Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
Kings and Queens, to Die in Dreams...
Oooooo....
Oooooo....
Kings,
and Queens,
for gold -
for lust -
must fall
to dreams,
like stone
to dust...
O'er
the bridge,
they built
my death,
but break,
I shant -
you are my
last breath...
Oooooo....
Oooooo...
He had.
Iron-forged hands like shackles
about his raging neck;
and dangling there,
from a gloomy spine shaped like a broken question,
resigned to the answer,
were slit-wide wrists
shut closed
to a familiar
oval portrait;
and when the weight was too much to bear,
he stood straight
and let the wavering smile flicker
and grow shadows-like doubts
in the corners of his thin pink lips.
The faded cacophany of blood-soaked happiness
softly dormant
in the silver brand between his collarbone
engraved the words of his sepia derangement
where he could not see:
Ich liebe
dich immer -
I
will love you
always.
And so,
the ache was a thorn
to the blurred vision from the glass lips
of his wine-stained monarchy -
The bridges burned,
and he danced like this -
broken,
fettered,
and wild-eyed,
swaying for the self-hatred kissing his hips.
He was once a king,
with a solid stance
and heels that bounded from pen
to page,
chasing his lofty dreams
like prey.
He neither showed no mercy
nor knew no harm.
Perhaps,
he was insane
upon the throne,
gathering listeners to witness blasphemy,
and laugh;
because the locket branding his throat
succeeded
in drawing the last of it nigh,
and drowning it to the screams
that billowed
from the ash
and cigarette smoke
of the forge in his heart,
where a withered Volcan toiled,
scourging the lungs
where words once arose from.
He was a melting fiend.
Not a king...
...With the sun dying in his eyes.
Oh,
how he fell for lust
and eternal glory...
To lose oneself within one's dreams -
and he lost his dearest
to the dust,
the sands of time he let slip through the heels
of his Supras,
below.
It is no wonder
how he lingers
by the shore,
wishing that whore,
his lover,
his fame
to return...
All that glitters
is not gold.
Oooooo....
Kings,
and Queens,
for gold -
for lust -
must fall
to dreams,
like stone
to dust...
O'er
the bridge,
they built
my death,
but break,
I shant -
you are my
last breath...
Oooooo....
Oooooo...
He had.
Iron-forged hands like shackles
about his raging neck;
and dangling there,
from a gloomy spine shaped like a broken question,
resigned to the answer,
were slit-wide wrists
shut closed
to a familiar
oval portrait;
and when the weight was too much to bear,
he stood straight
and let the wavering smile flicker
and grow shadows-like doubts
in the corners of his thin pink lips.
The faded cacophany of blood-soaked happiness
softly dormant
in the silver brand between his collarbone
engraved the words of his sepia derangement
where he could not see:
Ich liebe
dich immer -
I
will love you
always.
And so,
the ache was a thorn
to the blurred vision from the glass lips
of his wine-stained monarchy -
The bridges burned,
and he danced like this -
broken,
fettered,
and wild-eyed,
swaying for the self-hatred kissing his hips.
He was once a king,
with a solid stance
and heels that bounded from pen
to page,
chasing his lofty dreams
like prey.
He neither showed no mercy
nor knew no harm.
Perhaps,
he was insane
upon the throne,
gathering listeners to witness blasphemy,
and laugh;
because the locket branding his throat
succeeded
in drawing the last of it nigh,
and drowning it to the screams
that billowed
from the ash
and cigarette smoke
of the forge in his heart,
where a withered Volcan toiled,
scourging the lungs
where words once arose from.
He was a melting fiend.
Not a king...
...With the sun dying in his eyes.
Oh,
how he fell for lust
and eternal glory...
To lose oneself within one's dreams -
and he lost his dearest
to the dust,
the sands of time he let slip through the heels
of his Supras,
below.
It is no wonder
how he lingers
by the shore,
wishing that whore,
his lover,
his fame
to return...
All that glitters
is not gold.
A Featherless Child.
The silhouette of a featherless child; an etch-a-sketch of a skyline tickling bold brown arms, the length of his burning hair. There were pockets where dreams sometimes slipped through. He sees them, as discarded pennies or blackened wads of somethings, choking lifelessly on the sidewalk. He sees hope in the last breath of wild, honest color from the mouth of a can of spray-paint; the sigh of contentment a masterpiece makes when it's been completed, before it gathers dust and wades in the casualties of criticism.
So he stoops in black chucks; exhales a type of soul to the sky, where it drifts and dusts lightly the rooftop. It leaves a permanent signature, and dries in the caress of fading sunlight before smiling his smile to giggling stars. A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers. Rooftop masterpiece and stars sing to eachother, *A featherless child can grow wings*...
And the featherless child sleeps.
An impatient, gentle morning ravages his eyelids and beckons the bubbling wakefulness from the depths of copper bits like gold and blackened, forgotten mysteries. He stands, and circles the bright image of teenage clarity his lungs and breath gave birth to. Satisfied with the lifeblood of artfulness open to a wrinkled white tank, and staining beautifully those bold, brown arms, he jumps to the clouds and lands in the street. A legacy of wings rejoice behind him, and the rooftop masterpiece laughs at the sun and awaits the stars to sing again...
*A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers*...
So he stoops in black chucks; exhales a type of soul to the sky, where it drifts and dusts lightly the rooftop. It leaves a permanent signature, and dries in the caress of fading sunlight before smiling his smile to giggling stars. A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers. Rooftop masterpiece and stars sing to eachother, *A featherless child can grow wings*...
And the featherless child sleeps.
An impatient, gentle morning ravages his eyelids and beckons the bubbling wakefulness from the depths of copper bits like gold and blackened, forgotten mysteries. He stands, and circles the bright image of teenage clarity his lungs and breath gave birth to. Satisfied with the lifeblood of artfulness open to a wrinkled white tank, and staining beautifully those bold, brown arms, he jumps to the clouds and lands in the street. A legacy of wings rejoice behind him, and the rooftop masterpiece laughs at the sun and awaits the stars to sing again...
*A featherless child can grow wings through his fingers*...
Sadness in the Street.
A discarded pair of pumps shedding empty kisses; the splattered chicken leg that hit her guarded face before the garbage bag; dollar earings from the corner store across the street; a forgotten teddy bear with cold, empty arms - a lost childhood. Three bullet holes dotting the imaginary "I"'s in a hastily graffittied message. A curious rat poking its whiskers between a spot of rust or what was once blood, and a half-eaten pizza crust.
She lay with her hair knotted between lifeless hooks, silently gasping for air she could not breathe. Flowers that hadn't seen the sun since that first day of elementary school now browned, withered, and died. A lively dress was now a broken dream. Dark eyes mute, slight smile kissing pink lipstick resting on the fleshy brow of a baby wrapped in black. There was snow, and its sexless lips were blue. It slept on a bed of unwanted things.
How could she forget her child in the manger?
How could we forget that her name wasn't Mary?
A lonely star stared coldly over that dumpster in that alley, at the lost Cabbage Patch Kid finding the baby no one wanted to touch. It cried...
...There was no Santa Clause, and no such thing as Mommy.
She lay with her hair knotted between lifeless hooks, silently gasping for air she could not breathe. Flowers that hadn't seen the sun since that first day of elementary school now browned, withered, and died. A lively dress was now a broken dream. Dark eyes mute, slight smile kissing pink lipstick resting on the fleshy brow of a baby wrapped in black. There was snow, and its sexless lips were blue. It slept on a bed of unwanted things.
How could she forget her child in the manger?
How could we forget that her name wasn't Mary?
A lonely star stared coldly over that dumpster in that alley, at the lost Cabbage Patch Kid finding the baby no one wanted to touch. It cried...
...There was no Santa Clause, and no such thing as Mommy.
L-E-T-T-E-R-S
Lying is not my strong suit.
English is what ur tongue mangles it 2 b; leave ur silence on th' doorstep 'nd create.
Taste the sattire in your vocabulary and spit the hard muddy seeds of thought still stuck between your teeth.
Take a moment to reflect.
Enameled words are not the only typeface you're used to, but script is too elegant for your simple speech.
Rack the last dregs of imagination littering the dumpster with the gun strapped to its side, and let loose the string of beads you've been keeping from me.
Saying is sometimes more than what you've been doing.
*********************
Lying is not my strong suit.
Everything u say is 'n innocent attack on my moral'ty, 'nd th' silent slaughter of my puzzle-piece fing'rs interlock'd wit th' kind of glue ur only allow'd 2 salivate.
Tell me the truth.
Tell me that you only respect my simplicities because I bend myself to your unconcious will.
Erase the very thought of me and spit your string jewelries, like lumps of coal, dead notes, the unappreciated lessons that stuck to your tongue and now refuse to become one with the shadows.
Ravage his ears with my beauty, and he will only commit the same senseless rape of words to yours.
Salvage the leftovers, and promise me you'll think before you speak next time.
English is what ur tongue mangles it 2 b; leave ur silence on th' doorstep 'nd create.
Taste the sattire in your vocabulary and spit the hard muddy seeds of thought still stuck between your teeth.
Take a moment to reflect.
Enameled words are not the only typeface you're used to, but script is too elegant for your simple speech.
Rack the last dregs of imagination littering the dumpster with the gun strapped to its side, and let loose the string of beads you've been keeping from me.
Saying is sometimes more than what you've been doing.
*********************
Lying is not my strong suit.
Everything u say is 'n innocent attack on my moral'ty, 'nd th' silent slaughter of my puzzle-piece fing'rs interlock'd wit th' kind of glue ur only allow'd 2 salivate.
Tell me the truth.
Tell me that you only respect my simplicities because I bend myself to your unconcious will.
Erase the very thought of me and spit your string jewelries, like lumps of coal, dead notes, the unappreciated lessons that stuck to your tongue and now refuse to become one with the shadows.
Ravage his ears with my beauty, and he will only commit the same senseless rape of words to yours.
Salvage the leftovers, and promise me you'll think before you speak next time.
So, My Mother.
Tell me that elephants walk barefoot,
and I'll believe that my grasslands are no more.
So the death of heathery hands
and leafy smiles
like unknown poetry -
so the death of my mother.
Tell me that a warrior may stand proud,
and I'll cry that the shackles have fallen.
So the freedom of barefeet
and nearly broken eyes
like loosely obfuscated mirrors -
so the liberation of my mother.
Tell me that the mangos run sweet,
and I will drink to the diving, dancing rain.
So the fall of dreams,
tears that blush on black faces
like happiness ran in water-falls -
so the health of my mother.
I am not my mother's daughter;
I am the daughter from the womb
of the somewhere that my heart calls home.
I will read your wrinkles
and tell the world your meanings
but I cannot live them
for you.
and I'll believe that my grasslands are no more.
So the death of heathery hands
and leafy smiles
like unknown poetry -
so the death of my mother.
Tell me that a warrior may stand proud,
and I'll cry that the shackles have fallen.
So the freedom of barefeet
and nearly broken eyes
like loosely obfuscated mirrors -
so the liberation of my mother.
Tell me that the mangos run sweet,
and I will drink to the diving, dancing rain.
So the fall of dreams,
tears that blush on black faces
like happiness ran in water-falls -
so the health of my mother.
I am not my mother's daughter;
I am the daughter from the womb
of the somewhere that my heart calls home.
I will read your wrinkles
and tell the world your meanings
but I cannot live them
for you.
Me, I, Her, We.
There was a grave,
and the stone read Me.
I pulled my arms below the deep,
and prayed that Me
would rest in peace.
There was a grave,
and the stone said Me.
Me will pray that I rest in peace.
There was a tomb,
and engraved was I.
I plowed my feet behind that lie
and prayed that I
would rise.
There was a tomb,
engraved with I.
I prayed that Me
would rise.
A coffin lay,
and it whispered Her.
With face like Me,
and eyes like I,
I pray that Her
will hide.
A coffin lay,
and whispered Her.
Her pray that I
will hide.
Inside Me,
I am six feet gone.
I dig Her lips,
and surfaced sweet -
Me pray
that Her
lay drawn.
Inside Me,
I'm six feet drawn.
So I pray
that Her
lay gone.
A shell,
a case,
Her casket,
my embrace.
I for an eye
will love Me
like death cannot do part to prayers;
I pray that He keep my heart.
I pray that He hold Her heart.
and the stone read Me.
I pulled my arms below the deep,
and prayed that Me
would rest in peace.
There was a grave,
and the stone said Me.
Me will pray that I rest in peace.
There was a tomb,
and engraved was I.
I plowed my feet behind that lie
and prayed that I
would rise.
There was a tomb,
engraved with I.
I prayed that Me
would rise.
A coffin lay,
and it whispered Her.
With face like Me,
and eyes like I,
I pray that Her
will hide.
A coffin lay,
and whispered Her.
Her pray that I
will hide.
Inside Me,
I am six feet gone.
I dig Her lips,
and surfaced sweet -
Me pray
that Her
lay drawn.
Inside Me,
I'm six feet drawn.
So I pray
that Her
lay gone.
A shell,
a case,
Her casket,
my embrace.
I for an eye
will love Me
like death cannot do part to prayers;
I pray that He keep my heart.
I pray that He hold Her heart.
Fingers Are Fickle Too.
Feelings are only as fickle as fingers can be.
Fingering the ring he gave me,
feeling...faithless...
he was fickle,
and I can't loosen the silver diamond-studded noose
constricting the thunder in my chest...
so I pop open that endless cavity
and toss the one thing that transcends color
as a blood-stained prism
worthlessly to the clouds,
hoping God would catch it,
hoping that his fingers aren't fickle too...
I was faithful.
He was farther than he said he could project,
because after a while all I caught was a wisp of him -
the ghost image of affairs,
that far-away feeling,
that...hologram.
Robotic,
and sickly sweet,
like the perfume caught still kissing his chest.
I can't even twist past the arthtitic division
of these fickle fingers
to finally open up the valves
and pipe away the dam where tears come from -
I'm telling you
that I cannot be a waterfall.
I cannot fall at all.
I am fell,
and fickle,
and faithless.
...So say my fingers.
Fingering the ring he gave me,
feeling...faithless...
he was fickle,
and I can't loosen the silver diamond-studded noose
constricting the thunder in my chest...
so I pop open that endless cavity
and toss the one thing that transcends color
as a blood-stained prism
worthlessly to the clouds,
hoping God would catch it,
hoping that his fingers aren't fickle too...
I was faithful.
He was farther than he said he could project,
because after a while all I caught was a wisp of him -
the ghost image of affairs,
that far-away feeling,
that...hologram.
Robotic,
and sickly sweet,
like the perfume caught still kissing his chest.
I can't even twist past the arthtitic division
of these fickle fingers
to finally open up the valves
and pipe away the dam where tears come from -
I'm telling you
that I cannot be a waterfall.
I cannot fall at all.
I am fell,
and fickle,
and faithless.
...So say my fingers.
She Smiles Before She Fades.
She used to write me letters
in sweet raven-tainted cursive
with her locks.
Sunshine-imbued poetry
in a bouncing bed of curls,
her smile was a magic all its own.
His burning love
was her alabaster glow,
and it seemed that she was always pregnant
with foreign words
and switching hips.
When I cried in the dark,
she would gently cup each tear
and gild it silver,
molding my sadness
into diamonds of expectation.
I will always remember motherhood
with the sigh of a second
and the woven silence of eyelids interlocking lover's lashes;
Crippled moon
with the slight blue heart
and the dainty fingers
like pillowed daggers.
Follow me
before your descent into light.
...Hold me
before you fade.
in sweet raven-tainted cursive
with her locks.
Sunshine-imbued poetry
in a bouncing bed of curls,
her smile was a magic all its own.
His burning love
was her alabaster glow,
and it seemed that she was always pregnant
with foreign words
and switching hips.
When I cried in the dark,
she would gently cup each tear
and gild it silver,
molding my sadness
into diamonds of expectation.
I will always remember motherhood
with the sigh of a second
and the woven silence of eyelids interlocking lover's lashes;
Crippled moon
with the slight blue heart
and the dainty fingers
like pillowed daggers.
Follow me
before your descent into light.
...Hold me
before you fade.
Miss Carried.
Under an ocean...
beneath the image of a godess sans wings,
with fingers laced and beaded wrists...
there were pearls bleading from those slits.
There were purple buds blossoming between the lines of poetry,
and mis-conception.
She was horribly beautiful,
with open locks stranded somewhere behind the faucet...
with alabaster legs carved open in red ink;
she was miss carried-away-by-her-dreams...
and then she was miss-carried-away...
and then...
There was a future in her womb,
time constraining itself to the course
of a stray umbilical chord,
contorting the salty stone of her limbs
until puppet strings lifted fingers lined with sandpaper to mold the moon
gently,
lovingly,
to the contours of her distended belly.
She starved,
but for love,
and she flung her sanity like a halo to the stars
and prayed for wide eyes that always had room for forgiveness
and hands that longed to be held.
...This is what happens when men take advantage of the treasure they believe in...
...And it happens more than careful, greedy fingers
plucking at the hem of dark kente cloth
until the very fabric of nature unravels
and man is only too proud to rape her...
...And man is never cautious enough to leave his shoes at the door.
He stomps them into her spine,
his words,
his hatred,
the drivel of his steaming saliva
washing away the magestically twisted riddles
carved so lovingly,
painted with the glowing dusk
and a child's sweet tears
into the fold of her back.
See, if he leaves his footprints where the world can see
than no new found sense of afrosentricity
could wipe away the welcome-mat-sooty-chain-link-scar
like unwanted graffiti,
or a logo
branded by corporate skid-mark sticks
where the diamonds marking her thighs used to be.
...There are just too many ways to disgrace a homeland...
Yet...
hatred can also bear the seed of redemption.
And so she walked with care,
salt-water wounds
puckering to the sound of simplicity
in the tiniest of roiling thunders,
in the largest of impacts one can dedicate to the sky before the light hits.
So she carried...
But.
With doors left open
and empty rooms ransacked and wrecklessly abandoned...
...Strings once conducted but left limp and dripping...
...Words littering clay-river-bed lips,
unwavering
and slightly numb
from the kiss of stale air...
...With heartache impossible to feel,
anymore...
She
is Miss Carried...
...And she is no more.
beneath the image of a godess sans wings,
with fingers laced and beaded wrists...
there were pearls bleading from those slits.
There were purple buds blossoming between the lines of poetry,
and mis-conception.
She was horribly beautiful,
with open locks stranded somewhere behind the faucet...
with alabaster legs carved open in red ink;
she was miss carried-away-by-her-dreams...
and then she was miss-carried-away...
and then...
There was a future in her womb,
time constraining itself to the course
of a stray umbilical chord,
contorting the salty stone of her limbs
until puppet strings lifted fingers lined with sandpaper to mold the moon
gently,
lovingly,
to the contours of her distended belly.
She starved,
but for love,
and she flung her sanity like a halo to the stars
and prayed for wide eyes that always had room for forgiveness
and hands that longed to be held.
...This is what happens when men take advantage of the treasure they believe in...
...And it happens more than careful, greedy fingers
plucking at the hem of dark kente cloth
until the very fabric of nature unravels
and man is only too proud to rape her...
...And man is never cautious enough to leave his shoes at the door.
He stomps them into her spine,
his words,
his hatred,
the drivel of his steaming saliva
washing away the magestically twisted riddles
carved so lovingly,
painted with the glowing dusk
and a child's sweet tears
into the fold of her back.
See, if he leaves his footprints where the world can see
than no new found sense of afrosentricity
could wipe away the welcome-mat-sooty-chain-link-scar
like unwanted graffiti,
or a logo
branded by corporate skid-mark sticks
where the diamonds marking her thighs used to be.
...There are just too many ways to disgrace a homeland...
Yet...
hatred can also bear the seed of redemption.
And so she walked with care,
salt-water wounds
puckering to the sound of simplicity
in the tiniest of roiling thunders,
in the largest of impacts one can dedicate to the sky before the light hits.
So she carried...
But.
With doors left open
and empty rooms ransacked and wrecklessly abandoned...
...Strings once conducted but left limp and dripping...
...Words littering clay-river-bed lips,
unwavering
and slightly numb
from the kiss of stale air...
...With heartache impossible to feel,
anymore...
She
is Miss Carried...
...And she is no more.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Intro.
There was only a splattered silence
between herself
and the stars.
She touched two softly-molded fingers to her belly,
reveling at the constellations jumping double-dutch
in the space where her shredded calypso heart-beat
should have spun.
Her curves swayed
like subtle, drunken words,
plucked from the pitcher-full
of browning cider
balanced regally on her hips.
Poetry slid from her tongue
and dripped from the contours
of her lips;
it was alive in her smile.
A god whispered goodnight
to her dimples, and the insides
of her folded wrists.
He looked like music,
and the golden-dusted rhythm
her bare feet
fell to.
A sunset burned on his scalp.
She found her comfort
nestled snuggly there,
throwing shy glances from behind his naps,
and honeyed kisses
like a timid lover.
He cusped her cheek;
and gravity craddled man into her arms,
carrying him back into the shadows
with a whispered secret
and a shared dream.
She receded from the porch -
it was empty now, after all -
and she took the moon's last caress
with her.
That night, she dreamt of purple fires.
That night, she dreamt of love.
between herself
and the stars.
She touched two softly-molded fingers to her belly,
reveling at the constellations jumping double-dutch
in the space where her shredded calypso heart-beat
should have spun.
Her curves swayed
like subtle, drunken words,
plucked from the pitcher-full
of browning cider
balanced regally on her hips.
Poetry slid from her tongue
and dripped from the contours
of her lips;
it was alive in her smile.
A god whispered goodnight
to her dimples, and the insides
of her folded wrists.
He looked like music,
and the golden-dusted rhythm
her bare feet
fell to.
A sunset burned on his scalp.
She found her comfort
nestled snuggly there,
throwing shy glances from behind his naps,
and honeyed kisses
like a timid lover.
He cusped her cheek;
and gravity craddled man into her arms,
carrying him back into the shadows
with a whispered secret
and a shared dream.
She receded from the porch -
it was empty now, after all -
and she took the moon's last caress
with her.
That night, she dreamt of purple fires.
That night, she dreamt of love.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Black Beneath the Skin: "Simply Stated..."
Your eyes
can melt life into diamonds as cobalt
and seductive
as a folkloric ocean scene -
and that
is stating it simply.
Steady fingers,
kiss the lip
of your
immortality;
soft honyed wines
and browning ciders
will bleach living poetry
to your tongue,
permitting me
to lavish
in the metaphors found there.
Can you tell me that you love me,
simply?
Drape that night
about those silken,
steady fingers,
and kiss my heart
instead.
A clay-pitcherful of stars
burn there,
and long to be a drunken dance
of wild emotion,
swaying
and unsteadily balanced
upon
the curve
of my hips...
Tell me you love me, simply.
can melt life into diamonds as cobalt
and seductive
as a folkloric ocean scene -
and that
is stating it simply.
Steady fingers,
kiss the lip
of your
immortality;
soft honyed wines
and browning ciders
will bleach living poetry
to your tongue,
permitting me
to lavish
in the metaphors found there.
Can you tell me that you love me,
simply?
Drape that night
about those silken,
steady fingers,
and kiss my heart
instead.
A clay-pitcherful of stars
burn there,
and long to be a drunken dance
of wild emotion,
swaying
and unsteadily balanced
upon
the curve
of my hips...
Tell me you love me, simply.
Black Beneath the Skin: "Spring Weeding"
Lick
your purple lips;
taste the sattire,
the bleeding irony
in your lies.
Is it as bitter as powdered cooking cocoa?
Or is it
a slow burn,
jalapeño juices clawing maliciously a
t your tastebuds,
laughing at your teeth
and what they won't cease to gnaw at?
Leave your tobacco spittle in hard,
frothing puddles
like black daisies
to a crack
in the sidewalk.
I've had enough of weeds
your purple lips;
taste the sattire,
the bleeding irony
in your lies.
Is it as bitter as powdered cooking cocoa?
Or is it
a slow burn,
jalapeño juices clawing maliciously a
t your tastebuds,
laughing at your teeth
and what they won't cease to gnaw at?
Leave your tobacco spittle in hard,
frothing puddles
like black daisies
to a crack
in the sidewalk.
I've had enough of weeds
Black Beneath the Skin: "Rythm in G-major"
There are rosary beads kissing the lint at your thighs;
but you shove
your hands
deep into your damaged sanity
instead.
Perhaps the maroon lips of prayers you've yet to utterintimidate you?
Is that why you step with rocks in your bombed out shell-toed sneakers?
Pieces
of your 'hood
weighing you down , like sediment
to a white man's saliva -
You'll always get caught flappin' your feet
uselessly
before red waves crashing on blue moons
if you don't remove
your city
from your Herme's slippers.
Feet were meant to fly.
So your wing-checked Nike's are good for nothing but dancing cuban sunset-drum-trumpet-nights awaywith empty hips,and barren,echoless steps of Victory...
like your oppressed peoples.
You're only stirring dustin the wastelands.
Those pebbles are just the leftover brainmatterof brown stepping stonesin a nappy-headed-cotton crowd.
Skulls bridging riverbeds;
necks crowning tree limbs.
I do not blame you for dragging that rythmic baggage,
because your prayers jingle like Christmas morning
in a shack too small to hold any green fern
ten acres down-wind
of the Big House.
But your teeth make sweet sounds too.
You are a metallic melody,
click-clack-cockin'-back the quick sour smack of sugar bullets
on your tongue.
It's gotten so that,
every profanity you spit murks one more wordless supplication to God
during a breeze-less
Brooklyn
summer
day.
What happens when you have no more hail mary's left to run to?
I guess,
you'll just take a muffled crip-walk-draggin'-rasping-yellow breath-city-skyline-storybook-cyphers-in Prospect Park-like verbal gang gunshots -
to your death.
...Your rosaries have flown away from you...
...and you ain't left wit nothin' but one last empty prayer.
Your own personal rapture.
Goodnight, young street-soldier.
but you shove
your hands
deep into your damaged sanity
instead.
Perhaps the maroon lips of prayers you've yet to utterintimidate you?
Is that why you step with rocks in your bombed out shell-toed sneakers?
Pieces
of your 'hood
weighing you down , like sediment
to a white man's saliva -
You'll always get caught flappin' your feet
uselessly
before red waves crashing on blue moons
if you don't remove
your city
from your Herme's slippers.
Feet were meant to fly.
So your wing-checked Nike's are good for nothing but dancing cuban sunset-drum-trumpet-nights awaywith empty hips,and barren,echoless steps of Victory...
like your oppressed peoples.
You're only stirring dustin the wastelands.
Those pebbles are just the leftover brainmatterof brown stepping stonesin a nappy-headed-cotton crowd.
Skulls bridging riverbeds;
necks crowning tree limbs.
I do not blame you for dragging that rythmic baggage,
because your prayers jingle like Christmas morning
in a shack too small to hold any green fern
ten acres down-wind
of the Big House.
But your teeth make sweet sounds too.
You are a metallic melody,
click-clack-cockin'-back the quick sour smack of sugar bullets
on your tongue.
It's gotten so that,
every profanity you spit murks one more wordless supplication to God
during a breeze-less
Brooklyn
summer
day.
What happens when you have no more hail mary's left to run to?
I guess,
you'll just take a muffled crip-walk-draggin'-rasping-yellow breath-city-skyline-storybook-cyphers-in Prospect Park-like verbal gang gunshots -
to your death.
...Your rosaries have flown away from you...
...and you ain't left wit nothin' but one last empty prayer.
Your own personal rapture.
Goodnight, young street-soldier.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Apartheid Vs. Segregation, and its affects on the Black Stereotype.
Apartheid and Segregation, though borne of two vastly different countries and cultures, embody the same principals and have both had their share of major historical events which have impacted the Civil Rights Movement through the decades. Take for example such happenings as the assasination of Patrice Lumumba in the once-Belgian colony of the Congo, and the assasinations of both Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X in America. The slave trade in both countries ties them together in a bond that can never be broken, and the horrors of the Congolese Diamond mines, ghettos, and America's Jim Crow Laws, and the K.K.K. have shaped history and made the "Negro" man into a marketable stereotype.
"Apartheid : racial segregation ; specifically : a former policy of segregation and political and economic discrimination against non-European groups in the Republic of South Africa" (Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/apartheid)
- "Segregation : the separation or isolation of a race, class, or ethnic group by enforced or voluntary residence in a restricted area, by barriers to social intercourse, by separate educational facilities, or by other discriminatory means" (Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/law%20of%20segregation)
Apartheid was a political movement in in South Africa which effectively muffled over nine-million native tongues and civil freedoms, set into play by the occupying white-European nations. It seemed that, just when the 'American Negro' decided to take his fate into his own hands, and marching for his rights, his homeland's rights were being thrown into the dust. During this time, all native Africans, or anyone categorized as black by the Department of Home Affairs, a government bureau, was required to carry on his or her person a 'pass book' containing his photo identification, fingerprints, and any information regarding access to non-black areas. Natives of South Africa were dislocated from their tribal birth-lands and placed into new 'homelands' based on tribe or region of origin - and most often than not, these two factors were too loosely considered to be correct.
This was the shallow and meretriciously-painted mask that told the outside world that Apartheid would effectively give all blacks and coloured peoples citizenship and voting rights, if only within their respective homelands; however, in the dark and sinister heart of the beast, it was just a convenient way to keep black affairs out of white ones, and it helped secure the foreign occupation of the lands through economical means. It was a type of political rape, where the government was able to envelope all of South Africa within its hand, and spread its interminable disease of hatred for the white man throughout the jungles and dusty planes, before snatching it back, fist full of blood diamonds, rubber, and ivory. The Dutch and English sat back and got rich off of the sufferings of a nation already deprived of its children during the slave trade; now, the nation of 'Cain's descendents' was to lose all of its marketable glory as well.
With the destruction of their birth-lands, their tribes, and even to an extent, their seperate cultures as they were forced into ghettos and shanties made of tin and cardboard, or, if they were lucky, inexpensive brick or clay, and then the implimentation of a new language called Afrikaans, the blacks were thouroughly defeated. They had to speak in with slow tongues a language that was hard to grasp, hastily created by the Dutch and English to unify their peoples. They had to relearn the regions of their countries, as new European names were being scrawled over old African ones. They had to deal with the daily threat of police - for when it grew night, the raids would begin, and houses would be hit with blugeons and bullets. Local police would bulldoze from home to home, seizing any adult they found. Sometimes they would leave without a victim hanging from their arms, if they were appealed to with certain goods or valuables; sometimes, parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles - even young sons - would be taken from their beds and brutally beaten, before being thrown into jail cells for detainment and posted for bail. There they would be stuck for weeks, or months - sometimes even years - before they were released back into society. All it really took was a little monetary appeasement by a family member or friend to nudge the wardens to finally look over the paper work and release the prisoner from detainment.
The modern African is a misogynist, a womanizer who lords himself over his household, goes off to work in the diamond mines and comes home with a few dollars in his pockets after bar - hopping all night. The woman is a piece of property, even moreso than the man is - a cattle's cattle. They are shackled to the state, with pockets wired directly to the government's greedy fingers.
Psychologically, these stereotypes probably arose from the mental mindset blacks have been put in as a result years of slavery and segregation. First, everything was taken from them in an instant. The ones that were able to remain were left with the shattering feeling that their world had been torn from beneath them. Before they could regain their dignity or fight for themselves, their lands were stolen, emptied of their precious natural resources, hunted for their furs and ivory tusks and renamed. Finally, even their languages, beautiful as they were, were stolen from them. The only thing a man had to his name was his wife and children. The only thing a woman had left was her soul. If a man could not be the ruler of his own life, a citizen of his own country, or recognize his rightful place within his tribe, then at least he could be the ruler of his household.
From these feelings of enmity towards the white man who had sucked their lives dry, and still did not see fit to retract his fangs and cease his thievery, arose Patrice Lumumba, the seeming savior of the Belgian Congo. When the Dutch had finally seen fit to 'withdraw' it's influences from its ancient and dilapidated conquest, and the country was put up to a free vote for its first natice-Congolese Prime Minister of the newly established Democratic Republic of the Congo, one man with a mighty voice and spitfire for speeches united his trodden peoples under a political banner that meant to dispell every last speck of white devil from their borders. His public addresses riled up the crowds of supporters so fearfully that, for a time, civil war broke out. In a country where a race of millions had been backed too far into a corner, they reared as one beast and began to fight with a feral and desperate anxiety.
But Patrice won his candidacy from a jail cell. It was no doubt that the Belgians had tried to break the man before he could rally the country into a full-out revolution, but they failed. After his election in June 23rd in 1960, whereupon he created the first free government of the Congo, he proceeded to struggle for his country, and for his life. However, that will to struggle on was forcefully taken from him when he was executed on January 17, 1961 by the Katanga recessionist regime.
((to be continued...))
"Apartheid : racial segregation ; specifically : a former policy of segregation and political and economic discrimination against non-European groups in the Republic of South Africa" (Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/apartheid)
- "Segregation : the separation or isolation of a race, class, or ethnic group by enforced or voluntary residence in a restricted area, by barriers to social intercourse, by separate educational facilities, or by other discriminatory means" (Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/law%20of%20segregation)
Apartheid was a political movement in in South Africa which effectively muffled over nine-million native tongues and civil freedoms, set into play by the occupying white-European nations. It seemed that, just when the 'American Negro' decided to take his fate into his own hands, and marching for his rights, his homeland's rights were being thrown into the dust. During this time, all native Africans, or anyone categorized as black by the Department of Home Affairs, a government bureau, was required to carry on his or her person a 'pass book' containing his photo identification, fingerprints, and any information regarding access to non-black areas. Natives of South Africa were dislocated from their tribal birth-lands and placed into new 'homelands' based on tribe or region of origin - and most often than not, these two factors were too loosely considered to be correct.
This was the shallow and meretriciously-painted mask that told the outside world that Apartheid would effectively give all blacks and coloured peoples citizenship and voting rights, if only within their respective homelands; however, in the dark and sinister heart of the beast, it was just a convenient way to keep black affairs out of white ones, and it helped secure the foreign occupation of the lands through economical means. It was a type of political rape, where the government was able to envelope all of South Africa within its hand, and spread its interminable disease of hatred for the white man throughout the jungles and dusty planes, before snatching it back, fist full of blood diamonds, rubber, and ivory. The Dutch and English sat back and got rich off of the sufferings of a nation already deprived of its children during the slave trade; now, the nation of 'Cain's descendents' was to lose all of its marketable glory as well.
With the destruction of their birth-lands, their tribes, and even to an extent, their seperate cultures as they were forced into ghettos and shanties made of tin and cardboard, or, if they were lucky, inexpensive brick or clay, and then the implimentation of a new language called Afrikaans, the blacks were thouroughly defeated. They had to speak in with slow tongues a language that was hard to grasp, hastily created by the Dutch and English to unify their peoples. They had to relearn the regions of their countries, as new European names were being scrawled over old African ones. They had to deal with the daily threat of police - for when it grew night, the raids would begin, and houses would be hit with blugeons and bullets. Local police would bulldoze from home to home, seizing any adult they found. Sometimes they would leave without a victim hanging from their arms, if they were appealed to with certain goods or valuables; sometimes, parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles - even young sons - would be taken from their beds and brutally beaten, before being thrown into jail cells for detainment and posted for bail. There they would be stuck for weeks, or months - sometimes even years - before they were released back into society. All it really took was a little monetary appeasement by a family member or friend to nudge the wardens to finally look over the paper work and release the prisoner from detainment.
The modern African is a misogynist, a womanizer who lords himself over his household, goes off to work in the diamond mines and comes home with a few dollars in his pockets after bar - hopping all night. The woman is a piece of property, even moreso than the man is - a cattle's cattle. They are shackled to the state, with pockets wired directly to the government's greedy fingers.
Psychologically, these stereotypes probably arose from the mental mindset blacks have been put in as a result years of slavery and segregation. First, everything was taken from them in an instant. The ones that were able to remain were left with the shattering feeling that their world had been torn from beneath them. Before they could regain their dignity or fight for themselves, their lands were stolen, emptied of their precious natural resources, hunted for their furs and ivory tusks and renamed. Finally, even their languages, beautiful as they were, were stolen from them. The only thing a man had to his name was his wife and children. The only thing a woman had left was her soul. If a man could not be the ruler of his own life, a citizen of his own country, or recognize his rightful place within his tribe, then at least he could be the ruler of his household.
From these feelings of enmity towards the white man who had sucked their lives dry, and still did not see fit to retract his fangs and cease his thievery, arose Patrice Lumumba, the seeming savior of the Belgian Congo. When the Dutch had finally seen fit to 'withdraw' it's influences from its ancient and dilapidated conquest, and the country was put up to a free vote for its first natice-Congolese Prime Minister of the newly established Democratic Republic of the Congo, one man with a mighty voice and spitfire for speeches united his trodden peoples under a political banner that meant to dispell every last speck of white devil from their borders. His public addresses riled up the crowds of supporters so fearfully that, for a time, civil war broke out. In a country where a race of millions had been backed too far into a corner, they reared as one beast and began to fight with a feral and desperate anxiety.
But Patrice won his candidacy from a jail cell. It was no doubt that the Belgians had tried to break the man before he could rally the country into a full-out revolution, but they failed. After his election in June 23rd in 1960, whereupon he created the first free government of the Congo, he proceeded to struggle for his country, and for his life. However, that will to struggle on was forcefully taken from him when he was executed on January 17, 1961 by the Katanga recessionist regime.
((to be continued...))
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Palms Read - Protest the Hero
I am a legacy of forgotton dreams...
and I just want to find myself again.
If we will never answer to where we came from,
but only how we got here,
then I must describe to you the painful waters of dark mirth which birthed me,
the paint that peeled from my skin,
the blackest oil,
crude and still with its petroleum stamping value to nature,
which sloughed off in globs of self-hatred from the walls of my lungs,
where she breathed into me,
my personal porcelain God-dess,
with her smoker's breath
and cigarrette regrets,
where it left its obsidian fingerprints on my arms
like starless bruises;
If I must tell you how I got here,
then I'd reopen the wounds at the soles and heels of my broken feet and relive the agony of my million-mile march -
each step was a bloody footprint on a birth certificate,
and my hands itched to fling myself into the sky
and land upside down,
palms supporting my trek across the clouds -
because back then,
I had no wings to propel me to the heavens.
So don't ask me where I came from,
because the circumstances from which arose the severing of my mother's umbilical chord
and the noose around my father's neck
do not define what I have become -
I can only answer you
if you ask me how I got here...
I can only tell you the bare facts
and bitterness
of my skeletons and ghosts -
the ones that wreak havoc
and permeate the stench of what my death would have looked and sounded like -
click, BOOM -
somewhere on the paths I have traversed;
yet they fail to grasp the red dirt riverbed upon which I now stand
and leap
and run along
for the future up ahead is calling me like the sunrise
I wouldn't bare to lose.
Leave me to my dawns,
and save your questioning
for later.
and I just want to find myself again.
If we will never answer to where we came from,
but only how we got here,
then I must describe to you the painful waters of dark mirth which birthed me,
the paint that peeled from my skin,
the blackest oil,
crude and still with its petroleum stamping value to nature,
which sloughed off in globs of self-hatred from the walls of my lungs,
where she breathed into me,
my personal porcelain God-dess,
with her smoker's breath
and cigarrette regrets,
where it left its obsidian fingerprints on my arms
like starless bruises;
If I must tell you how I got here,
then I'd reopen the wounds at the soles and heels of my broken feet and relive the agony of my million-mile march -
each step was a bloody footprint on a birth certificate,
and my hands itched to fling myself into the sky
and land upside down,
palms supporting my trek across the clouds -
because back then,
I had no wings to propel me to the heavens.
So don't ask me where I came from,
because the circumstances from which arose the severing of my mother's umbilical chord
and the noose around my father's neck
do not define what I have become -
I can only answer you
if you ask me how I got here...
I can only tell you the bare facts
and bitterness
of my skeletons and ghosts -
the ones that wreak havoc
and permeate the stench of what my death would have looked and sounded like -
click, BOOM -
somewhere on the paths I have traversed;
yet they fail to grasp the red dirt riverbed upon which I now stand
and leap
and run along
for the future up ahead is calling me like the sunrise
I wouldn't bare to lose.
Leave me to my dawns,
and save your questioning
for later.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Momma's Child ((New Short Story? Possibly?))
She was too graceful.
I remember how she hated to wear shoes. Every summer Sunday afternoon, when the sun threw every green thing into shades of yellow, and her fair skin would tan momentarily to a warm margerine-like color, she would deliberately slide off her heels, place them side-by-side on the porch, and walk with bare feet and a light dance in her step through the tall grass. It was a kind of magic, the way the breeze would play with her floral skirt.
I tried to pick out the cursive symbols in her walnut curls; I imagined that they wove sweet love poems to me.
She was like honey. And I called her Momma.
But Master and Mammy didn't permit me to call her that. So I kept it tucked behind my tongue, and played with it on the backs of my teeth, suckling the penny's worth of comfort that it gave me.
I wasn't allowed to see Momma, either. I had to hide behind the chicken-wire fencing beneath the porch just to watch her dance on Sunday evenings. I remember how the sun would cast its cage-like shadows across my face, and how I would poke at the boxes they made in the dirt around me, and I would gaze at those verses and beautiful words waving at me as she strolled; I would smile because I knew I was born from them. I didn't come from Momma's stomach, like all the other Negro children did from their Mammies - I came from her hair. I came from the soundless songs plucking at every strand.
My skin even retained their color.
And I knew she saw me there, underneath that porch. Sometimes, she would glance in the direction of my hiding place, my cage, and her lips would quirk slightly upwards before she returned to her attention to her hips. Her hazel eyes whispered to mine - they were just like hers. We were twins, joined by the umbilical chord cut haphazardly from our waists.
I longed to see if the inside of her arms were as warm and gentle as her smile, if they felt like butter, or the expensive lilac lotions she wore. I ached to see if there was love in her embrace for me.
But she wasn't allowed to touch me. She wasn't supposed to know that I existed anymore.
Master took care of that - he put me in a shack so small it was like a chicken-coup, but only with one mother hen to look out for us chicks. There were a lot of us pickaninnies there, who had no fathers and no mothers. But I knew where they came from. They were Master's rejected children, the ones he couldn't bare to look at because of the dirt of their handsom little bodies, or the features that too closely resembled those who broke their backs and minds for him inside the boiling sugar cane smelts.
He sold their mothers to his neighbors, and even though they were just beyond the fence, they never visited their babies like some slaves who were seperated from their kin did. I'm guessing that they just didn't want to remember the pain ripped inside of them from losing their precious bare-foot kingdom, with the lively-patterend cloths, and the grasses that went on forever, only to be engulfed by the biggest setting sun ever seen - just to find that their wombs couldn't be precious any longer, but cut wide and sold from greedy hand to greedy, bloody hand, until their breasts fell flat from their chests and age defiled the worry in their faces.
But I wasn't like them. I was Momma's child, and I knew it.
And she knew me.
I remember how she hated to wear shoes. Every summer Sunday afternoon, when the sun threw every green thing into shades of yellow, and her fair skin would tan momentarily to a warm margerine-like color, she would deliberately slide off her heels, place them side-by-side on the porch, and walk with bare feet and a light dance in her step through the tall grass. It was a kind of magic, the way the breeze would play with her floral skirt.
I tried to pick out the cursive symbols in her walnut curls; I imagined that they wove sweet love poems to me.
She was like honey. And I called her Momma.
But Master and Mammy didn't permit me to call her that. So I kept it tucked behind my tongue, and played with it on the backs of my teeth, suckling the penny's worth of comfort that it gave me.
I wasn't allowed to see Momma, either. I had to hide behind the chicken-wire fencing beneath the porch just to watch her dance on Sunday evenings. I remember how the sun would cast its cage-like shadows across my face, and how I would poke at the boxes they made in the dirt around me, and I would gaze at those verses and beautiful words waving at me as she strolled; I would smile because I knew I was born from them. I didn't come from Momma's stomach, like all the other Negro children did from their Mammies - I came from her hair. I came from the soundless songs plucking at every strand.
My skin even retained their color.
And I knew she saw me there, underneath that porch. Sometimes, she would glance in the direction of my hiding place, my cage, and her lips would quirk slightly upwards before she returned to her attention to her hips. Her hazel eyes whispered to mine - they were just like hers. We were twins, joined by the umbilical chord cut haphazardly from our waists.
I longed to see if the inside of her arms were as warm and gentle as her smile, if they felt like butter, or the expensive lilac lotions she wore. I ached to see if there was love in her embrace for me.
But she wasn't allowed to touch me. She wasn't supposed to know that I existed anymore.
Master took care of that - he put me in a shack so small it was like a chicken-coup, but only with one mother hen to look out for us chicks. There were a lot of us pickaninnies there, who had no fathers and no mothers. But I knew where they came from. They were Master's rejected children, the ones he couldn't bare to look at because of the dirt of their handsom little bodies, or the features that too closely resembled those who broke their backs and minds for him inside the boiling sugar cane smelts.
He sold their mothers to his neighbors, and even though they were just beyond the fence, they never visited their babies like some slaves who were seperated from their kin did. I'm guessing that they just didn't want to remember the pain ripped inside of them from losing their precious bare-foot kingdom, with the lively-patterend cloths, and the grasses that went on forever, only to be engulfed by the biggest setting sun ever seen - just to find that their wombs couldn't be precious any longer, but cut wide and sold from greedy hand to greedy, bloody hand, until their breasts fell flat from their chests and age defiled the worry in their faces.
But I wasn't like them. I was Momma's child, and I knew it.
And she knew me.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Schoolyard is Burning...
They tripped me...
I scraped both knees so many times in Elementary school that there are permanent scars on each.
Why did I have to be the fat girl?
Even when I was little, I would jiggle all over when I ran. Even then, those girls with the skinny legs and dangling arms flounced about in their halter-tops and mini-skirts.
My grandparents told me to take a few laps in the backyard.
...They thought I was fat, too.
I was in the system back then. I'd already forgotten what happened to us, by our mother's own hands...I cried for that woman. I was only alowed to see her every other weekend. And sometimes, she didn't show...
She gave birth to my baby half-brother on tax day.
After a while, they stopped bringing Katie to see us.
I was messy, as a kid. I was constantly cutting and pasting and taping, creating masterpieces out of printer paper...wasting it all...
That was my fun.
My friends were not my friends. They were shoes, and I was a doormat. They stomped, stepped, walked, and wiped their shit all in my face.
Why, then, was I still able to smile?
...But that smile faded by 14...
I remember when that kid, Kyle whats-his-face, kept taunting me in class. 6th grade was torture, but it was no worse than the rest of my life had been...
He called me baby-killer, and devil-worshipper. He criticised me for dressing like a tomboy...made fun of my braids, and my rap music...my baggy pants, and my over-sized t-shirts...he didn't understand that it was my uniform. It was all I was alowed to wear.
He broke my CD player one day, and damaged the CD inside. It had been the most explicit rap CD I'd ever owned, and, being so young, I was fiercely proud of it.
The teacher never did punish him...
She never even helped me when I asked. She told me to fix it on my own...
They said they found me kissing a girl in the bathroom.
My "best friend" defended the girl who spread that rumor...wouldn't tell me who she was, even though I'd had my suspicions...She'd been friends with the girl for maybe two weeks. We'd been friends for 3 years...
Loyalty means nothing, here.
There are scars on my arm, just inside, by the bend, where I used to cut myself.
I wonder how long it would've taken me to kill myself, or run away, if I hadn't moved to SC at 14?
...It hurts to think like that.
I am alive.
I scraped both knees so many times in Elementary school that there are permanent scars on each.
Why did I have to be the fat girl?
Even when I was little, I would jiggle all over when I ran. Even then, those girls with the skinny legs and dangling arms flounced about in their halter-tops and mini-skirts.
My grandparents told me to take a few laps in the backyard.
...They thought I was fat, too.
I was in the system back then. I'd already forgotten what happened to us, by our mother's own hands...I cried for that woman. I was only alowed to see her every other weekend. And sometimes, she didn't show...
She gave birth to my baby half-brother on tax day.
After a while, they stopped bringing Katie to see us.
I was messy, as a kid. I was constantly cutting and pasting and taping, creating masterpieces out of printer paper...wasting it all...
That was my fun.
My friends were not my friends. They were shoes, and I was a doormat. They stomped, stepped, walked, and wiped their shit all in my face.
Why, then, was I still able to smile?
...But that smile faded by 14...
I remember when that kid, Kyle whats-his-face, kept taunting me in class. 6th grade was torture, but it was no worse than the rest of my life had been...
He called me baby-killer, and devil-worshipper. He criticised me for dressing like a tomboy...made fun of my braids, and my rap music...my baggy pants, and my over-sized t-shirts...he didn't understand that it was my uniform. It was all I was alowed to wear.
He broke my CD player one day, and damaged the CD inside. It had been the most explicit rap CD I'd ever owned, and, being so young, I was fiercely proud of it.
The teacher never did punish him...
She never even helped me when I asked. She told me to fix it on my own...
They said they found me kissing a girl in the bathroom.
My "best friend" defended the girl who spread that rumor...wouldn't tell me who she was, even though I'd had my suspicions...She'd been friends with the girl for maybe two weeks. We'd been friends for 3 years...
Loyalty means nothing, here.
There are scars on my arm, just inside, by the bend, where I used to cut myself.
I wonder how long it would've taken me to kill myself, or run away, if I hadn't moved to SC at 14?
...It hurts to think like that.
I am alive.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Spanish Project - Argentina
Art in Argentina is a diverse and growing entity. It ranges from past classical painters and sculpters that helped to shape the countryside as we know it - influencing the landscape of the cities, and now, the very walls of Buenos Aires are vivid with modern history and colorful works of art.
Two such pronound urban artists are Blu and Chu, with their collections "Muto", and "Doma".
Though Blu was originally from Bologna, Italy, he has made a great impact in graffiti around the globe, in major cities such as Berlin, and Buenos Aires. Here is a stop-animation video that shows Blu's talent and dedication. It took months to create, and a lot of paint.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4
Chu's profile:
http://www.studiochu.tv/info.htm
And here is an example of Chu's work:
http://www.studiochu.tv/street-art.htm
Not only are the visual art within the streets and on the walls of Buenos Aires appealing to the eye, but they are also the artists' interpretation of life. Many of Blu's artwork features mythological creatures from Italy's history, and some of both Blu and Chu's work take the form of political issues and opinions that most wouldn't interpret until the artist was asked directly about the meaning of his pieces.
Another important factor to Argentinan living is food. I have made empanadas, which are a type of meat patty that is traditional to Argentinan culture.
Here is the recipe, and where I found it:
Ingredients:
***Crust:***
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 ounces stick butter or margarine
1/3 cup milk
***Filling:***
1 pound ground beef
2 tablespoons Vegetable oil, olive preferred
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeds and stem removed, finely chopped
2 jalapeno chiles, seeds and stems removed, minced
1 medium potato, peeled, boiled, finely chopped
2 hard cooked eggs, finely chopped
10 green olives, finely chopped
2 tablespoons raisins1 tablespoon ground mild paprika
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley or substitute dried
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
***Glaze:***
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon milk
Directions:
To make the crust, sift the dry ingredients into a bowl. Work the margarine or butter into the flour using your fingers or two forks. Add the milk and mix just until the dough comes together and can be formed easily into a ball. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Saute the beef in a skillet until well done, stirring frequently with a fork to keep the meat broken-up. In a separate skillet, saute the onion, bell pepper, and jalapenos until the onions are a golden brown.
Combine all the remaining ingredients for the filling and nix well. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Divide the dough in two and roll out to a thickness of 1/8-inch and cut into circles 7" in diameter. Spoon the filling onto one half of each leaving room to fold in half and seal. Press the edges with the tip of a fork and cut a 1" slice in the top. Place on an ungreased baking pan. Combine the ingredients for the glaze. Bake for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 and continue baking until the crust turns light brown. Brush the tops with glaze and bake for an additional 5 minutes.
http://www.cdkitchen.com/recipes/recs/262/Argentine_Empanadas22263.shtml
I hope you enjoyed this very brief excursion into Argentina's art, and culture.
^_^+
Two such pronound urban artists are Blu and Chu, with their collections "Muto", and "Doma".
Though Blu was originally from Bologna, Italy, he has made a great impact in graffiti around the globe, in major cities such as Berlin, and Buenos Aires. Here is a stop-animation video that shows Blu's talent and dedication. It took months to create, and a lot of paint.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4
Chu's profile:
http://www.studiochu.tv/info.htm
And here is an example of Chu's work:
http://www.studiochu.tv/street-art.htm
Not only are the visual art within the streets and on the walls of Buenos Aires appealing to the eye, but they are also the artists' interpretation of life. Many of Blu's artwork features mythological creatures from Italy's history, and some of both Blu and Chu's work take the form of political issues and opinions that most wouldn't interpret until the artist was asked directly about the meaning of his pieces.
Another important factor to Argentinan living is food. I have made empanadas, which are a type of meat patty that is traditional to Argentinan culture.
Here is the recipe, and where I found it:
Ingredients:
***Crust:***
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 ounces stick butter or margarine
1/3 cup milk
***Filling:***
1 pound ground beef
2 tablespoons Vegetable oil, olive preferred
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeds and stem removed, finely chopped
2 jalapeno chiles, seeds and stems removed, minced
1 medium potato, peeled, boiled, finely chopped
2 hard cooked eggs, finely chopped
10 green olives, finely chopped
2 tablespoons raisins1 tablespoon ground mild paprika
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley or substitute dried
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
***Glaze:***
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon milk
Directions:
To make the crust, sift the dry ingredients into a bowl. Work the margarine or butter into the flour using your fingers or two forks. Add the milk and mix just until the dough comes together and can be formed easily into a ball. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Saute the beef in a skillet until well done, stirring frequently with a fork to keep the meat broken-up. In a separate skillet, saute the onion, bell pepper, and jalapenos until the onions are a golden brown.
Combine all the remaining ingredients for the filling and nix well. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Divide the dough in two and roll out to a thickness of 1/8-inch and cut into circles 7" in diameter. Spoon the filling onto one half of each leaving room to fold in half and seal. Press the edges with the tip of a fork and cut a 1" slice in the top. Place on an ungreased baking pan. Combine the ingredients for the glaze. Bake for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 and continue baking until the crust turns light brown. Brush the tops with glaze and bake for an additional 5 minutes.
http://www.cdkitchen.com/recipes/recs/262/Argentine_Empanadas22263.shtml
I hope you enjoyed this very brief excursion into Argentina's art, and culture.
^_^+
...Ghetto Rose...
I am a woman born of desecrated city streets, potholes filled with lies and public humilities, raised on my family's defecations and oral vomit...I've learned poetry. And I am beautiful.
The first type of poetry I learned was the kind I hated. It was the rythmic smack of my mother's hands to my bare skin...it was the silent thought that my skin was made of golden dirt, and I could never become who I wanted if I lived in filth like that...it was the flick of cigarette butts, my father's indifference, a baseball bat crying out its blood-lusts for tethered rubber baseballs in a little-league game...
The words were growing in me.
I've had many unstable homes. My first was my mother's womb. If it weren't for my dad, the tobacco she refused to give up would have been a part of my bloodstream, instead of just my memories. The second was a crib, idling next to my older sister's in the room I've always known. The rest came and went in a blur, and I don't know the order...there were just so many...An apartment with both parents. Low-Income housing with both parents, where we occupied the ground floor, and another family occupied the second. I believe we were in Keansburg there...or maybe Atlantic Highlands...
When my father left, mommy grabbed the three of us now from apartment to apartment, complexes for single mothers, run-down single rooms, my Papa's house, and others. Sometimes daddy was there, and sometimes he wasn't.
My little sister holds resentment towards me. I don't know why, but ever since we were young she has attempted to poke at my nerves, stretch them to as far as they could go before I snapped at her. She loved to manipulate me. Her not getting her way as a baby resulted in her crying until she stopped breathing.
My grandfather called her Princess.
I remember one night, he noticed me being forlorn and tossed into the backgound, and he took me on his lap and gave me a nickname. I was Manda-Panda...
This upset her very much.
My older sister used to take her thumb to my thighs when I was asleep, as punishment for taking her and Alysia's attention away from the adults.
I was a bruised wall-flower for a time...
Kindergarten taught me who I was, even before I realized its significance. I was coquettish...flirty...and I loved arts and crafts. When we learned our alphabet, I learned to read. I would sit by myself by the bookshelves and read whenever we had free time...or I'd find the mini bongos in the box of instruments Ms. Diana kept, and play...I would climb up to the piano bench and finger the keys, like sweet ivory, so smooth...I'd let them fly, making up tunes that were beautiful, even if they only were to me.
I lived inside my fantasies, because my reality was so dissappointing.
Every night I was forced to lie in bed with my Papa, I would close my eyes and imagine fiercely that I was in my grandmother's room, snuggled beside her and not him...
I can't remember what he did to me.
I have a fear of older men...men with white hair...heavy-set, with shark eyes...loud voices, and big hands...I freeze around them, when they pat me on the head, or talk to me...I imagine that my eyes turn muddy brown instead of what they are now...
My grandfather tried to culture my younger sister and I. He would take us to Manhattan, or to Brooklyn, so that we could see the museums and the botanical gardens, the zoo, anything different from what we were used to. Beauty and history.
They told me Papa raped my older sister.
They said they found scars inside of her, but when they took that man to court, no one stood up for the children.
Our mother abandoned us, because he bought her a house. Our Nana abandoned us for a fur coat. My mother's sister refused to come up from Texas to testify against the man who had committed the same horrors on her that he did to Katie and me.
I'm tired of these memories.
More later...
The first type of poetry I learned was the kind I hated. It was the rythmic smack of my mother's hands to my bare skin...it was the silent thought that my skin was made of golden dirt, and I could never become who I wanted if I lived in filth like that...it was the flick of cigarette butts, my father's indifference, a baseball bat crying out its blood-lusts for tethered rubber baseballs in a little-league game...
The words were growing in me.
I've had many unstable homes. My first was my mother's womb. If it weren't for my dad, the tobacco she refused to give up would have been a part of my bloodstream, instead of just my memories. The second was a crib, idling next to my older sister's in the room I've always known. The rest came and went in a blur, and I don't know the order...there were just so many...An apartment with both parents. Low-Income housing with both parents, where we occupied the ground floor, and another family occupied the second. I believe we were in Keansburg there...or maybe Atlantic Highlands...
When my father left, mommy grabbed the three of us now from apartment to apartment, complexes for single mothers, run-down single rooms, my Papa's house, and others. Sometimes daddy was there, and sometimes he wasn't.
My little sister holds resentment towards me. I don't know why, but ever since we were young she has attempted to poke at my nerves, stretch them to as far as they could go before I snapped at her. She loved to manipulate me. Her not getting her way as a baby resulted in her crying until she stopped breathing.
My grandfather called her Princess.
I remember one night, he noticed me being forlorn and tossed into the backgound, and he took me on his lap and gave me a nickname. I was Manda-Panda...
This upset her very much.
My older sister used to take her thumb to my thighs when I was asleep, as punishment for taking her and Alysia's attention away from the adults.
I was a bruised wall-flower for a time...
Kindergarten taught me who I was, even before I realized its significance. I was coquettish...flirty...and I loved arts and crafts. When we learned our alphabet, I learned to read. I would sit by myself by the bookshelves and read whenever we had free time...or I'd find the mini bongos in the box of instruments Ms. Diana kept, and play...I would climb up to the piano bench and finger the keys, like sweet ivory, so smooth...I'd let them fly, making up tunes that were beautiful, even if they only were to me.
I lived inside my fantasies, because my reality was so dissappointing.
Every night I was forced to lie in bed with my Papa, I would close my eyes and imagine fiercely that I was in my grandmother's room, snuggled beside her and not him...
I can't remember what he did to me.
I have a fear of older men...men with white hair...heavy-set, with shark eyes...loud voices, and big hands...I freeze around them, when they pat me on the head, or talk to me...I imagine that my eyes turn muddy brown instead of what they are now...
My grandfather tried to culture my younger sister and I. He would take us to Manhattan, or to Brooklyn, so that we could see the museums and the botanical gardens, the zoo, anything different from what we were used to. Beauty and history.
They told me Papa raped my older sister.
They said they found scars inside of her, but when they took that man to court, no one stood up for the children.
Our mother abandoned us, because he bought her a house. Our Nana abandoned us for a fur coat. My mother's sister refused to come up from Texas to testify against the man who had committed the same horrors on her that he did to Katie and me.
I'm tired of these memories.
More later...
In English Class...
...we just watched B. Yung's 3rd place performance in the Knick's Poetry Slam.
If that's what 3rd place looks like...
My brain would explode if I had to listen to his 1st place.
It's ridiculous, that poem...
Makes me want to bury the pen forever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNuhJE9I0Qo&feature=channel
Enjoy ^_^+
If that's what 3rd place looks like...
My brain would explode if I had to listen to his 1st place.
It's ridiculous, that poem...
Makes me want to bury the pen forever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNuhJE9I0Qo&feature=channel
Enjoy ^_^+
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Birth to Beginnings...
They pulled a fraying rope of gold
delicately apart,
and from it
was woven
a golden rose.
One point of the ivory
compass
pointed to
perfection,
and the petals
gave
gave
a glorious cry.
From the bloody noose
which hung a black star
underneath the boughs
of an oaken moon
was birthed
happiness,
and the freedoms
of a new
beginning.
***************************************************
I refuse to believe that I was a mistake.
God doesn't make mistakes.
But I do know that the circumstances surounding my birth were painful, and frustrating. I feel as if my mother wrapped her voluminous pale legs around my father's neck, and choke-held him until he coughed up his innocence. He handed his future over to her, broken as it was, and it trickled down as dust and shadows to me...even as she believed that she still owned them.
My mother was viciously boy-crazy. How her parents didn't understand her mood swings and emotional flips is beyond me; perhaps they were too enveloped in their own forever-failing relationship. Nonetheless, she was, and is, bipolar. She has a mental disability, and I don't blame her for that fault. After all, as my Nana says, "Be careful, love; mental illness runs in your family!"
Anyway you tell the story, the fact remains that my parents met while working at McDonald's together. He was young, foolish, and black. None of these excuses can explain why he chose to pursue my mother. She was equally young, white, and had been a mother since she was 16. At that age, when she'd first gotten pregnant, and God knows how many times she had been since then, she ran away to live with her child's father.
He wasn't too interested in her.
My father took care of the two of them. He practically adopted Katrina, my older-half sister, into his own life. He put a baby-seat in his car. Worst of all, he put up with my mother's bull. She was a screamer, she was...and a fighter. And an instigator. I remember him telling me a story...one time, when she was out of cigarette money and low on cash in general, she bitched at the man until he sold his prized comic book collection to some pawn shop somewhere in Jersey. She got her cancer-sticks, and he lost his dream of opening up a comic book shop someday in Red Bank.
Well, really, that isn't all true. He lost that dream to a father of his own that wouldn't support his endeavors, and because that comic book shop he wanted to buy was sold to that crazy Jay and Silent Bob duo who make those movies based in Jersey, but that's another story...
The point is, I wasn't meant to be born, the way I was. My parents hadn't planned it, they weren't married, and they could never have worked as a couple for longer than they did...and they only did because they wanted to make it work for us chilruns'.
I can only be greatful that I was, indeed, born - even if it meant the loss of my father's future and another stray string unraveling within my mother's frayed sanity.
More later...
I want to be selfish here, one more time...
...so I'm going to start a short series about where I came from. I know that sounds O.D. selfish and autobiography-ish, but...I don't want to have to say this again. Ever. It's painful, and it's just something I want to put out there so that, perhaps, I don't have to think about this anymore. And maybe, if you know ("you" being my next to nonexistant readers) where I came from, so you know how I got here. So you know a little more of who I am and why I write this way, about these obscure things.
Please, excuse the poetic flow of it all, though...I've had to write this all for an English project, so I have a few poems stored up, just for this occasion.
^_^+
Please, excuse the poetic flow of it all, though...I've had to write this all for an English project, so I have a few poems stored up, just for this occasion.
^_^+
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Naps.
You...
...make me wait for you...
Heart on fire,
alive,
itching to feel your
naps
with my curled fingers -
who knew,
that a brief,
kinky
sleep
was a tangible occurrence?
...I'll say it again.
I can't wait to feel your naps
with my curled
fingers,
because all I have of you
right now
are your fantasies,
and those are harder
to grasp.
...They belong on your pillow.
So,
let me place them there,
with a few
extra-sweet kisses
besides,
the next time you invite me in
for a silky,
animated
experience.
...And don't forget the sesame chicken.
This time,
though,
can you open your windows?
The glare of gold
in your shadowed eyes
burns,
a little,
and there's no exit,
or advance -
just...
here.
Your oblivious antics come in
fours,
and sink into the fuzzy pores
of dingy couches
and guitar picks -
but,
I
want
more.
...Yet,
you make me wait for you...
...make me wait for you...
Heart on fire,
alive,
itching to feel your
naps
with my curled fingers -
who knew,
that a brief,
kinky
sleep
was a tangible occurrence?
...I'll say it again.
I can't wait to feel your naps
with my curled
fingers,
because all I have of you
right now
are your fantasies,
and those are harder
to grasp.
...They belong on your pillow.
So,
let me place them there,
with a few
extra-sweet kisses
besides,
the next time you invite me in
for a silky,
animated
experience.
...And don't forget the sesame chicken.
This time,
though,
can you open your windows?
The glare of gold
in your shadowed eyes
burns,
a little,
and there's no exit,
or advance -
just...
here.
Your oblivious antics come in
fours,
and sink into the fuzzy pores
of dingy couches
and guitar picks -
but,
I
want
more.
...Yet,
you make me wait for you...
Random Poetry #2.
Eyes wide,
murky;
empty stride,
smile;
try to hide
the passion of
sheets,
pillows,
panicky feet,
intertwine,
arms,
thighs,
explorer's hands,
laughter,
tears,
moan -
groan -
sigh...
but this place
still reminds me
of you.
murky;
empty stride,
smile;
try to hide
the passion of
sheets,
pillows,
panicky feet,
intertwine,
arms,
thighs,
explorer's hands,
laughter,
tears,
moan -
groan -
sigh...
but this place
still reminds me
of you.
Things That Just Aren't Likely To Happen Any Time Soon...
...Like Lauryn Hill making a comeback.
...And those new peanut-butter-diamonds being mass-produced and sold in cushy jewelery shops like Zales.
...Or diamonds being made in the microwave.
Click HERE for a demonstration.
...or me ever telling a successful joke.
@_@;
Friday, April 10, 2009
I Feel Like...
Hammock days. Lazy. Fluid. Floating, or drifting. Draping my arms over the head of the plush paisly armchair by the window, just to stretch a little as I rest my eyes...Feline. The slats on the window are shut...but they let in just enough light to set a peaceful, get-away-from-it-all-mood...butter-cup yellow and grapefruit...the smell of pomegrantes...Grandma's fish cakes...Bare feet, legs, thighs...Oversized Giants' T-shirt/Jersey, just because it was my dad's...Comfort. Palm trees with addled brains and dry hair...clear caribbean ocean. Driving in the car, roof down, just cruising, but...soundlessly. No interruptions. Waves lapping at the shore. Languidity. The smile of the sun over a stoccato ocean, flat and dimpled...and gold. The silver fish I saw in a tank of goldfish yesterday. Warm waters. White sands. Just laying inside of my dreams...Good morning.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Maxito.
SoFlo. Sarasota. Dry, brown palm trees, stagnant for lack of wind.
It's hot here.
"Kiss me through the phone, kiss me through the phone, I'll see you later on..." - Soulja Boy
If you don't know by now, I have a soundtrack for just about everything. Music is an integral part of, not just my life, but life in general...whether it's the sound of nature, the sound of the city, or a radio bumping the bass out of its windows as it drives by to the tune of...Soulja Boy. :(
My baby-brother, Maxito...he's crazy. Loquito. Pero, es mi hermanito ^_^+ Florida has been...interesting. Spent some time with my mom. Her natural soundtrack is:
Flick. Cigarette ash flies, screaming, past Alysia in the backseat. Thank goodness the window's closed...or maybe, not so much. It's hot. There are old people in the cars beside, behind, and in front. They're courteous, but...I'm afraid.
I can hear her laughing. She's getting porcelain caps soon, so she says. There's no money. Though she scraped a ten together for some McDonald's. We have to eat, don't we?
I feel bad. I mean, woman's a little...interesting. Whines a little, crazy, whatever...but I love her. I might complain, and perhaps I can't stand being around her too often, but I still love her.
We went swimming today at the community pool. Low-income housing and all. My little brother is a fish! He just loves to swim...took a video of him dancing and shaking his little bum, but any video on my phone is too large to send out to my e-mail, or to anyone else for that matter. So, all I have are a few quick pictures. Funny kid.
*muah*
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Random Poetry # 1.
You'd rather turn heads
than turn pages.
Stilletto shoes pointing at the soap-stone sundial,
penciling in oblivion above IV...
Golden mane,
wispy curls;
Her honey-blonde vines choke restlessly
the brunette in her...
Perhaps that pink-slip dress
used to be a call for detention.
How many men have slipped sand and shore
beneath your authority?
Legs, thighs, waist,
round strides,
lips plumped to a ripe killer-lipstick
kiss...
Her head wasn't in the books,
but her likeness was in the dictionary.
Promiscuousity, or a coloquiallism slinging
"bitch that stole my boyfriend!",
can these words define her?
Eyes like bright diamonds
and a rotten glare...
she is withered,
but looks like a jewel.
Perhaps...she is perfect.
And we are the sinners.
But she weighs more on my scale
than her 114 lbs...
...snake.
than turn pages.
Stilletto shoes pointing at the soap-stone sundial,
penciling in oblivion above IV...
Golden mane,
wispy curls;
Her honey-blonde vines choke restlessly
the brunette in her...
Perhaps that pink-slip dress
used to be a call for detention.
How many men have slipped sand and shore
beneath your authority?
Legs, thighs, waist,
round strides,
lips plumped to a ripe killer-lipstick
kiss...
Her head wasn't in the books,
but her likeness was in the dictionary.
Promiscuousity, or a coloquiallism slinging
"bitch that stole my boyfriend!",
can these words define her?
Eyes like bright diamonds
and a rotten glare...
she is withered,
but looks like a jewel.
Perhaps...she is perfect.
And we are the sinners.
But she weighs more on my scale
than her 114 lbs...
...snake.
Get to know NUJABES.
So, I've been on this...Nujabes tip for a while now.
"Your volumptuous, sweet caramel-brown-honey-dew-satin-skin smooth to the touch, what a nigga do?" -Lady-Brown by Nujabes ft. Cise Star
I'm still trying to figure out why so many people just...don't know about him. He's been featured in popular anime Samurai Champloo (creator Shinichiro Watanabe [Cowboy Bebop], studio Manglobe) in both the Intro theme song (Battlecry) and the Outro theme song (Shiki no Uta ft. Minmi). Some of his phenomenal beats have been co-produced by Shing02, such as the song Love Sic, while others feature the lyrical skills of some dope underground artists like Cise Star (http://www.myspace.com/cisestar) and Cyne (http://www.myspace.com/cyne).
"Mata yo ga akereba owakare, yume wa tooki maboroshi ni, anata wo oikakete ita hikari no naka de, dakareru tabi atatakai, kaze wo tayori!" -Shiki no Uta by Nujabes ft. Minmi
A great way to discover his music, and other artists with similar styles, is by utilizing the free online radio source, http://www.pandora.com/ and typing in Nujabes' name for an endless playlist you can jam to whenever you're on the computer.
So, I encourage you to get to know this Japanese DJ. Buy Modal Soul. Check out his beats.
I even youtube'd you an example.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OobUV9q0aDA
"Your volumptuous, sweet caramel-brown-honey-dew-satin-skin smooth to the touch, what a nigga do?" -Lady-Brown by Nujabes ft. Cise Star
I'm still trying to figure out why so many people just...don't know about him. He's been featured in popular anime Samurai Champloo (creator Shinichiro Watanabe [Cowboy Bebop], studio Manglobe) in both the Intro theme song (Battlecry) and the Outro theme song (Shiki no Uta ft. Minmi). Some of his phenomenal beats have been co-produced by Shing02, such as the song Love Sic, while others feature the lyrical skills of some dope underground artists like Cise Star (http://www.myspace.com/cisestar) and Cyne (http://www.myspace.com/cyne).
"Mata yo ga akereba owakare, yume wa tooki maboroshi ni, anata wo oikakete ita hikari no naka de, dakareru tabi atatakai, kaze wo tayori!" -Shiki no Uta by Nujabes ft. Minmi
A great way to discover his music, and other artists with similar styles, is by utilizing the free online radio source, http://www.pandora.com/ and typing in Nujabes' name for an endless playlist you can jam to whenever you're on the computer.
So, I encourage you to get to know this Japanese DJ. Buy Modal Soul. Check out his beats.
I even youtube'd you an example.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OobUV9q0aDA
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