The Enlightened 1

The news said five white kids Of various ages killed another white man The white man was old, homeless and Had probably stolen large amounts of food in His lifetime. A felon. Makes me glad it wasn’t one of us. The news said 6 white kids Of various ages shot up a school today The students were all white and from upper income Families and died grasping their silver spoons Makes me glad it wasn’t one of us. The news said a white mother and her boyfriend Told police their kids were kidnapped by 2 black men 1000 black men were arrested and questioned then Police find the white kids buried in a balmy basement Makes me glad it wasn’t one of us. The news said the two DC snipers were finally caught After killing various colors of people for months Caught driving a Caprice in front of Popeyes Made sure their families were interviewed Never knew it could be one of us.

Forgive me, this is really not poetry It is certainly not Black, African Ebony or obsidian, high yellow or Even red-boned Negro would be far-etched and Colored Is a stretch Forgive me, this is really not poetry It is inadequate, an illusion more doctrinal Than optical, a poser posted in a post- Black power movement that moves away from Past movements by not moving at all Cleverness, forgive me, this is really not poetry Brooks, Baraka, Cullen, Giovanni, now That is poetry, soldiers who have seen rabid Police dogs and fire hoses wet faces wet with tears And spit, crowds of Blackness encircle the revolution And clutch Its back until blood dripped Forgive me, this is really not poetry I have only witnessed spinning rims parked in Front of projects, reflecting the whirlwind of Anger and despair of lovely, braided Black Spinsters spinning tales over sugary cereals and Juice boxes to kids with runny noses and no Recollection of bus boycotts or busing Black Faces across town in buses painted ...

Its so amazing that after the relationship got bad enough That we would go days without speaking… And then have cordial convos on prepaid cell phones During peak hours Its hard to believe that we went from poetry notes influenced By Floetry or Eric Roberson to cursing in text messages In the early mornings long after Jerry had gone off Its hard to imagine that we spent so much time together Touching and caressing, hours turning into days and Never said a word but now every time we meet your Mouth is moving constantly Its unbelievable that I am just your worst nightmare so Suddenly and that my personality and attitude are so Terrible but in the beginning you liked every thing about me Its tragic that we lost this love on some trip or some bedspread That has been washed clean and purified and regardless of what You try to tell me you don’t know what happened but anything To make yourself feel better

(we all have been the One sometime) I am the one… That calls out of the blue and leaves a message just to see how You are doing or will send the text message just to let you Know that you are remembered and that your soul is a gift to Me and others and that you are not here in vain… And I am not one of the first people you think of when you wake… I am the one… That compliments every outfit when you grace my presence because Even if I were blinded tomorrow your smile would still uncloud that Perpetual darkness and your beauty would forever let me know that God is a wonderful sculptor of minds and lives… And my missed calls to you are never returned… I am the one… That hates to see you cry or see your pride wounded and wants to Wrap my arms of strength and protection around your spirit until The sobbing subsides and the sun returns warmth to your bones and The stars twinkle again in your world… And I barely get a hello when I see you… I am the one… That sends flowers for no reason, yello...

Here is an indulgence into insensitivity, a blatant mouth of spit At dead hearts and dishonest tears, a loaded weapon aimed Strategically at the throats of posers and inhumane humans Breathe slowly…now slower…exhale…. Cloaks of hidden shadows that should be turned inside out and Turncoats revealed instead of revered like Revere, reversing The truth and astounding the sanctity of the cherubim Breathe slowly…take deep breaths…breathe faster… Who are you? No one. What say you? Nothing. Can you change the distortion in the mirror? Not at all. Should you be breathing? Certainly not. Then why shame heaven and hell with wet faces and hollow moans Over hallowed souls and cherished hearts, both day and night until The stench and filth from your transgressions incinerate the headstones Of Blackbeard and Jack the Ripper. Breathe slowly…take it easy…the demons are watching… What have you done today? Parlayed. Did you seek His face? No time today. Who can champion your contribution? No one that I k...

It is such a lame tired argument. It is overused and abused and seemingly comforts old wounds. But in reality it does no such thing other than enable you to remain clueless and irresponsible. It is used to wash away your sins but to never repent for those sins. It doesn’t require you to atone for your mistakes or suffer the consequences. It allows you to walk through life blaming misfortunes on everyone except yourselves. What do we speak? We speak of those conversations that drone on tirelessly slandering men. There are at least a million at this very second discussing how trifling men are and how they do nothing but ruin the lives of good women. The conversations are by candlelight, in bars and nightspots, seeping into sorority houses, taking place at workstations across the globe. How gratifying it is to be in agreement with so many others that a man ruined your life. His lies and unfaithfulness are part of his being and “girl don’t worry, they are all the same.” Amazement...

I planted that pistol at the root of her thoughts and wondered How my life had come to this moment of execution I ran the barrel of that gun around her earlobes and wondered What demon in hell was laughing at my weakness I caressed her face with that weapon and wondered Is her heart beating that fast or is it mine I kissed her lips with elemental cold steel and wondered Did the world condone the shedding of her blood I touched her hair with the hot lead factory and wondered If her screams would precede death I clutched the trigger with a sweaty palm and wondered If this release from Life could Conquer death I watched the scene in slow motion. I found her lying face down on the bed, drenching the Egyptian silk pillowcases in a waterfall of tears. Her cellphone was ablaze with incessant ringtones as callers went unanswered. I knew my own missed calls and voicemails were waiting patiently around the nearest cellular tower, awaiting their release from its fiber optic lines and ghastly m...

Sun drips blood and sour winds blow dust onto The dried plains as bones form cages for venomous Monsters but even the stench of rotting flesh is Tasteless to the flicking tongue of a viper who Knows his demise is near but must patiently murder Another soul in order to greet the king of the demons Upon his flesh ripping in two like human meat tearing And bleeding from the bone as ravenous hellhounds Rip capillaries and veins asunder as the screams from Children reach the insect-infested ears of vultures and The circling begins to eventually devour each piece of Cartilage and muscle but the bones will be picked clean Of uncooked, viral flesh and left to proclaim the lineage Of life and its destiny of death.

In a cascade of tyranny, young men Are shuffled through a tyrannical system In droves on a daily basis and transported In circles around pictures of dead Black Panthers And fallen Republicans and the voices of KRS-One And Chuck D are synthesized to imitate crunk music And hyphy styles, even as the logos of Pan-Africans And Garvey’s Black Star are blurred into NBA logos And Jaguar emblems and the sounds of the gnashing of teeth Can be heard rising through the stench of Styxx, the War still rages on, grenades packed with the finest powder From Colombia still swiftly take on any machinations Of an independent existence or the power of a million ballot Boxes and the bullets in Army issue assault rifles rival the Artillery used by God’s lost people in Israel and these weapons Of mass minority destruction claim souls by the thousands even As they rise from slumber onto the oil-slicked streets and the Hurricane-driven rains reshape the nation and spill sustenance From the melting pot which co...

Prada & Chanel are for women who make dollars You sit at home and watch Maury and reality TV Need to send the social worker for my son Because his mama’s going to be living in a teepee Lady please, only funds go to my son and his welfare I wouldn’t trust you with a Popsicle in the south pole Told every man the same lie, sold them the same dream I remember when I met you, so cute with your mouth closed A rose from concrete, more like a thorn in the junk yard I need to atone for my sins…of letting this trifling woman in I can’t believe now I’m dealing with you 18 years The stench of your lies still sticks to my skin Trusted you with honor and tried to give you respect But you wandered from the path of true womanhood Had a Black king but you went at midnight to the paupers If the truth had ever left your lips…I would have understood

On July 1, 1566, as crooked candles died and welcomed the blackest of midnights, a hush of death fell heavily onto a small French town. Wolves gathered to howl at the hidden moon and animals rushed for cover as the mist moved in thickly, preceding the Reaper’s walk. The stars are blinded as tears gather in the clouds and the winds bring deathly chill in the midst of summer. An old blind doctor is the only thing carrying a wisp of life moving within the valley. Torrential rains suddenly douse his frail bones through tattered robes but he travels on to the hut at the end of the village. Shadows move in and out of his path and he can feel the glowing eyes of the Reaper and his minions burning holes into his soul. He finally reaches the door and speaks a few words of incantation to keep the demons at bay until that fateful hour. As he passes through the threshold, lightning flashes to his left and he thinks he makes out the notorious sickle of Life’s ancient nemesis. He presses on a...

This is for the lady we all missed because we were too busy looking at the ones who would allow us to use and abuse them and had no clue the power they were given from birth. You were the quiet one in class, no contacts just glass Wore the jeans that fit and never skirts that showed ya ass Had class, never talked loud or let the cleavage hang low Your girls got out of hand but you always stayed though Never flame throwed or hated on your hoochie friends Who got all the men but could never keep them in Depends on the light, your eye color or your skin tone You never stayed late, always the first to get home Respected yourself, martinis, cute she only sipped these Never took shots in public, not lady-like to be tipsy We just never seemed to notice you, the bold in you How you entered a room and then floated boo Totally looked over you, how you kept ya grades steady And never played yourself, kept your gifts new & ready For one of those kings to pay you proper respect Always the first...

I heard someone ask, “What am I, what defines me?” It seems a fairly simple question and a question that we find ourselves asking and re-asking everyday. What we are, is not our attitudes and characteristics. How contrite we would be if everyone could be lumped into a box with all those who are ill-tempered, or friendly or loyal to others. Those Zodiac-esque descriptions are wonderful to read on the back of a China King menu as the fried rice swims in oil in a hot wok or the deep pages of some random daily paper that has spewed these regurgitated phrases to millions of others over thousands of days. We are bigger than these little boxes and more powerful than their literary walls or the money-hungry conglomerates that fashion their spin on life and hand us the blueprint to live as they have detailed us. It is not the preconceived notions that fester in every breast. It is not the images depicted in art and culture or some babbling idiot trying to explain to Judge Mathis why he won...

Hints are powerful things. They may be so powerful that we tend to ignore their awesome presence. How many times have we missed a hint and days layer reconstructed the situation and said “huh…so that’s what she meant.” It is always humorous to be watching or listening to a situation and witness the hints being thrown right and left and the people involved missing every one. If you call someone twice and they don’t call you back, they probably don’t want to talk to you. And in this day of missed calls on cell phones and caller ID on landlines, it’s unlikely the phrase, “I didn’t know you called,” is reasonable. If for example you have a friend that works at an electronics store and you mention that you need the hook-up on say an mp3 player and they don’t offer to help, no need to ask them directly because they can’t help you or don’t really want to help you. How many times have you been in a conversation and mentioned something and the other person kept talking like they didn’t hear...

This is dedicated to the young man in New York who recently lost his life in a hail of police gunfire while celebrating his wedding day. His name was Sean Bell. Sean B…a favor for me and a statement to the demons Beyond the brink, gather the death angel and any Other heavenly minions that are taking a break from Interfering in the lonely lives of the lowly humans And return to the scene of the crime arrayed in Your darkest spirit form and gather every one of Those 50 bullets that sung a song as it whisked to End the life you chose and hold them tightly in the Palm of your now-praying hands and as the praises Greet God, take each one to some dear friends of mine Give bullet 1 to Ishmael, Abraham’s black son who brought About a world of black folks to endure bad credit, Hiphop and self-hatred centuries in the making Give bullet 2 to the unknown black man that helped Jesus Carry that heavy cross up that stony hill and never would Know a slavemaster’s noose Give bullets 3 through 6 to tho...

These kinds of conversations still amaze me. They usually begin with, “ I never thought she would do that,” or “I’ve known dude since way back….” And usually by the end of this monologue, the listener is usually thinking, “How in the hell could you put that pass this person?” There should be a course given in high school or somewhere called Friendship 101. It’s astounding how long it takes most of us to realize that some people are really not friend material. These thoughts stemmed from a recent conversation with a friend who now has legal troubles because of a “friend.” Even though the bulk of their interaction was based on both their abilities to lie, cheat and steal, he just couldn’t fathom how the guy could tell a lie on him. Irony at its finest. What is even more interesting is that people know deeply that a certain person or people are a detriment to their life. How could you not know? If you have fed someone from your table, given them money, listened to their hard times, wat...

Erase that, miss…stay back and face facts I pray that I maintain civility, remain laid back Crazy, I delayed rap and disrespect blatant Not really equipped for a woman that’s taken Too many lies, goodbyes and false accusations Too many cries, at night, denied active procreation Not latent sexuality, stress level low in entirety A boy-toy, no job security, anytime you can fire me A liar? Me? Not really, juggling women - dang silly Really, was my soul made for 20 women to feel me? Celestial gift of a half-circle, only need one to complete For you I’m in line, signing up, warming up to compete My emotions are slow motion, notions of where I stand A bogus plan to be every woman’s ideal man Changing faces and facial expressions have taught lessons That to one soul every person is destined Men were not born to be actors and deliver pleasure But to cling to one of God’s gift in good and bad weather A true measure of a man that can withstand temptation And anchor his lady, together they shall ...

I spew forth wisdom in prisms of light configured In 360 degrees and in the midst of knowledge Surrounding my head as assuredly as pristine Halos anoint the scalp of the highest angel in the sense I am above Lucifer and can command the trumpet Of Michael the archangel and in the heavens stars Concede to my passing as I shift shapes and with The whisper of my vocal chords the wind is hushed How blessed to be given the power to train the sun To rise and fall or coerce the moon to spin a little Slower than the most beautiful ballerina on an Unseen axis and the ovation is deafening from The flapping of a million wings from one half Of a million birds as I scatter the summer in Bunches and string fall along with movement Of my fingertips and how the oceans wax and Wane with the climax of my emotions as the crust Erupts and spouts forth land masses from its depths As though I thrusted my hand into the deepest sea and Grabbed the soul of the earth through its chest and The currents move in sy...