Neo_Poetry

We deal in too many externals, brother

always afros, handshakes and dashikis

never can a man build a working structure for black capitalism

always does the man read Mao or Fanon

I think I know you would-be black revolutionaries too well

standing on a box on the corner, talking about blowing the white man away

that’s now where it’s at yet, brother

calling this man an Uncle Tom and telling this woman to get an afro

but you won’t speak to her if she looks like hell, now will you brother

some of us been checking your act out kinda close

and by now its looking kinda shaky

the way you been rushin’ people with your super black bag

jumping down on some black men with both feet cause they’re after their BA

But you’re never around when your BA is in danger…I mean your black ass

I think it was a little too easy for you to forget that you were a negro before Malcolm

You drove your white girl through the village every Friday night

while the grassroots stared in envy and drank wine, do you remember?

You need to get your memory banks organized brother.

Show that man you call an Uncle Tom just where he’s wrong

Show that woman that you’re a sincere black man

All we need to do is see you shut up and be black

Help that woman

Help that man

That’s what brothers are for

Brother

A great person with no purpose
Is like a dead body
With no soul
There is no god to find
No home to go to
Because life continues to pass
A great person with no purpose
Has no point to make
Shifting in and out of conversations
Adding meaning-less nothings
In others’ gasp for breath
A great person with no purpose
Has no path to fallow
They have no emotional wounds to patch
Because they have never tried hard enough to fall
He doesn’t have an purpose
So he does not fight for his life
He has always dreamed about its’ unveil
Sometimes he just seems to sit
And wait, for time to take
All that the world is missing
To put it all on his plate
A great person with no purpose
Is like a movement
With no destination
Still, then quite, then unseen
Only noticed in the back drops
Of strangers roaming in the night
Down empty streets and city lights
I’m just a shadow of what you know
You don’t want be
I sit on roof tops and forward lean
My cigarettes might help me
Save all my poison gas
In hopes to feel full
And be free to fall asleep
Within the hollowed leftovers
Of my bottled self-pity
I am not your inspiration
I am not your muse
I am nothing and nobody
I am a past
That has yet to have been forgotten
You all know me
You all will forget me
You
Will
Forget
Me

He went swimming for greenbacks in red rivers of
And drown in the dreams deferred
By women who names he had forgotten
He had drowned before by had never stopped swimming
One of the many children of the noon
Miss lead to color-less truths
Taught to be monsters of full moons
They became dogs, who eat dogs, to make men
But under the surface of his mindstate,
She hid her unstated passions
And they seem to crack his chest open at night
As she rest her head beneath his heart
her happiness was but an idea whose time had come
Then left
To age
In the absence of her want to be more than his temporary replacement
She was exiled to wander the nurtur-less deserts of his alternative choices,
They seem to have collected like sand
Then blow into her watering eyes
swimming on the winds of his unwasted breaths
You see he loved to walk the ever flowing rivers of crying women
Making sure to hold his breath pretending to keep relationships a float
His hope was that her loss of words,
Could collapse his lungs into her heart
And purify them enough to be accepted as a an offering to the red olks
Turned burning willows
That now surround her streaming rivers of silent tears
And it worked
He would claim to suffocate in her presence
So she would break her heart and pump her much needed air down his throat
He was her jesus
And she was only his daydream
His next month was her every second
His love was contently reborn in the ashes of her singed and broken heart
He would live forever
Within the shell of her heroin filled, limp body, and now cold body
And he always left bodies behind
After he extracted the souls of mourning women
Always on the corner
But only in the morning

Every group of friends has that one crazy person. Yet, every revolutionary has been called crazy at one point. Some even die with that label, only to have it removed by the great grand-children of all those who called them crazy, who will be learning someone’s crazy ideas, as elementary.

Moral of the story: Everybody isn’t a revolutionary.

Question: how do you know if you’re a revolutionary? Answer: if you have to ask that question, i have some bad news you’re not a revolutionary.

Follow up: Not being a revolutionary doesn’t mean you can’t lend some support. Just hop on the band wagon like everyone else once the revolution begins.

Wrap up: For now keep calling that person crazy lol because the future has already been shaped those people who chose to do so now, and that in its self is crazy… Right? Lmao

You are not alone…

I roam the streets of forgotten faces,

Headphones on, jeans tight, social off

Assign me a labels as a gift,

But nothing seems to fit

So I’m tip toeing into their nightmares

On melody’s unheard yet felt

How dare you not fit in?

Placed me in a group that consists of I and I

And I

And I

Keep living

Moving, grooving, to the silence of your world and the decibels of mine

The vibrations, of your voice go unmatched to the instrumental of my thoughts

Mixing and remixing songs into something else

An Idea unheard,

A language unknown

And no I cannot translate

For the complexities of this world, would only bring an end to yours

It is too cold for to you stay

Cool,

I’m gliding across these concrete boxes

With kicks made of tranquility

Open your mind

Cause I’ve walked for miles, with miles

Playin’ in the background, when I kind of blue

Then meditated on life like Monks to Munk

With arms and legs criss crossed

As these black keys fade to white

a major seventh

an altered fifth

augmented fourth

Questions and answers

What is peace?

Music

The birth of Jazz

The death of sanity

The beginning of life is end of all limitations

Are you living yet?

Culture

From Ragtime, to Swing,

From Bebop, Hard bop

From Modal to Free

So color me

Consuming, overwhelming, intense, uncontrollable, overshadowing

Black

History

My story

Our story

Origins

Beginning

Picture me

Surfing on your thought waves

Though conversations as endless as our visions of the future

Judgment has no ally

Pausing for breaths

Moments in time

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades

Forever

Love is all the same

Come dance with me

Into the undiscovered world of your dreams differed

The beauty in the

perfection that is you

You are beautiful

We are beautiful

And this

This is jazz

I will not save you from yourself because I am not heroic, I will not ignite the internal flames of your passions because I am afraid of fire,

I will not be the best you’ve ever had, because sometimes I just want to sleep,

will not wake up every day tell you nice things by comparing you to something else, because some days the sun don’t look so bright, flowers don’t bloom as big and you will piss me the fuck off,

I am not like anything or anyone.

I am not the replacement for your Ex’s, your dad, your Ex before your last Ex, your uncle,

your long lost cousin who you liked a little too much but then moved away and never got to see again,

your Ex between your last Ex and your Ex before him who you really liked but never told of your friends about because they did not approve

I am not what you’ve always been looking for because

I am not some object to be found,

I am a person, whose complexities go far beyond their own understanding,

I cannot be decoded, broken down, known, defined, or fathomed,

I am simply complex

I am Truthful and Faithful,

I am human,

I am not your hero,

I am real, I am an over thinker,

I am a geek,

I sometimes I don’t listen,

I am hard headed as shit

I am always in love

A new day is coming

To claim your most ancient of thoughts

As theme parks for your inner child’s unheard musician

Who used to serenade your nightmares into day dreams

A new day is coming

It will be using the mouths of crying children

As vessels to travel into futures for seen by aging mothers and pruning minds

It will awake your sleeping dreams,

To teach them how to scream quiet nights into inspiring dawns

They will shake your unspoken secrets

And shatter your glass homes of comfort

And In the deepest of nights,

This new day

Will blindly wander the hallways of your passions

Running up and down your hills of joy

And swim your waters of sorrow

Like the children of the past life you choose to remember never to become again

Forgetting their eyes will alway be the portals by which your unknown artist will spawn through

It will be left neglected and alone to feed on starving thoughts

As you hide under your half ass shelter made up of the things inspired by things

This new day

Will gave birth

As you inspire life

And it will recreate you

Then force you drown within your new self

But first you have to get out of bed

Graffiti black pen and paper revolutions
On the hidden blank canvases of walls that protect your memories
Will not keep you
From the epiphany that
Change is not an option,
But an under-estimated fact
And that it, much like unfilled, unseen, and unwanted cracks in concrete jungles
Is unpredictable
That sometimes will hurt,
It will bruise your knees
In its ability to become heavy enough to force you to kneel down and pray,
It cut your hands
In your attempts to brace for its’ unpredictable impact
And yet just like falling in public
It will reshape your thoughts and heal all your wounds
Then it scar to remind you that change can be painful
But you will always survive
Change can be the two year old shoes
Two sizes too small
Then the trip over street cracks
That scuffed your new ones the day you got them
It knows
That sometimes scuffed shoes, scars and bruises
Are the only way that you could ever see the pathway
That leads beyond your current destination
It knows
That only shattered egos can become humbled enough to see beauty
In the few blades of grass that dreamt of the forest
Who with very little sunlight
Fought through 3 foot blocks of cement, footsteps, gum, spit,
And the ever growing hope that jungles would forever stay hidden
Beneath sleepless cities of broken dreams
It knows
That these simple blades of grass remnants of a dying freedom would forever take on the challenge
of retelling the story of the day you wear your polished outfit for a special occasion
Shape it into one about the crack the concrete
That forced you to change and marvel
at its’ hard work
And its’ beauty all just to shatter your thoughts of oneness in a world of many
Because they, just like change, know
That you have never really celebrated the true pain of perfection
Beyond successful gatherings at destinations reached
They know, that it is only when you are at eye level that you can hear them
Ask you silently
Through wave-like dancing
In the breeze created by passing feet
Could you ever see anything as beautiful as this?

Dear Living Being,

I’m a walking sack of contradictions and shallow clichés dressed up in lavish words that are too big to fit my malnourished thoughts, pretending to have a need to struggle for scraps. It is as if I’ve been trying to hide meals in the pockets of my brand new jeans then putting holes in the pockets, and still crying of hunger. I had to buy my pain from thrift shops and street corners. Mostly because struggle missed me, I had no choice but to kidnap her from the memories of others then cage her up within my own. I had extract her lessons and place them gently on the tip of my tongue and the top of my spine, so I could salivate sorrow and let my memories ooze false pain, with hopes to feel something other than complete and utter happiness! All I think about is how much I want to erode my sun rising smile into a last dawn, after three months of hospital beds and sick days. My life was too good so I poured your struggle into a poem and told your stories. So that on stage, I could cease to exist. Knowing that I am but a child of an imagination too free to ever know the true freedom of breaking the shackles of agony but I have never really had the need to do so. In my head all I really want is to be like you. I envy you. I envy your strength. I envy your pain. I envy your laughter, soon after, when you silence all your life’s disasters. I only wish I was even more like you, when I pray that the pedestal you’ve placed me on will collapse because it isn’t any more faltering nor truthful, then the poetry I write about myself. Those vibrantly panted words, dressed up in metaphors, have never felt anything more than the roofs of my mouth and the tips of my tongue. The truth is I am weak. The truth is that my love for you is all that has kept me from collapsing under the weight of my own self-pity. The truth is that I am sorry. I am sorry that my description of heart ache was enough to touch you, but not enough to make your memories of it, vivid enough to be real, for me. I have never felt with you. So yes you are right. It is not fair, that I can create an unwanted one way connect between you and sound waves or ink and that they will never hold you as you cry. But my only hope is that you will continue to love me, through the falseness of all it. Know that you will come to know me by not my words, but the unconditional, universal, and unexpressed admiration, I have for you. My partner. My lover. My inspiration. My patient reader and attentive listener. I only wish, for my words to touch you in ways that allow you to feel with, and not just again or for. That when I am alone, your story will be the mural that takes me to a place of sweet misery then the overwhelming beauty of your triumphant victory that always fallows that I myself have never been privileged to. I am asking you to forgive me, for my envy and admiration that may sometimes sound beautiful enough to go beyond the barriers you’ve set up to keep exploiters of emotions like me out. I just want to feel something other than the pain of my sometimes blood covered fist, and acidic burn of this liquid toxin; want just want to be more like you, and it is Our poetry, your stories have been only way that I have been able to do that.

Thank you

I am his culture-less nigger

Banished to the empty spaces between the words of his telling

and interpretation of my

Story

The same

That has been

Told then untold

Hidden then misused

and Loved then disdained

But he has never truly heard

My story

Because if he did

He would see

It cry red tears into the purified pages his aging historical books

He would no longer dub my language

A culture-less miss-given remnant of his own

How long will it take for him to realize?

that though he has never built kingdoms and wrapped them in stars to out shine sun in anticipation of the moon’s light that can only reflect off of royal skin

He is still just as lost as the nigger he kidnapped for seasonal decoration

But strange fruits have always grown year round, so flesh fruits were never seasonal

How long will it take for him to remember that he has never painted color-less nations green with envy using golden smiles and priceless souls

That even when chained down and auctioned off like stolen goods

still support whole cities on their overworked and decomposing fist

Yet I forget

That he will never read my story

Though it may bare the gift of timeless knowledge

To an aging world, that has matured blissfully into the shallow depths of it’s own pool of ignorance

He can never see past the black ink that cages my age-less story

Serving consecutive life sentences on behalf of its own beauty

After being found guilty

Of stealing his wife’s glance for a second too long

Murdering preconceived notions of being less than nothing

And kidnapping his dreams of everlasting enslavement, holding it ransom for fair chance at freedom

under the threat free-doom

Yes

I am his culture-less nigger

But he

He is my well cultured illiterate coon

A new day is coming

To claim your most ancient of thoughts

turned acoustic fields

As theme parks

For your inner musician to serenade your nightmares into daydreams

This new day

Will be using the mouths of crying children

As vessels to travel into futures for seen by aging mothers, whose pruning skin, will be used to chart maps to hidden scars

That have gone spoiled within the sound proof boxes of their fears of being too weak to be single

And still parent 

Their sleeping children,

Will scream at dawn          

Awaking their unspoken secrets

And shattering our glass homes of comfort

In the darkest of nights

We will get angry

Forgetting

That it is only through their eyes,

Her child’s, pupil-ed sights that we can ever hope to become the portals by which our unknown artist will spawn through

When tired of hiding under a half ass shelter made up of the thoughts inspired by others

Their wordless scream into the night, will pry our eye lids open

To scatter our sleeping thoughts across the pages of empty pages   

She who gave birth

Will inspire yet another

As we create  this new day

We will realize

As she did

That it was

long past due