Friday, June 19, 2015


Why would I bow to another man?/
When I built a nation with my bare hands/
With blood, sweat, a lot of tears, and some rubber bands/
All this belongs to my sisters and my brothers man/
To anyone with ancestor's skin like a Summer tan/
Sick of seeing us killed on some Son of Sam/
Then be told to keep the peace like the Son of Man/
To be black is a statement - its intrinsic/
We wear the shame of the country like it's in season/
They hate that, so they say that our way's treason/
Militias, cops chop us down, they say it's in reason/
The game's rigged from the get go, they been cheating/
Had codes from the jump, ain't even press start yet/
I can't hide, so I gotta be the loudest barking/
I'm Superman but they claim that I'm just Clark Kent/
I been looking for liberty under God/
But only found misery living up under y'all/

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Who Are You Wearing?

Although designed with me in mind,
And spaces made-to-fit for me and mine,
Despite being tailored for generations unfolding
- this country don’t look right on me…
Maybe it’s the molding,
‘Cuz the profile in the bodice isn’t holding,
Tight around shoulders and no solutions in sight for the collar slowly closing.
- this country don’t feel right ‘cuz we are wolves in sheep’s clothing…
Dangerously mix-matched and never truly blending.
Misfit since infancy,
We legion of quiet soldiers, silent infantry
Pressed uncomfortably against seams conceived
To be worn by someone with different genes.
- I am just too Haitian for my calves to fit in these jeans!
This country and my contours come at a constant cross-purpose.
Convinced my cuts can produce colors for these clothes,
I know those who bleed my dye
Might die,
Face-to-face with bleach…
With police.
This is only a test, I must be on display.
For sure,
These cutting-edge social programs are government couture…
Out of touch designers with vision so avant-garde
Consumers are alienated and put on guard.
- this country positively clashes with my politics.
But how wondrous and grand!
For me to be unsettled was part of the plan, my friend.
Disrobed and naked holding a placard that reads, “I Am A Man”, again.
More troubling still, I can’t tell if I am the model or the mannequin.

Which stands to reason,
When one notes revolution went out of vogue last season.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

When Scribes 'Sankofa'

Where are we now? 
When the system works effectively and leaves no child behind?

When I've seen invisible men, raised as black boys, sow talents for colored girls who saw themselves in the bluest eye as apparitions. Fragmented phantoms that you can sorta see and sorta feel, taking lashes on a turned cheek with their eyes watching god like Zora Neale.

What is there to do when to make it up there to tell it on the mountain top you have to witness the descent of the girl who fell from the sky? 

I had beloved kindred down those mean streets that understood the first part last, thus, never divining important lessons before dying.

How does it feel to be the lowest common denominator for so long? So long that our autobiographies are algebraic and undefined. Unable to see our reflection in a rising cane river, we move closer to our tipping point.

This, after reading the dreams of our fathers from the brown etches in our palms? This, after listening to Sula sing a song of Solomon at the threshold of Giovanni’s room?

The phrase on the tongues of firebrands is change, an ember on the wind of words spoken. A manchild will always be told to find their promised land in another country.

BUT, if none of what was written was true, then are we not saved? Or is the new Jim Crow pure and pristine, the color of water? Either way, we'll have the fire next time.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Smartest Man On The Cinder

You can find me in the Arctic, reading Egyptian artifacts/ A telephonic symphony singing - bringing me all the facts/ Don't even try to see me - believe me - I see through all of that/ The smartest man in the cinder...Cinderella rocking a Starter cap/ I rose from the ashes, made Alexander the Great moves/ Learned to cheat at Chess - I algebraic equate you/ To fake dudes...and win the game in like eight moves/ Award winning, spit kicking - no fame for it/ But the world's my canvas - step back, you see my name on it/ See the world how I see it, you can see flames on it/ It's why I work with Manhattan to see some change on it/ Whether metaphysics or mathematics, my brain's on it/ From sunrise to sunset, I'll son you/ Simultaneously reading Sun Tzu/ Memorizing text while I'm whooping that ass in Kung-Fu/ I can run the globe with a pen, paper, and drum loops/ I'm not a joke, I'm a villain slash chameleon/ So laugh it up mafucka - I kill comedians/

Friday, May 13, 2011

"A Secret Between Friends" (Fibonacci Sequence Story)



"Why not?"

"Bad idea, man."

"I don't know…seems, possible."

Eleven stories just didn't seem high to me.

My favorite movie moment is Indiana Jones, stepping off into the nothingness.

"Is this how you want to celebrate your twenty-fifth birthday? Standing on a hotel rooftop with your closest friend, cradling a full-on Bronson?"

The stars were particularly inviting. Their twinkling, iridescent path paved an inviting direction for me to walk. A celestial runway poked into the indigo canopy of dusk. Missing, however, was the push I needed.

It came like a wind. If I recall the moment clearly, it was wind. A strong wind. It barreled over the building and took my legs from underneath me. Friends with gym memberships should be valued at times like these. As if to challenge my resolve, she held me at the building’s edge.

"So, I'll ask you again: what the fuck made you think this was a good idea? As a matter-of fact, while I've got your complete and undivided attention, why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? Oh, yeah, I didn't think it was a good idea. I am doing my best to understand what's going on with you right now, but you are not helping, and I'm considering leaving you here to sort it out yourself because this is freaking crazy. You know what? I'm out."

She pulled me up with an ease a witness could describe as herculean. Although I hung over the edge of certain death for about three minutes, it felt like forever. The hum of the city nightlife shook the air, the vibrations clearly reverberated in my bones. Thousands of orange light bulbs reflected off tinted windows and conglomerated as just two gleaming stars in her eyes. Halfway up onto the rough cement ledge, she looked at me, and smoothly pulled me up to my feet. When our eyes were level, I could see the well of tears clearly. She would keep them trapped on the precarious precipice of her eyelashes perpetually. The look on her face froze, like so much coffee stained porcelain poised to shake me from my task. Without saying a word, I asked her to stay. My best friend smiles, “Testing my ability? Not this dangerous.”

The rate of gravity is nine point eight meters per second per second. The average human terminal velocity in free-fall is one-hundred and twenty miler per hour. Diving in free-fall ramps the speed up, and the record is some unimaginable number that need not be stated. I realized early on that the room for error on this was minimal if not infinitesimal. Suicide was never in the plans, but it seemingly grew on me as inspiration for this dramatic act. This is where I'd make my stand.

I returned to my place at the building's edge. Closed my eyes, tasted the humid, late Fall air on my lips. Thought about what not waking up would feel like, chuckled, realized I wouldn't feel a thing. Her shaking hands, gentle on the small of my back. Keeping me tethered, but eager to propel me.

"I'm ready. And it's okay, really. I'll be fine. To be honest, I've never felt as comfortable as when I'm in places like these. On rollercoasters, in fast cars, airplanes…This feels right to me."

My life had been led up to this moment. An ironic thought to have had at the time. I stepped off.

I fell about maybe forty feet before I began to slow my descent.

I rose slowly to meet her gaze.

"How are you doing that?"

"...I can fly."

"You knew?"



Saturday, April 30, 2011

Effects of Light (Departure)

Flash (~~~>)

The Earth is crumbling. Coming undone, like so much stitching, unravelling. Just bigger. I have no idea to why I am here, at the end of things. No clue how I'm able to be here while everyone else is gone. I cannot help it. It'll all be over soon. The oceans are boiling, the ground is thin and brittle as ice in Spring. There will never be another Spring. Gray's last words to me were, "Do what you gotta. I gotta do what I been doing, running. See ya…" He ran until his feet stopped touching the ground, the proximity of the sun vibrating his every cell into pure speed. He was smiling, and dissipating into a beautiful blurring nothing. Before the end of it all, he flew. He'll never know now, but that's what he always did, he was never just fast - in reality he projected a charge that decreased his friction with the smallest of molecules. I miss True. She did what she does, opened her mouth to the sky and sang, repelled an incoming solar flare. She screams my name, because of all the vowels, they force her to open her mouth wider. I am watching God write creation in reverse.

Flash (<~~~)

The Earth crumbles. It's really sand. I love the sandbox the day after it rains. Clumps of rough dirt that make funny grinding noises in my ears because somehow it gets in my mouth. Rays of sun peeking out from behind clouds and painting Gray in pastel blues while resting in his pastel baby purse, bjorn, sling, thingy…A car pulls into the playground parking lot, as soon as the passenger door opens, a screech shatters the calm of the day. A small brown girl pokes her body out of the door and walks angrily to the sandbox. "Hi. Want some sand?" I say, as altruistic as I can imagine. "No!!!!!!!" She says, as loud as possible. Mom picks me up, and says softly in my ear, "I hope you never turn out like that one." I looked back to the sandbox, shrinking in the distance, and thought I heard someone say, "Come back, I need someone to play with." The sun shone proud in the pale indigo of the sky. Gray shuffled uncomfortably in his carrier, as if to free himself from his bondage and run before he'd learned to walk.


Earthshine is the phenomenon of sunlight reflecting off of the Earth and shining on the Moon. That's what we are being called now, The Earthshine. We are a reflection of the connection the sun has with the planet. UV rays are broken into three types: UVA, UVB, AND UVC. UVA is a long wavelength transmitted from the sun, it gives us our brown skin and tightly curled hair. It is the natural form of energy. UVB and UVC are shorter, more kinetic wavelengths. The ones that burn us if out in the sun too long. We don't burn, we metabolize the shorter wavelengths, turning the heat into something else entirely. I call them 'expressions'. We express the sun's light in our different ways, but we still don't know why. I express via higher brain functionality, Gray expresses a frictionless molecular existence, and True expresses a psychokinetic relationship to sonic frequency modulation. We shine in the daylight, and glow a bit at night.

Waves and Particles

The others we've been traveling with have each exhibited some form of 'expression'. None as far advanced as True, Gray, and I, but noticeable physiological differences. The change in flora and fauna led us to believe we'd crossed into Canada a few days ago. We've picked up some nomads along the way from L.A. Two cousins, a gym teacher, three Washington police officers, two guys (Scott and Steve), and a slew of other folks met on the long road to where we are now. I haven't spoken to Gray in a day or so, he scouts so far ahead of us recently I wonder if he'll up and run off the face of the planet someday. True has kept excellent company however. She says things to me that I don't understand, although I know what she is going to say before she's done thinking it. Why is it no matter how smart we are or aspire to be, we never understand the opposite sex? When she sleeps at night, I look in her direction just to see her glow bronze against the purple of the night sky. She is Aurora Borealis to me. We kiss when no one is paying attention. It makes a sound, a faint humming. A steady bass line, in tune with the resonance of the Earth, Moon, Sun, and stars. We vibrate. We can feel it when our teeth touch by accident. We are so scared out in the wilderness, without our parents or societal markers. When we're near each other we forget the situation we're dealing with, and become entangled in one another. On a really sunny day, we made love for the first time. She was loud, and I was quiet. I could feel her every living process. Then we didn't speak for a while after. It's like this feeling comes and goes in waves. When she's walking ahead of me, I stand downwind, anxious for her particles to ride the wind and find me ready.

Thursday, April 7, 2011


Bust how we stand in the foreground of the american stageplay, when we
were casted as the background's understudy. Again in the foreground,
the bastard child of four fathers, now scorned by our fore-fathers for
disrespecting our single mothers in public. The revolution done
changed, Black man changed shades, Black girl turned blonde, I thought
I heard echoes of victory - turned around and the sorrow in this
song... Can you hear it?

~~~>Listen, my people speaking, spilling blood in these streets/
It takes a toll on my soul, everyday I feel like leaving/
I hear my people crying, and them tears keep streaming/
Everytime I try I try to leave...they start to scream like/

From forefathers, to martyrs, folk don't seem to regard us/
But they seen waters walked on, seen brothers auctioned/
Topics that talk on, people see and walk on/
Get tripped up, on what i spit up - now they sidewalks is chalked on/
I'm locked on - focused on the heat that make the beat dope/
I blow the winds of change just to ventilate the weed smoke/
You speak frail, what I spit you can feel, son I speak braille/
I spit fire, that's why you kill dragons when they inhale/

Two niggas foght under orange lamps,
Such a sorry sight forced me to cast away hope.
Being one observer, long I watch and thought,
"How redundant the term 'project growth'".
You see I, I speak the word less spoken by,
And all my people show me is disinterest...Can you hear it?

~~~>Listen, my people speaking, spilling blood in these streets/
It takes a toll on my soul, everyday I feel like leaving/
I hear my people crying, and them tears keep streaming/
Everytime I try I try to leave...they start to scream like/

Good Evening my people. I say 'evening' because I see the sun setting
on our culture, our very way of living. I see the decades and
centuries cascade past skyscrapers; the struggle, the
progress...chasing the fleeting sunlight. I say 'good evening', 'cause
I'm afraid we just missed twilight.