavement.
Drop-top Chevy’s
cruise avenues
of malevolence.
The price of life
is lowered
as the temperature
is raised.

Summer in the city…

A migration
of brown
moves toward
the shore
seeking oceanic
solace
from coffin-like
housing projects
where death walks
close to the buildings.

Backyard bar-b-que
brings together
cousins grown fat
by winter’s
ice-o-lay-tion.
Future generations
gestate
in wombs
made thick
by the midnight
liaisons
of some other
long-ago season.
Uncles and aunts
drink too much
and bring up
issues
that have masked
deeper issues
of past Decembers.

Summer in the city…

The Family


Once upon a time
Our branches spread in all directions
Our roots grew deep
Fruit was lush, ripe
And plentiful

But now…

The soil has been tainted
With the blood of the
Diaspora...

The limbs are barren
and only poison fruit falls


too
far



from the tree

...must be something we can do


years of waiting…

counting tears like so many stars
bodies like blades of grass…
what can we do to stop
the slaughter of the innocent
the incarceration of our hope
the miseducation of our future
the inebriation of our leaders

have we come this far
in time
and space
only to be
left out
only to be
clowns in a circus
or
horses in a race
did nat turner
and
marcus garvey
and
charles drew
and
medgar evers
live
for
nothing
has the spirit of
our story
been tricked out of us
or have we gladly
traded our birthright
for assimilation
and
inclusion into
a club
where we were hired to be
busboys
and maids

struggle we must
nothing is greater than
the peace we seek
or
the truth we know

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Toolie


Jimola sat on the edge of his bed breathing hard. He had just run up seven flights of stairs, past his mom in the living room watching TV and into his bedroom. His pulse was racing. His hands were sweaty. He could actually hear the blood in his head pounding in his eardrums. He felt an icy excitement.
“Boy, why are you running in this house like that?”
“Nuthin’ Ma, just playin’ outside.”
Jimola listened for a moment to make sure his mother wasn’t coming into his room. When he was satisfied that she was satisfied with his answer, he reached under his sweatshirt and pulled it out. It felt heavy in his hands and was kind of slippery. The rain was coming down pretty hard outside and he wondered if that had damaged it at all.
“It” was a .380 caliber semi-automatic pistol. It was shiny black with a brown grip. Jimola wrapped the bottom of his sweatshirt around the gun and dried it off carefully. He didn’t know if it was loaded or not. After all, this was his first gun; he didn’t want to blow his own head off trying to clean the damn thing.
When he finally got it dry, Jimola held the gun in his hand and pointed it at his reflection in the bedroom mirror.
“Bang, bang”, he said. Damn, I look mean, he thought. He pulled his hood up over his head. He looked in the mirror and whispered, “What you lookin’ at fool?” he pointed the gun again. Yeah! It wasn’t so heavy now. As a matter of fact, it felt just right. Still looking in the mirror, Jimola tucked the gun into the waistband of his baggy pants. He pulled his sweatshirt down over it to see if there was a bulge. He saw nothing. He smiled, lifted up his sweatshirt with one hand & with the other arm in a sort of shrug away from his body and said to the mirror, “Oh, we got a problem here? We got a problem nigguh?”
To Jimola he was the perfect image of the “roughneck”. Anyone else watching this little boy acting tough in front of a mirror would have probably thought that this kid had seen one too many movies. They would not have been far from the truth either, because Jimola’s favorite thing in the whole wide world was movies. And he loved the gangsters. The bad guys appealed to him the most because they were everything he wanted to be and could never be.
Jimola’s father had died of a heart attack when he was three years old and his mother was forced to move into the projects and raise Jimola on her own. She raised her son up sheltered from the outside as much as possible, she taught him to be kind and gentle, to share and love his little friends in the building. But in the Unity Houses in the East New York section of Brooklyn, kindness is often taken for weakness, and the other boys labeled Jimola “soft”. Even now that he was fourteen, a man in this neighborhood, Jimola was still a good kid. When the other boys were shooting each other and trying to grow up all in one big step. He went to school everyday and came home to do his homework and watch TV. The kids at school called him a “track star” because he ran more then he fought. He was always running….
Well, those days were over now. Now he would get his “props” in the neighborhood. Because now he had a jammie, a burner, a toolie! That’s what the kid’s in his building called their guns, a tool or a toolie, because with it you could “put in work”.
Jimola sat down on the bed again to examine the gun more closely. At the top, on one side there was a small switch. He moved the switch and it released the magazine clip from the bottom. Jimola then pulled back the slide at the top of the gun, like he had seen Sonny Crockett do on re-runs of Miami Vice, it moved smoothly with a loud click at the end. He loved it. He also knew that the gun was empty now. Although Jimola had never had a gun before he had seen enough of them on TV & in the movies to know that this was an automatic that took a clip & that you had to pull the slide back to put a bullet in the chamber or take one out. He raised his mattress and put the gun & the ammunition clip at the top near where his head would be, dropped it back into place & went into the bathroom to start his bath.
“You hungry, Jimola?” his mom called from the living room. “I left you some fish sticks and French fries on the stove.”
“OK ma”, Jimola loved his mother, she was always looking out for him, but now he had to start looking out for himself he thought. He gobbled the warm food while the tub filled with hot soapy water.
Afterwards, Jimola lay on his bed thinking hard. How he had come by this weapon was pure luck. He was coming home from the store, when he saw that kid Rock and his crew standing in front of the building. As usual they were drinking those big bottles of beer and “slinging” crack. They thought that they owned this small piece of earth in front of Jimola’s building. In reality they might as well be the owners, because they sold drugs all day and night like they had a license to do so. Rock and his boys did whatever they wanted to do, whenever they wanted. Between running from the cops and the occasional shoot-outs with the other crews, these boys were the kings of their own little kingdom, a half-block long. They would live and die right here; never knowing what life outside of Brooklyn was really like. They were prisoners of a society they did not create, trapped by their own decisions.
Jimola watched these boys in front of the building and knew that they would never let him pass without a hassle, so he ducked into the bushes along the side of the building. The shrubbery was about 2ft. high and went all the way around to within three feet of the entrance. It was already dark outside and Jimola figured that if he stayed low he could make it inside without being seen. “Damn, look at me,” he thought, “got to sneak in my own house!” But he’d rather sneak then risk a confrontation with Rock. After all, Rock was known thru-out the projects for his one punch knockout power.
It had been raining off and on all day and as Jimola was duck walking towards the front door, it was coming down pretty steady. He thought of himself, just then, as a real duck, trying to make it back to the safe nest before the hungry wolves devoured him (It would be years before he would understand how true his thoughts were). A loud screeching sound startled him back to reality.
Jimola turned just in time to see the cops pull up to were the boys were standing. The boys scattered with the two cops going after the ones they wanted. One of the boys, a crazy kid they called CJ, was running right towards the spot where Jimola was now hiding. Like the little duck that he was Jimola was frozen with fear and at any moment expected this boy to come crashing down on top of him. Instead, CJ cut right and started around the building. When he turned, he threw something in the bushes and almost hit Jimola right in the face. The gun just stayed right in the bushes. Stuck! It seemed to just hover in mid-air, two inches from his face. Jimola stayed in the bushes until the coast was clear. He grabbed the gun and ran upstairs.
Now as Jimola lay in his bed, he was having a bitter struggle within. Everything that he was ever taught told him to get rid of the gun. But peer pressure and the influences of the outside world told him that he needed a gun. Deep down inside, the gun frightened him. He was also thrilled thinking about the power that it could give him. Damn! This was crazy! He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
“I’ll keep it until tomorrow.” He said to no one. “Then I’ll decide what to do.”
Jimola rolled over and closed his eyes, but it was a long time before he fell asleep.

The next day Jimola toyed with the thought of taking his new “toolie” to school. Then he remembered the metal detectors. Since the shooting of two students at his school, Thomas Jefferson, they had put metal detectors at the front doors. He loaded the clip in the gun and put it back under his mattress. He had decided to keep it “just in case…”
On the way to school he saw Rock and the other boys who had run from the cops the night before. They were crowded around the front of the building in almost the exact same spot. ‘Nothing changes’, thought Jimola. As he walked around the boys, the aroma of the “blunts” they were smoking filled the early morning air and his nostrils. Jimola looked at the boys and frowned. It was involuntary, he meant nothing by it, but that kid Rock was looking right at him. And in this world of low self-esteem, self-hate and false pride, a frown was a show of disrespect.
“Yo man! What ‘cha lookin’ at?” Rock was staring right at Jimola. As a matter of fact, all four of the boys were staring now.
“Take yo’ butt to school, sissy!” They all started laughing. Jimola’s eyes held Rock’s for a split second and Jimola thought to himself, “One of these days I’m gonna have ta’ bust a cap in your ass.” He turned and started walking to school, the blunt smoke and laughter drifting behind him.
After school, Jimola was walking home with a girl who lived next door to him. Her name was Liz and she was a nice, cute friendly person. Jimola liked her a lot. A couple of times at school he wanted to tell someone about his new found courage, at home under his mattress, but he didn’t. Now on the way home he wanted to tell Liz. He wanted to impress her and let her know that he was someone to be respected now. No longer was he a “track star.” The more he thought about it, the more he decided not to tell her. She seemed to like him already, anyway. She probably wouldn’t understand and he might scare her away. So, he just smiled and listened to her talk.
As they approached the front of the building, Jimola spotted them. It seemed like there were more of them now. The sun was shining and the courtyard was full of people. Jimola and Liz threaded their way thru all the people and came abreast of the boys. Jimola heard somebody call his name, he turned and saw Rock standing there smiling.
“Hey, Jimola….” Jimola kept walking.
“Who’s that pretty girl?” His heart was beating really fast now. He felt Liz grab his arm.
“C’mon Jimola,” she said.
“Yeah, go on Jimola. You and that little bitch better get in the house.”
Jimola spun around and got right in Rock’s face, “She ain’t no bitch, man.” He snarled.
Rock kept smiling, “What’cha gonna do man?”
Jimola shrugged and said, “Whatever.”
Rock’s face hardened. He stepped back and threw a round house right at Jimola’s head. Jimola ducked the wild punch and pushed Rock as hard as he could. Rock flew back and fell into the other boys. Jimola turned and ran into the building. A beer bottle crashed on the pavement behind him. Jimola heard the angry shouts of the boys as he dashed up the stairs. He was scared but he was mad too! Rock had “dissed” him in front of Liz and that was the last straw! He would show them all that he was not to be messed with anymore. He got to his door and stabbed his key at the lock three times before he got the door open. He could hear them coming into the building making all kinds of noise. He ran into the bedroom and got the gun. He was fuming! In a split second he had made up his mind to shoot them all. Anyone who came into the hall would be fair game. Jimola went to the open door with the gun in his hand. He peeked out around the corner to see if they had reached his floor yet. The hallway was quiet. He stepped out and started towards the stairway. Jimola pulled the door open and stared down into the darkness. The crack heads had smashed the lights out so many times; they were never put back in. He could now hear voices down below him. Jimloa was out of his mind. He was beyond reason, beyond fear. He was determined to finish this here and now. He pressed his body against the wall, both arms stiff out in front of him with the gun in his hands. He whispered thru clenched teeth over and over, “I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna kill you.” It was as if by saying it again and again he could justify his insanity. He reached the landing just as the door swung open. Jimola pointed the gun and closed his eyes. He pulled the trigger three times…
Jimola’s ears were filled with the sounds of screaming, his own as well as someone else’s, but no sounds of gunfire. He was not aware that he was still pulling the trigger and the gun was just clicking, not firing (he had forgot to pull back the slide).
In the open doorway stood Jimola’s mother, behind her stood Liz. When he opened his eyes, their terror filled gazes met his. He lowered the gun and the screaming stopped. All of the life seemed to drain out of him. He slid down the wall until his rear-end thudded on the floor. When Jimola realized how close he had come to shooting his mom and Liz, his body began to shake. His shoulders heaved with the loud sobs that he suddenly could not stop. The tears flowed freely. His face was a mask of pain, fear, and anger.
Rock and two of his crew were coming up the stairs; they stopped when they saw Jimola on the floor and the two women in the doorway. The only sound on the landing was Jimola’s crying. Nobody moved. The tension hung in the air tight and thick. Finally, Rock walked over to where Jimola sat, he looked down at the sobbing boy and then at Jimola’s mother. He squatted and put his face inches from Jimola’s. His voice was not loud, but in the empty hallway everyone could hear him clearly.
“Don’t try to be hard when you ain’t hard. Just be what you is, man.” Rock snatched the gun from Jimola’s hand, “Leave the rough stuff to the real gangsters.” He got up and turned towards the two women. He spoke to Jimola’s mother, “He’ll be alright. Just take him home, we ain’t gonna do nuthin’ to him.” The three teenaged boys turned and walked down the steps into the darkness, to deal with whatever destiny awaited them.
Jimola pushed himself up and away from the wall. His mom came over and put her arms around him and now she couldn’t stop crying. She cried as much for her son as for all black boys who were forced to grow up too fast. She cried for all of the families who were forced to bury their babies in a society that didn’t seem to care. Jimola looked at Liz and she had a sad look on her face.
“Come on,” he said, and the three of them walked up the stairs and into the apartment. Liz was carrying a newspaper, but dropped it before the door closed. The paper was folded in half and if someone was looking, they would have seen an article that read: “Firearm Homicide No.1 Killer of Black Men Ages 15 to 34.”

Small arms


Oh Motherland!!!

Conflict has given birth to a
Kalashnikov culture

Little arms
too small to reach
a blackboard
have grown big enough
to hold
the small arms
AR-15
9 mm
RPG

little fingers gripping a
hand grenade
or
an M-16
land mines disguised as toys
and of course the ubiquitous
AK-47

Babies playing
war for real
school is out
no food
no medicine
no family
only
small arms

Gangsterism from the west
has moved to the east
no music videos here
this soundtrack
comes from the cries
of the displaced

the marred

the dead

Little arms
in Detroit
reaching for little arms
in West Afrika
too short
to save each other
But
just the right size for
small arms

Cocaine mixed with gunpowder
is all they get
Keep ‘em moving
marching to
someone else’s agenda

Shoot to kill
Shoot to eat
Shoot to
grow up

amerikkka will not send food
nor troops
nor books
nor medicine…
only guns
and
more guns.
amerikkka will cry about
nukes in Korea
while
selling small arms
in
Angola
Cameroon
Kenya
Libya
Republic of Congo
Rwanda
Sierra Leone
Liberia
Sudan
Uganda


120,000 babies
with small arms
big enough to
kill

Children will do as they see
or
as they are trained
or
as they are beaten
to do…

The lords of war have spoken
and decreed that
THESE children
these AFRIKAN children
are not as important
as
diamonds
or oil
or timber
or the
millions
and
millions
and
millions of dollars
that small arms bring

Diamond smuggling
and arms trafficking
funded by oil revenues
create enough space
for Afrikan children
to fall
into.

This is nothing new
this Motherland has
ALWAYS
been the target
of the greedy
the amoral
the heartless
(they’re making a killing)
Why should black lives mean
anything now?

In Huston
Newark
Los Angeles
Boston
Atlanta
Miami
Chicago
Brooklyn
St. Louis
Black children
bring the noise
and
the profiteers
Profit
from our death

A line has been
drawn in blood
from
South Central
to
South Afrika

The sale of small arms
have made them
fat with riches
and in the end
there are no such things
as stray bullets
because…

they all have names on them.

©2006 swing first productions

Friday, May 18, 2007

Had it up to here


they got some fancy names for it:


“Safer Streets Program”


“Weed N Seed”


“Pro-Active Squad”


it all spells
OCCUPATION
(to me)
‘cause all they want is
EXTERMINATION
(of me)

I saw one of them jump-out boys
with a tee-shirt
that said
“Boyz On The Hood”
had a picture of
a black kid with
his arms on the top
of a
police cruiser

Ha, ha

but excuse me if
I don’t laugh…
says a lot ‘bout the
mindset of those
who protect & serve
others…

who will protect and serve
us
from
them?

my boss was so
surprised
when I told him
the cops stopped me
yesterday,
he said,
“where you speeding?”

Liberal Motherfucker!!! Was I speeding??
how could I
explain to him
that
in amerikkka,
this type’a
shit happens e'ryday…

he’s the same cat
who asked me if
I saw brokeback mountain
and
whose face turned
beet-red
when I said
“for what?”

Damn,
this place
has people
thinking from
totally different
perspectives
when
we’re
all
just
people…
right???

helicopters overhead
sounding like the beat
of the latest
club jam,
flashing lights,
screaming sirens,
I’ve been in this disco
before…
(you can find
me in the club…)
…party people!!!

why is it easier
to shoot me
than it is
to shoot
them???

So,
they say
they are gonna
“TAKE BACK THE STREETS”
Punk-ass!!!
you never had ‘em

this is our hood!!

we can do this
ourselves!!!

we have
FOI
and
BPP
and
BLA
and
100 Black Men
and
Black Mothers for Peace
and
Afrikan Peoples Action Party
and
churches
and
mosques
we have
the spirit
of
Che
and
Assata
and
Nkrumah
and
Nefertiti
and
Muhammad
and
Jesus


but first…


we start with
YOU

© 2006 swing first productions

ODE TO MR. KELLY (9th grade his-story teacher)


Now tell me how this came to be
That YOU could teach MY history
That you knew how the pyramids were built
When you were in Europe wearing a kilt

You called my people primitive
And said your ancients knew how to live
Misinformed me that I had no past
That God chose you first and made me be last

Your story said we would always need
Then you hung us when we learned to read
You invented the Klan to keep us in line
Then took from me what you KNEW was mine

Convinced my children that we came from slaves
So who were the men that lived in the caves?
You taught me that Africa was an uncivilized land
This bold-faced lie had me not take a stand

Now it’s time to right the wrong
And all I get from you is a song
About how it’s racist to be pro-me
And learn the things you refuse to see

You say my research is not too tight
While you steal the truth like a thief in the night
Now you take my walk, my talk, my throne
Spin it around and call it your own

You refused to teach me knowledge of self
Stole my story to hide on a shelf
What was worse then that and not even the least
You moved Egypt from Africa into the Middle East

Mana Musa, Imhotep and Queen-Tiye
All of our ancestors helped lead the way
In February you allot us time to teach, see and hear
So how come it’s the shortest month in the year?

Now tell me how this came to be
That the ones who lied can now teach me

© 2004 swing first productions

Resistance Day

Today’s the day we pay homage to those who said,

NO!

I was never taught
that we fought back
I was told we were cursed
for being black
that we just sang and
went along.

(But, they didn’t know the power in that
song.)

Swing low, sweet chariot
coming for to carry me
home.
Today is the day we’ve begun
to learn how we DID resist
in more ways than one.
We sang messages of flight
we sewed quilts to give
directions to the
Light.

Non-violent protest some did well…
dog-bit
police-hit
people-spit
head-split
knocked down
kicked around
jail-bound
must have been a living hell…

Armed struggle,
some went that way
Nat Turner was one
who seized the day.

Got a gun
was on the run
revolt begun


Saw the light
had to fight
for the right
just
to be
free.


We found many ways to say
Hell no!

the poem
the essay
the dance
the play

Hell no!

the movie
the prayer
the music
the stare

Hell no!

Today is Resistance Day!
Celebrate those who came our way!

Cinque on The Amistad
Kwame Nkrumah revolutionary god
Harriet Tubman said run or die
John Brown, the white man asked, “Why?”
Bob Marley sang a redemption song
Fredrick Douglas wrote to right the wrong
Jonathan Jackson tried to free brother George
Angela Davis
took the guns across the gorge
Chuck D said, “fight the power!”
Malcolm was on point every hour
John Carlos raised a Black glove
ML King tried to teach love
Arthur Ashe kept it real
Nation Of Islam said don’t steal
Fred Hampton murdered in his bed
Assata Shakur: one cop dead
Mumia Abu Jamal still on death row
Marcus Garvey said it’s time to go
Chuckie Afirca was on the MOVE
Gil Scott-Heron sang a protest groove
Countless, faceless, nameless others
who died to free our sisters and brothers

Today is Resistance Day!

© 2004 swing first productions

TRIBUTE


Not many know what used to go down
in the basement of 2648 W. Grand Blvd.
Few knew
it would change shit
forever.

They were fearless
deadly revolutionaries
who understood the
heartbeat of the street.
And they,
who went
nameless for years,
(most folks today still ain’t hip)
…who saw the future
and framed it with their
own ubiquitous flava,

played on…

Without them there would
have been no Hitsville, USA.
They had the love
so,
they did what they did
without recognition by us.
Only their peers
called them
GENIOUS.
Fame was not their goal.
They thumped just because
the loved it.
In that dark
tight
basement
the MOTOWN SOUND
was created.
Through cesarean effort
everything had to be done
in 1
take, because
there were only
3 tracks
back then.
Churning & burning
hit
after hit after
hit after
hit.
More than
elvis
the beatles
the rolling stones
and the beach boys
combined.
In the basement
Studio-A
they honed their craft.
The other artists called it
“The Snake Pit”
for down there
sinewy, slithering, lethal
grooves uncoiled and
sprang to life.
It’s said that nothing good
can come out of a dungeon
but those of us who have
been in the
darkest of holes
know how to bring forth
the light
in spight…
It’s what we do
It’s who we are
It’s why we exist…
And still
hardly anyone knows
who they are!
Their work fathered
generations of superstars.
Their fruit
made millions
for others.
Without them
“My Girl” would’ve
just been another poem.
“You Can’t Hurry Love”
would be just
a phrase on a
bathroom wall.
They gave the words
bounce.
They gave the spirit
SOUND.
They gave Detroit
an identity
and in turn gave us all
life.
They knew the NEED
for “Dancing In The Street”
It was their sound
that gave definition
to a decade.
Pistol-shot snares,
boogalo bongos,
wah-wah guitar licks
and that bass,
oh shit
that bass thumped
to the turbulent
beat of OUR pain…
Their sound was, is, and will forever
be remembered by one word:
SOUL.

So,
we go on
and we praise Berry Gordy
and the stars of Motown
for all the hits and all the memories
and all the babies who were
conceived to
“Your Precious Love”
But
while listening to the opening
bass-line of
“Papa Was A Rolling Stone”
we must remember them
those cats who played the music.
Joe Hunter
Earl Van Dyke
Eddie Willis
Eddie Brown
Bennie Benjamin
James Jamerson
Jack Ashford
Joe Messina
Uriel Jones
Some dead
some not
some mentioned here
some not
All collectively known as
The Funk Brothers…

© 2005 swing first productions

Voodoo on MLK


Manchile’


too much life
too soon.


Our paths crossed by
The Will.
I,
your helper
You,
my case
and
somehow we became
more
so much more.
My arms were
too short to
stop you.
Your destiny had been chosen
and I tried to
keep it from
being yours…
but my arms were too short.
Who was I to think
I could make a difference.
That I could catch
time
and
make it stop
so you would not
become another one.
Maybe
it was because
I saw me
mine
yours
OURS
or
maybe
it was because
I could not
accept the
labels:
incorrigible,
personality disorder,
slow,
bad,
troubled,
at-risk,
or
maybe it was
just my damn job.
They said your survival was
doomed from the start.
No father,
alcoholic DD mother,
poor,
black,
nappy-headed,
Manchile’
I, we, us
have failed you
another
labeled-one
riddled
with nine bullets.
Who could shoot
another chile’
nine times???
(probably another chile’)
your mother asked
“why couldn’t you save
my chile’…”
and I had no reply
I couldn’t tell
her you were just
another case to me.
Because
you weren’t.


(dedicated to Robert E. Simmons, III 7/18/90-10/6/05)
© 2005 swing first productions

4 Nikki


Lovin you
is like hearing Trane blow
Letting it go
up & down
all around
damn, I love your
natural sound

smile another tune
for me
cry another note
your body is a
sexaphone
on sheets of sound
you float

African Brass
Ole
My Favorite Things
Afro Blue
Giant Steps
your lips have given me wings

to fly into
the face of
oppression

my obsession

is your song

© 2004 swing first productions

dance wit me

you come up
as I go down…

back arched

knees bent

hissing like
a snake….

sunlight peeks thru
the drawn shades
just enough to
make your skin
glow with sweat

rhythm of the ages
we do the oldest dance
known to man

our eyes never close
as we stare…

intent

willful

deep

hot

no need for words here
just looks
and
sounds…

natural nails
dig into natural
black back

sometimes I bleed

but
right now
who cares…
just
dance wit’ me, baby

© 2005 swing first productions

Daddy Why?


*inspired by questions my daughters have asked over the years*


Daddy why does the moon always shine so bright?
Daddy why does it only come out in the night?
Daddy why do I have to go to school?
Daddy what is this thing called, “The Golden Rule?
Daddy why do we have to pray every day?
Daddy why can’t I just go outside and play?
Daddy why is a rock not soft, but hard?
Daddy how come we don’t eat food made with lard?
Daddy why do my sisters always seem so mean?
Daddy why is a ‘feeling’ something I’ve never seen?
Daddy why can’t I eat dinner in front of the TV?
Daddy how long is a river and how deep is the sea?
Daddy what is gristle and what is bone?
Daddy how long will it take before I get grown?
Daddy what makes an airplane fly in the sky?
Daddy who shot my cousin and why did he die?
Daddy why do the whites say that they hate the blacks?
Daddy why does a sidewalk have so many cracks?
Daddy what do you mean by, “We must be free?”
Daddy if you go away who’ll take care of me?

Daddy I love it when you kiss my cheek,
So don’t get mad when I have to speak.

And ask all the questions I have in my mind,
‘cause you have the answers that I need to find.

When I start talking, don’t act so blue,
cause I’d be lost….
If it weren’t for you.


© 2004 swing first productions

CULTURAL COMPETENCE

First things first:

Acknowledge your
Incompetence
when it comes to your
feeble attempts at understanding
Blackbrownredyellowother people

While you hold tight to your
Clint-Eastwood-make-my-own-rules-individualism
We understand
the law of community
and that
what’s good for the family is best

Your guilt of the past
will not lessen the burden of our distrust

Excuse me if I don’t stand for the Pledge

Colin Ferguson was crazy…
but I understand why his insanity
grew into violence

And when you say,
“Why can’t we all just be americans?”
I know that you want us to just act like
we are all the same
(white)
and forget about the past
So that you never have to feel
responsible
for what you created

…and now we have
Cultural Competency Training
“let’s all sit down and dialog about
our differences”
but when I speak
I’m met with
stares
blinks
closed mouths & minds
you still can’t feel me

…why am I here?
when
YOU need the training

© 2007 swing first productions

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Not another love poem



no, I will not speak to you of
summer breezes
white sandy beaches
long
slow
walks
in the rain
erotic daydreams
or
hot, steamy nights
of passion.
I will not name a song
after you
nor write an ode to
your body.
I will not describe
the smell of your hair
the color of your skin
the touch of your lips
nor
the taste of your “nectar”
I will not sing the lament
of losing you
nor the joy
of your
eventual return.
I will not pen a scribe about
your hot
wet
you-know-what
nor will i write about
our first time
together
and how electric
it was
because this is not another love poem.

i will write about
your
sunday-morning-made-from-scratch
pancakes,
toe rings that shine
in the check-out line
and
hair that you
let me wash.
I will sing praises
to
the way you tolerate
my ego
and how you
accept me
as I am
even when I don’t
reciprocate
or
of the way
you tell your mother,
“No, he’s too tired
to take you to
the store right now.”
I will record forever
the strength
and power
of our
day to day
existence together
because of the
realness
of you.
I will speak of
the way our
daughters
look
and
act in public
as they emulate
their role model
I will shout to the world
of your willingness to
carry a nation on your back
or a carbine on your shoulder.
I will write an epic
about the tear
you shed
when you saw
the police hit
another mother’s son
or about how you
rub my feet
for no other reason
then the fact that
they’re mine
because
this is not another love poem.


© 2005 swing first productions.

All Is Fair


my radar is jumping
blip…blip…blip
catching your
cosmic echoes
as they bounce
from your
stiletto heels
on the cracked pavement
blip…blip…blip
the air becomes
thick
and
hot
with your scent
(red diamond
coupled with
you-juice)
blip…blip…blip
beads of moisture
begin to form
on the
bridge of my nose
you are within range…

mentally going into
pursue-mode,
my cruise missile
begins preparation
as the hair
on my arms
start to tingle
blip…blip…blip
you have been
the target
for
months
using your stealth
to fly below
my radar
but now…
blip…blip…blip
I have picked
up your
signal
and there is
no way
you can escape
blip…blip…blip
locked-on
I prepare for
contact
as you
cross the street
eyes cast down,
avoiding traffic
BLIP…BLIP…BLIP
I maneuver
into position
loaded and ready
(Fire One)

“Hello”

startled by my offensive
you look up
and pause for a moment
time and
space
collide…
our eyes meet
frozen for an
eternity
wedding, marriage,
children,
life and
death
come and go
in an instant
(Direct hit!)
your smile
is red-hot
from the
explosion

“Hi”
as you slowly
move on
down the street.
(Fire Two)
“YO!!!”

turning slightly
captivated,
by this
full-frontal assault
you begin to realize
that surrender is
inevitable

“Can I see you later?”

my fingers tremble
slightly…
(a true warrior
is never relaxed
in battle)

you attempt
to gain some
amount
of normalcy
and try to move on
but
it’s over
and
you know it…


“I’ll be back”
(Direct Hit!)



© 2006 swing first productions

Where we are


That first time I saw you…
You were coming from the mailbox
with this little dress on
and legs so long
they went all the way
from your ass to the ground,
and white sandals.…
I noticed your
toe rings.
Sunlight and you,
a great combination.
Heat plus heat
made my
uh…body
start to warm.
Your smile said
it was ok to
speak.
So,
I mustered
the smoothest,
coldest line I could think of:
“Good morning.”
Your eyes caught the line
and your lips sang,
“Good morning”
right back at me.
Wordplay escaped me as
your confident stride
knocked me
off balance…for a second.
But I came back
like the strong cat I be:
“Thass ah nice dress
you got on.”
Your rhythm
was flawless
and your aim
precise as you played right back at me:
“Thank you.
I see it had the effect I wanted.”
Your smile never wavered as Iwatched you
glide
away…
Damn,
all that
and
game too!
Well…
That was some years ago,
and time has
s l o w l y
ripened us both
but,
I’m still
digging
the cool in you.
Like,this afternoon
when I called
to ask you if you could
fix me a sandwich
for lunch:
Hey baby, I’m hungry,
can you fix me something?”
Without missing a beat,
like Mongo Santamaria
your wordplay
massaged an
old player’s
game:
“Yeah, I can do that
for you, but…What can you do
for me?”
Shit!
All I want is
some lunch…but
Game recognizes Game:
“I only got an hour,
and
you know how I do.”
I forgot
I was dealing
with
a pro:
“Bring what you
got, daddy,
I can make it work.”
…some things
never change.
Thank God!!

Tan


tasty brown skin
smooth as silk

(I love to bite yo’ butt)

ubiquitous tan
massages my cheeks
as I peek…

inside

flava of the month
is cocoa-mocha-latta-yaya
wide hips
thick lips
dark tips

wet licks

your living color
excites me
causing me to
create new and
improved tactics
to please
to tease
to squeeze…

there is
liberation
in your skin
I am set free
while kissing
your knee…

rigid king that
I am…
I love to have you
sit on
my throne
while
the Tan
unfolds

color me bad
when the
Tan
glows
just right…

your
Tan
is the hue
of an Usher tune
it has
the
tint
of a
Ray Charles
smile
your shade of
Tan
causes
MY tsunami....

you wear
your skin so
proud
my hands have
a mind of their own

that’s why

I love
to
leave the lights on…

rebound


Acute weakness in the knees

as I thought love

would never

come again…


My paradigm has shifted

to include

you.


Forlorn soul

that I am.


Constantly

guarding against

the hurt of yesterday’s

reservoir of bad connections.


My intention was

to steer clear

of your heart’s crusade.


Little did I know.