Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
we wuz celebratin
40 years of Hip Hop
at 5 Pointz
dashing tags
reclaiming the
lost land
speaking for a
community of peeps
routed from their
last stand
making statements
about remembering
tellin stories
about ourselves
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it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country
hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence
Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland
his people driven
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Happy Birthday Jean-Paul Sartre
reveling in the unity of contradiction
the omnipresence of disjunction
the opaqueness of transparency
the anarchy of governance
the unknowableness of the zeitgeist
the banality of chiqueness
the slavery of fashion
kinda like being a hipster in Brooklyn
with no conscience of consciousness
or is it no consciousness of conscience?
one is a statement the other a dumb question
seeking an intelligent answer
truly the tragedy of comedy
or is it the comedy of tragedy?
enough of these silly questions....
why don't it just fall apart?
how does it stay together?
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1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.
The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the bawdy songs of
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on the day before Earth Day
the parched ground seethes with thirst
a neighbor employs a plastic milk jug
to water his Home Depot shrubs
I finish laying a blanket of phosphates on the lawn
then fall asleep to the 2 cycle lullaby of a leaf blower
it's 70 degrees in North Jersey
snow is forecast for Pittsburgh
in our blue day of expectation
we brace for tomorrow's deluge
on the morrow
we will honor the earth
yet manana never seems to come
as we relish the comfort of today's savage civility
Music Selection:
Elvis Presley, Tomorrow Never Comes
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the river flows as
living memory
the birds of the
Nile are its
knowing eyes
fly catchers
ply the rich
delta
probing
sediments
of sand
washed
from
distant
Nubian
mountains
eons
ago
layers of
recollection
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Thou and I
Joyful the moment when we sat in the bower, Thou and I;
In two forms and with two faces - with one soul, Thou and I.
The colour of the garden and the song of the birds give the elixir of immortality
The instant we come into the orchard, Thou and I.
The stars of Heaven come out to look upon us -
We shall show the moon herself to them, Thou and I.
Thou and I, with no 'Thou' or 'I', shall become one through our tasting;
Happy, safe from idle talking, Thou and I.
The spirited parrots of heaven will envy us -
When we shall laugh in such a way, Thou and I.
This is stranger, that Thou and I, in this corner here...
Are both in one breath here and there - Thou and I.
Jelaluddin Rumi
By the waters
of Babylon the
beloved weep;
mourning the
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two wars, two wounds
four deployments in ten years
the trauma, the scars
the waste, the tears
a soldier driven to madness
numb warriors driven to drink
a lost decade of blood-lust
gives a nation pause to think
how virtue becomes nightmare
how ideals implode and die
how the paradox of intention
is undermined with hidden lies
fighting wars to kill terrorists
on obscure Afghan plains
generations of young ones
sentenced to death and pain
the tramp of bloodied footprints
march strait to a profiteer’s bank
depositing lucrative spoils of war
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In damp
cellars of
Baba Amr,
women and
children
huddle,
waiting
for the
Arab Spring
to arrive.
They are
arrested
emigrants
on the road
to freedom,
now hostages
to tyranny
seeking asylum
from a season
of discontent
lashing another
poor generation
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the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
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I blow tiny
jazz kisses
onto your
sweet petunia
lips
flutter delicious
notes into
lazy daisy ears
soft breath
puffs bluesy
tunes onto the
nape of a
lovely
curvy neck
I smell
bold begonias
whisper pink
secrets through
gyrating eyes
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