i am currently working on reshaping my thoughts. breaking a writer's block that has appeared at different levels of inspiration and motivation that i can not even begin to express. the off the wall things that formulate are not necessarily given the proper space to be nurtured. but anyways...
my current project consist of this #stoptheviolence series.. in light of the last few African American youth that have been lost.. and countless murders that go unmentioned especially where i am from (Rochester,NY)...its the fuel to my fire..
i just dropped the first installment.. TASER While Black.. make sure you read that..
next up is the Story of GIRL X from 97'. If you are not familiar with her, no reason to kick yourself. There is always a reason for the lack of media coverage and exposure. This reason: Jean Benot Ramsey slain two weeks prior to the story of GIRL X. So of course... White Woman Syndrome hit hard. cabrini green and chicago have become numb to such incidents...
and hopefully my forthcoming piece will highlight her story.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Taser While Black
Taser While Black:2009
Suddenly seen as escape goats
Sparsely filled rags
Full life size
Imitation of life like
With Eyes on the prize type
Tom moved swift
New invention
Shooting flesh
Without leaving holes
Volts replaced bullets
Animals clothed
January 9th
Derrick Jones
17
Martinsville Virginia
Hunters hunting game
Seeking salute
Collecting priceless ivory
Tally mark
Leaving
One death per week this year
February 13th
37 years in
Rudolph Byrd
Thomasville
Georgia
As “Peace officers”
Show off their new pieces
Target practice
On the backs of blacks
Trying to get the highest score
Of torture and execute the harmless
Not responding quickly
Marcus d. Moore, forty,
Freeport Illinois
March 26th
Facts of creation
’69 to aim shots
Since 1974, they practiced
Hit miss
Below centre mass
Stimulating sensory nerve s
Palpating hearts
Seeking brains the wiz never gave
Sweet sixteen
Robert Mitchell
Hit Detroit streets
April 10th
Thomas A. Swift electric rifle
Split seconds erupts currents
Incapacitating muscles and strength
They blamed faulty batteries on Rodney king
Riots produced
It took 5 seconds past minutes
To Spark hate
Disposable camera’s recycled
Captured deaths on voltage
Another slain
Salem Oregon
Gregory Rold
May 23rd
37.
It’s the
21st century lynching
Creation
Slaying 3 headed monsters
Lose limbs left lifeless
Scarecrow like
Without reload
X3
Highly praised
Without price
How much does it cost?
Only all civil liberties
June 13, Dwight Madison, 48, Maryland
July 2nd, Roy McKenzie, 25, Cali
August 14th Hakim Jackson, 31, Philly
Either one could have been me
Without reload.
And so as Tom aims to hunt elephants
In the mother land
He inspires
Jack Cover,
NASA researcher to probe deaths into formulation
Another slain not by gunfire
Left uncounted
Yuceff W. Young
Age 21
Brooklyn Ohio
September 19th.
All at the hands
Tom A. Swift’s electric rifle.
Suddenly seen as escape goats
Sparsely filled rags
Full life size
Imitation of life like
With Eyes on the prize type
Tom moved swift
New invention
Shooting flesh
Without leaving holes
Volts replaced bullets
Animals clothed
January 9th
Derrick Jones
17
Martinsville Virginia
Hunters hunting game
Seeking salute
Collecting priceless ivory
Tally mark
Leaving
One death per week this year
February 13th
37 years in
Rudolph Byrd
Thomasville
Georgia
As “Peace officers”
Show off their new pieces
Target practice
On the backs of blacks
Trying to get the highest score
Of torture and execute the harmless
Not responding quickly
Marcus d. Moore, forty,
Freeport Illinois
March 26th
Facts of creation
’69 to aim shots
Since 1974, they practiced
Hit miss
Below centre mass
Stimulating sensory nerve s
Palpating hearts
Seeking brains the wiz never gave
Sweet sixteen
Robert Mitchell
Hit Detroit streets
April 10th
Thomas A. Swift electric rifle
Split seconds erupts currents
Incapacitating muscles and strength
They blamed faulty batteries on Rodney king
Riots produced
It took 5 seconds past minutes
To Spark hate
Disposable camera’s recycled
Captured deaths on voltage
Another slain
Salem Oregon
Gregory Rold
May 23rd
37.
It’s the
21st century lynching
Creation
Slaying 3 headed monsters
Lose limbs left lifeless
Scarecrow like
Without reload
X3
Highly praised
Without price
How much does it cost?
Only all civil liberties
June 13, Dwight Madison, 48, Maryland
July 2nd, Roy McKenzie, 25, Cali
August 14th Hakim Jackson, 31, Philly
Either one could have been me
Without reload.
And so as Tom aims to hunt elephants
In the mother land
He inspires
Jack Cover,
NASA researcher to probe deaths into formulation
Another slain not by gunfire
Left uncounted
Yuceff W. Young
Age 21
Brooklyn Ohio
September 19th.
All at the hands
Tom A. Swift’s electric rifle.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Where does Writers Block come from?
So yesterday I was asked, “Where does Writers Block come from?”
First and foremost one must not look at writers block as something negative or positive, but as a state of being that is. Whether necessary, asked, appreciated, or acquired, it’s a place of void that slows or disables artistic creation.
So… is writers block a place of void or just simply a break? Is it a necessity for growth or a writer’s worst enemy? Does it fluctuate depending on purpose, emotion, or tool of expression?
Is writer’s block an inability to express emotions or simply a lack of emotions to express? One can argue that writer’s block has nothing to do with emotions at all.
So with that does the ability to express change with the tool of expression? Is writers block different from when a painter is not motivated, or a musician is not feeling the music around them? What is art? Is the act of creation enough to be art? Or does art need to be back by emotions, expressions, and feelings in order for it to feel substantial? And if creation enough encompasses art, then what is the relationship between lack of creation (writers block) being a state of art.
Some express that writer’s block is merely a transition period, a point of reflection, regression, progression, evolution, growth, or change. But if that is so, then what are you leaving and where are you going? Or does neither matter.
As one brother put it, writers block is “The lost of truth in your words. The moment you become untrue is it the moment in which words protest your pen.” Now, this to me seems like a personification of writing. As if writer’s block is the voice for the art. Speaking loud and clear: damn I am over worked; under paid, bored, or just simply something is not aligned. Writers block is the catalyst for truth and clarity to be found.
In questioning the void and absence of the art you begin to question the purpose of its existence. And not just place the value of each word as a factor in creating perfect sentences, but actually molding or changing someone’s thoughts and thinking. If my ability is snatched away at times when I dare not ask or expect, then of course I want to question why it is not there when I think I need it.
So is writer’s block simple a nomad. It comes and goes based on its own freedom, and inclination, not on life, emotions, tools, expression or growth.
Does any of this even really matter?
First and foremost one must not look at writers block as something negative or positive, but as a state of being that is. Whether necessary, asked, appreciated, or acquired, it’s a place of void that slows or disables artistic creation.
So… is writers block a place of void or just simply a break? Is it a necessity for growth or a writer’s worst enemy? Does it fluctuate depending on purpose, emotion, or tool of expression?
Is writer’s block an inability to express emotions or simply a lack of emotions to express? One can argue that writer’s block has nothing to do with emotions at all.
So with that does the ability to express change with the tool of expression? Is writers block different from when a painter is not motivated, or a musician is not feeling the music around them? What is art? Is the act of creation enough to be art? Or does art need to be back by emotions, expressions, and feelings in order for it to feel substantial? And if creation enough encompasses art, then what is the relationship between lack of creation (writers block) being a state of art.
Some express that writer’s block is merely a transition period, a point of reflection, regression, progression, evolution, growth, or change. But if that is so, then what are you leaving and where are you going? Or does neither matter.
As one brother put it, writers block is “The lost of truth in your words. The moment you become untrue is it the moment in which words protest your pen.” Now, this to me seems like a personification of writing. As if writer’s block is the voice for the art. Speaking loud and clear: damn I am over worked; under paid, bored, or just simply something is not aligned. Writers block is the catalyst for truth and clarity to be found.
In questioning the void and absence of the art you begin to question the purpose of its existence. And not just place the value of each word as a factor in creating perfect sentences, but actually molding or changing someone’s thoughts and thinking. If my ability is snatched away at times when I dare not ask or expect, then of course I want to question why it is not there when I think I need it.
So is writer’s block simple a nomad. It comes and goes based on its own freedom, and inclination, not on life, emotions, tools, expression or growth.
Does any of this even really matter?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
StolenLegacy
Stolen legacy
Strapped caged mind disabled body
Stuck swollen by life's fight
Swirled emotions
Swarm with commotion
Suddenly distractions equal fractions
Seconds spent wasted in time
Summer spending
Sequential minutes
Surrounded by nothing but references
Sadly succumbed by seduction
Secluded to a place of passion
Straddle and strapped
Sultry share of expression
Satisfied
She stroked
She floats
sure of nothing
Stuck on him
Standing, walking, left, her
Searching, for answers to match his questions,
She, branded
Substance tainted
Steady head strung,
strong willed but lost
Staggering between his syllables, his love song,
Strategically tranced her
Summer silenced by his words on repeat
Scanning each moment,
surveying each place
Submissive response to sunrise,
solitude
Stolen legacy
Solution : escape seconds spent in esctacy
Suffering for higher ground
She smiles, sky miles hung on his each word
slow recaps
Secluded to a place of satisfaction
She settled
stepped back ,
Stuck in love for self
Success with each second,
stupidity stepped
She lost time.
Selflessly.
Saddened memories
Her Legacy stolen
Gradually
Self slowly excepted.
Success with each word
She no longer listens.
smiles. submissive to self. Love.
Legacy re molding.
Strapped caged mind disabled body
Stuck swollen by life's fight
Swirled emotions
Swarm with commotion
Suddenly distractions equal fractions
Seconds spent wasted in time
Summer spending
Sequential minutes
Surrounded by nothing but references
Sadly succumbed by seduction
Secluded to a place of passion
Straddle and strapped
Sultry share of expression
Satisfied
She stroked
She floats
sure of nothing
Stuck on him
Standing, walking, left, her
Searching, for answers to match his questions,
She, branded
Substance tainted
Steady head strung,
strong willed but lost
Staggering between his syllables, his love song,
Strategically tranced her
Summer silenced by his words on repeat
Scanning each moment,
surveying each place
Submissive response to sunrise,
solitude
Stolen legacy
Solution : escape seconds spent in esctacy
Suffering for higher ground
She smiles, sky miles hung on his each word
slow recaps
Secluded to a place of satisfaction
She settled
stepped back ,
Stuck in love for self
Success with each second,
stupidity stepped
She lost time.
Selflessly.
Saddened memories
Her Legacy stolen
Gradually
Self slowly excepted.
Success with each word
She no longer listens.
smiles. submissive to self. Love.
Legacy re molding.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Concrete,Swollen.
Recollection
Seconds become ours
You
I
Conjoined
Gave
And given
Slowly riding
Course unforgotten
Our road less driven
We never meant this
Stopped
Dead at tracks
Guilt ridden
Hope searching
Blind loving
Before us
Stole, a place of worth
Life living purpose with seeing
Us.
Fallen
Concrete. Swollen
Bruised Loving
Unconditionally open
Yet taken
A Void.
Of social living
Rules. Limits. Creation
Golden
You were life.
Emotions misplaced
Ashamed
My secret
My sanity
The We. in Us
To get her
Magic
Chaos
Esctacy
Raw.
Lust
All or nothing
Below
Or average
Drowning
Priceless
But Worth something
Trust fall
Last seconds past hours
Claimed passion
Was it to be
Truth. Strong. Unity. In All
Chosen,
Never broken
Tainted poison.
A desired fear
Love.
We had it.
Together forever
We never broken
Living in dreams
Always forgotten
False reality
Lived daily
Memories.
Won't escape me
The fall
Best lived on repeat.
Love at the purest
After the miss me
Concrete swollen
Time worked
Loved.
Blessed
Nothing
We. us
Now
You
Dead
Tracks love train
Smashed and recapping
Gave borrowed love
Became
Ashamed
My secret
My sanity
the raw, the ecstasy
Mine.
You were.
Seconds became ours.
To
Past
Never forgetting
Despite all
The fall
Concrete swollen.
Seconds become ours
You
I
Conjoined
Gave
And given
Slowly riding
Course unforgotten
Our road less driven
We never meant this
Stopped
Dead at tracks
Guilt ridden
Hope searching
Blind loving
Before us
Stole, a place of worth
Life living purpose with seeing
Us.
Fallen
Concrete. Swollen
Bruised Loving
Unconditionally open
Yet taken
A Void.
Of social living
Rules. Limits. Creation
Golden
You were life.
Emotions misplaced
Ashamed
My secret
My sanity
The We. in Us
To get her
Magic
Chaos
Esctacy
Raw.
Lust
All or nothing
Below
Or average
Drowning
Priceless
But Worth something
Trust fall
Last seconds past hours
Claimed passion
Was it to be
Truth. Strong. Unity. In All
Chosen,
Never broken
Tainted poison.
A desired fear
Love.
We had it.
Together forever
We never broken
Living in dreams
Always forgotten
False reality
Lived daily
Memories.
Won't escape me
The fall
Best lived on repeat.
Love at the purest
After the miss me
Concrete swollen
Time worked
Loved.
Blessed
Nothing
We. us
Now
You
Dead
Tracks love train
Smashed and recapping
Gave borrowed love
Became
Ashamed
My secret
My sanity
the raw, the ecstasy
Mine.
You were.
Seconds became ours.
To
Past
Never forgetting
Despite all
The fall
Concrete swollen.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
CardiaArrest
I will be going away for a while.
I haven't decided when or for how long.
It's not a vacation, a business trip, or a family retreat
Release report. Nah scratch that.
Well regardless of the title of my affairs,
I will be back soon. One day soon.
And no shit I am not sick
I am not dying
For I am already dead inside
Apart of me.
This is a trip of resuscitation.
Yes, many are trained in CPR
I understand that you may be able and even more willing.
However, I am too far gone for those techniques.
I need those electrical hands strapped over me.
I have been in cardiac arrest for sometime now.
Nothing a little passion, love ,and science can't heal.
Unless it's just my time. vacation time.
Aint this some bullshit.
The doctor tells me, the surgeon is on stand by.
Recommendations of possible open heart needed to heal holes left by silence and separation.
Attempts at my life while trying to heal my soul.
With no fucking insurance, I am trapped.
Clogged arteries, full of ease, daily routine, but no literary relief.
Doctor's fee charged to knowledge and growth I guess.
Hopefully the bill collectors get the memo.
That's always plan B.
But for now, I prefer internal retreat.
Cleansing meant for only me.
My ink will be resuscitated.
At dawn!
More morphine please.
I haven't decided when or for how long.
It's not a vacation, a business trip, or a family retreat
Release report. Nah scratch that.
Well regardless of the title of my affairs,
I will be back soon. One day soon.
And no shit I am not sick
I am not dying
For I am already dead inside
Apart of me.
This is a trip of resuscitation.
Yes, many are trained in CPR
I understand that you may be able and even more willing.
However, I am too far gone for those techniques.
I need those electrical hands strapped over me.
I have been in cardiac arrest for sometime now.
Nothing a little passion, love ,and science can't heal.
Unless it's just my time. vacation time.
Aint this some bullshit.
The doctor tells me, the surgeon is on stand by.
Recommendations of possible open heart needed to heal holes left by silence and separation.
Attempts at my life while trying to heal my soul.
With no fucking insurance, I am trapped.
Clogged arteries, full of ease, daily routine, but no literary relief.
Doctor's fee charged to knowledge and growth I guess.
Hopefully the bill collectors get the memo.
That's always plan B.
But for now, I prefer internal retreat.
Cleansing meant for only me.
My ink will be resuscitated.
At dawn!
More morphine please.
FindYourLightInDarkness
I loves to be among light and observe darkness, life is learning to be stuck w in (surrounded by ) darkness and admiring light enough to change settings....
Setting boundaries, trying not to cross invisible lines, where the light shines only momentarily...darkness makes you appreciate the qualities of light... Yet what if it shines too bright...blurring visions, so one would rather love in the dark... and feel it
…The illusion is born in shadows that smile, warming cold souls luke, side effects come from too much light beyond the scope of others. Love in the dark can never be complete, having fallen during day on concrete that called my name in my sleep, how could it be justified to not be, it’s a constant relief. Lights out would simply minimize the opportunities .Among brightness you are able to notice things that have gone foreseen...
Yet seeing is not always believing, light creates shadows and they produce illusions...noticing only the fragments of one’s self... So maybe it has nothing to do with lights or being in the dark...simply with how one chooses to be seen. So I'll being a flashlight…
A flashlight. Controlled by self limitations... Beaming when thought decides, and time permits, but what about when I run out of batteries?
Umm that's when I flip on the lights
Setting boundaries, trying not to cross invisible lines, where the light shines only momentarily...darkness makes you appreciate the qualities of light... Yet what if it shines too bright...blurring visions, so one would rather love in the dark... and feel it
…The illusion is born in shadows that smile, warming cold souls luke, side effects come from too much light beyond the scope of others. Love in the dark can never be complete, having fallen during day on concrete that called my name in my sleep, how could it be justified to not be, it’s a constant relief. Lights out would simply minimize the opportunities .Among brightness you are able to notice things that have gone foreseen...
Yet seeing is not always believing, light creates shadows and they produce illusions...noticing only the fragments of one’s self... So maybe it has nothing to do with lights or being in the dark...simply with how one chooses to be seen. So I'll being a flashlight…
A flashlight. Controlled by self limitations... Beaming when thought decides, and time permits, but what about when I run out of batteries?
Umm that's when I flip on the lights
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