Tuesday, December 22, 2009

system of mister's hell remix:: canto one, two

based on Ezra Pounds' CANTOS, and Amiri Baraka's novel - THE SYSTEM OF DANTE'S HELL
THE SYSTEM OF MISTER'S HELL was first written in 1999, and designed for publication by Lawrence Daniel Caswell, with images
by Alexis Savon. we sold some copies, perhaps a few hundred exist in its original form. last summer i unearthed the original manuscript in a lock box i'd set up and forgotten about it. so i've been slowly trying to find the time to re-imagine the intent. simply put, the hell of the son is the uncovered history of his father, and how it relates to the "system" used to govern democracies, namely the UNITED STATES. here are the first two Cantos.


. . . when I came to stop below a hill
that marked one end of the valley
that had pierced my heart with terror,
I looked up toward the crest
and saw its shoulders already mantled
in the rays of that bright planet t hat shows
the road to everyone, whatever our journey

-Ezra Pound

rough and tangled so hard,
paved-ways lost in bright journeys
those sunny roads where truth hides
an old fear sinking
in the folds of human disgust.
when death is hardly more bitter
i'll tell you what i saw.
never telling of how i had come to this place,
shattered valleys below the hill of city,
terror with heart

the slits of young girl
feed family
thats how she learned
(for shock value ) taking me to myself
the tiny one that i had hidden in the search.

and the sinners hear its call
as regular as wind
sifting through the rare tree.
even as their martyr,
a christ with pierced hands
weighed down in the rare act.
rarely do trees kill,
for each line hold a little of you.
a regard still fleeing divine
love so we cannot see.
for its blind religion
a silent monster eats our young
to the motion of creation
dawns fill graves,
for sunlight is for fighting
someone's sons,
[THE] favorite daughter
giving head to greats
mastering to avail life from its own.
the tiny christ line holding
us apart, a second after using
the wrong word for belief.

a line could tell you history
if you had read the many(CANONICAL)
those pages that you love
but never hold in your mind.
but again i . . .
what did i come across on the hill?
a strange color had taken the men's faces
i'd only seen a few,
but those men
with shiny capital eyes
held the color of blood just under skin.
strange colored i,
had never seen blood
and still knew on sight.
maybe the smell of tasting bought wars
little lies kept in the tubes of tv
brought us a war, full coverage in bad wigs
hair all out showin' whose ape.

a man asked, " can you know a rain coming. i fell it in my bones."
his wallet had been snatched for the back pants pocket was torn.
i ran for i knew the answer was only his
and he had warned me as if a son.
in need of sowing. no country here.
its a long road for humanity when the bomb is dropped
and our god declares the victim as savage.

there's a small field far away from the picked man
i lay there my face to the world's ceiling
touch sky with eyes that claim your face
watching the cracks tiny lines in the armor of satan,
the world traveled claim/in god
just streets not fit to walk on.
the sound was clanging words
tell you of my madness. still walking in sweet fear of myself.

and i passed two men both holding poems out for me to see.
it had been several days since i had seen anyone living ,
no rest, so i stop to read them.
i could not see their face for the hoods they wore,
the fabric smelling of shot glasses,
the old basement meetings of junky revolutionaries.

first man's poem.
suliman dances
death’s wife
her sinful blood
staining flags
human/s often
see it as [a] her
purpose offer on up
feed the other storms

four in a row.
A sign to women
who have lost their men
to the neighbor shore
from it ugly north
the allies red friend
sells his intellect
to the brown one
takes meals of brown
land to sell for more pounds
gives Satan reason to start listenin’
[demo] is the right word
sends aid to starving babies
the children of the west war
can we test the truth serum on that poem baby?
to ussy dreams out
exotic far days
when the nipple tasted mama
A Freudian slip of the tongue
still weep
let it be. strain
let it be then.

second man's poem
it has always been imperial
even on the continent
nature had fun with man
and left that in between free choice
will of mind a flower
hovers her head
she sells her promise
for stones to throw.
telling the secret
to the ones who listen.

it was Cuba, Africans were upset with?
well that ain’t new for who don’t
argue with themselves
the backed soviet must be Arab
just to prove the platform
when money loses hue to claim the heart
moving e w white to not matter in these parts
cuz his wife brought the checkbook, pen
to sign away sins
point to the [sir]name money
and it spends here
where the land is milk
cream of the worlds sweat
back, we fightin’
for the wrong end of the scraps
(and you know who was over most of that shit)

so . . . (god) was
at the gate askin’ to get buzzed in
they asked for the password
and he replied (BAIT) so he was in.
so (god) was in speakin’ of how to make the world
‘ bend the head of the greedy
for they east to eat all the land.'
yeah and touch her garment just so . . .
they’ll put you on their money and you
won’t have to buy in.’
in said-
“yo down in Babel to the tower touch the world and they get no farther,
still more fall in the light of tomorrow today just A past dream eating away all morals . . .”

what is [A]moral?
when written it sells UNholy ink
shell of idea
no moon no sea
a city of shiny stomachs
a line to feed.

Saturday, December 12, 2009


CLEVELAND TAPES is proud to present-
Producers e.REACT + aLIVE have joined forces with San to create a classic summertime Hip Hop album, and being the jokesters we are we decided to give it to ya at the start of the winter.

San's concept is simple - "it seems that alot of the culture is dying off, and cats are wild for the night, like their Big Bro hasn't been watching." With a nod and a wink to Spike Lee's film- School Daze- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is infectious from the start, and filled with glorious lyrics and epic bounce.

Featuring guest appearances by ZION of Muamin Collective, and Singer/songwriter Donald King- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is the kind of album that will demand more than a few listens.
Click below to download now for only $5!

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/san-goodee-big-brother-almightee">FUGAZI by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

Thursday, December 10, 2009

lyn(she) -new short story

it was the first time he ever noticed the carpet in her bedroom.
fluffy, not at all what it felt like under foot. although one could
not be counted on to notice the fucking carpet when one was
holding on for dear life.

she was a beer of a woman, not fat, but full and long
the kind of woman you had to hold onto. she was taking
longer than usual, she always took long, but he was starting
to resent her prolonging the getting off. shit - it wasn't like
they both didn't need it tonight. they did, him more than she
that kind of thinking was the reason they were failing.
Lyn said he was self-involved. it sounded foreign to him.
like someone else's words. his words really, it was something
he would of said. she had never talked like that, Lyn was more
ethereal than that. more Moonwalker than Shrink.
its what kept them together for six years - he was clinical
and she thought he could save her. it didn't take long for them
to realize that both were liars. he was a fool, and she was cruel
not anywhere close to the people that had fallen in love.

"babe? come on, what's the hold up?"
no answer.
"Lyn? what are you doing in there sweets?"
no answer.
"if you don't come out, I'M COMING IN."

he put his ear to the door, resisted the urge to try the handle.
his knees felt weak. it was strange, he had no idea why he was scared,
was he even?

he heard the water running, it sounded of song. like a sonata of his demise.
too dramatic, it had only been a few minutes, he told himself.
"LAY DOWN" he almost said aloud.
"LAY THE FUCK DOWN." this time he said it aloud.

fuck, he didn't even want to make love anymore, he just wanted
to stop waiting. he was always waiting, all his life he waited.

the spittle was caked along his cheek, seconds passed before he was awake
enough to realize he'd fallen asleep, and she never had come out of the bathroom.
he scrambled up, and opened the bathroom door.
there she was- eyes open, face blue.
he caught himself from falling down.
he looked again,


he knew she would not answer.
so he kneeled down next to her head, blood everywhere.
he sat in it, cradle her head, trying to wipe the color
he went to scream. no sound.
he felt sick, but choked it back into the base of his throat.
the blood was starting to congeal, nothing made sense.
he looked at his hands, there was no way he had killed her.
she was alive, had she killed herself.
she was alive, had she killed herself?
he looked at her body, and tried to solve her death with tiny hands.


he pulled himself up - but this time he couldn't keep the sick
spewed all over his lover's corpse.
they will think he did it. who else could it be?
he was the only one here.
he was it
HE tore off the bloody clothes, and ran downstairs,
checked the doors.
checked the windows.
shut, locked.

then again.

exhausted, he laid on the kitchen floor
he fingered the laminate tiles, tracing the night when she was alive.
he knew he hadn't killed her, but he had called her Bitch.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

work=patience=reward=sanity, well kind of

trying to find more afrobeat mash-ups, and tracks for Saturday. fun work. got this mike nice reworking of AMERICAN GANGSTER mixed with fela. its pretty dope. so those tracks gave me the idea for a whole night. finished a track for Paloma McGregor's new dance work based on NINA SIMONE. it is part of a whole night of Simone inspired dances. i was trying to go and witness, but alas that fell through cuz not only do i have to dj- i couldn't find someone to go with me, and i should work - rather than see work. anyway the process was cool, its been a long time since we collaborated on anything. she is visionary in my opinion, and after the rough draft of the track- she knew exactly where she wanted it to go. spent yesterday digging for records, went to a few of my secret spots, and ended up at one spot PHONOGRAPHIC ARTS in Tremont. i'm telling you about this one cuz i want them to stay open. after the dig, listened to this mingus piano improv record that came out on Impulse. raw shit, and he was a bassist. Peerless came through- called out of the blue, and i made three joints for his new record. i made four, and he wasn't fucking with one of them, but we came up with three bangers. im really happy with them.

got to see my really good friend Chewy - she called out of the blue, and we got cocktails. got up. she was getting mad cuz i kept texting funny as hell. good night.

Thursday, October 8, 2009


CD RELEASE - PASTICHE, A Memoir of sorts

So this past sat. we (meaning the cleveland tapes crew) threw a cd release for my album PASTICHE - you can download it, or any album out on the label by clicking here -

it was a good night, with an awesome dj performance by e.react spinning a mix of clevelandtapes/fare trade music, then delo fi brought some noise/funk to the mix, and folks wasn't ready. its strange how the city is just not used to seeing a beat set. they don't seem to get it. so we had to cut his set, and get on before we lost the crowd. i was surprise by the response to the songs, i think Mantis and me came off fairly well. i remember all my songs, which never happens, real excited to play again. this crazy dumpling lady tried to grab me a few times which made for some real comedy. man she was wasted, and amber and scott sykes tried to hold her back, but she kept charging. after my set, aLIVE killed a rare J DILLA set. he was on fire and it brought the house down. it made for a complete night, with e.react holding down sound man duties, and Z doing the host thing. Amber and the crew sold some cds and the night went off seem-less. in looking at the pics you would think it was just a dozen folks there, but there was about a hundred there, i guess the angles in that basement space a tricky cuz the back extends toward far stair case. anyway, it was kind of a let-down because so many of my friends didn't come out like they said they would. i wonder if its just that folks don't really care, or they just hate the art we are making and are too scared to say so. it makes it hard to want to keep going, even though we make primarily cuz we just have to- to live. but you want community support, and what we are doing as a collective with limited resources is kind of cool. i'm proud of us.

so below are some shots by Amber, and Scott Sykes(not sure if delo fi took any) i will up load more pics later. i just want to publicly thank the team, we making it happen, one day at a time, lets just keep pushing.

Monday, September 28, 2009


Been working on a trilogy of books about James Baldwin entitled BALDWIN NOTES. the first book will be a book of poems called "I HEARD RUFUS SAY". here are some of the poems from the manuscript.

The bridge
For Albert Ayler, who died along the dubious lines.

The mouth of a river,
Hold the soot of a country
And this city of bridges
Knows no mercy for thinkers

And if it was Bessie in the morning
Then its was, drifting he thigh at night.
So after it was guilt in the mirror
For the push to love weighed terrible
And these angels gargoyle the mystery

Temples are on fire
His beautiful mouth
His sly sugar walk
His tell in of a Rufus
The ashed Icarus
No wings.

And the soot of the city
Hidden by the fog
Faggot call words burst mountains
Jump. They never saw you.

The call

And for stars who die
What of their light?

I imagine, you the late riser
Chasing a hangover, last night’s
Pages in hand, a cig dangle
Lucien asks you if you are ready for coffee

You kiss him, full and bold mouth
For you are not of Harlem,
Even as its nightstick remembers
And the phone rings,
A shiver rises up the spine
Snuggle the sweater close, the fourth ring
You make it-

Your brother is whisper
“they killed Malcolm come home.”
The receiver never finds the handle
As Betty’s face cuts your cheek.

Times Square, 1940

There was the palpable tension
For the earth too separate
Jews dying. The beginning

None of it mattered
The burn in my heart
The search for my place

I took him full on in the mouth
Rough kiss, he grabs me short curl
And I can see my father’s eyes

To blink, alley light swinging
Against the brick, “relax. I’ll do you.”
Spit trickles to my ankle

I wonder how I smell to him
If he can see my black skin
Underneath all of this shame

I finish, and he gestures to me
To return,
His eyes blaze and it hurts to hood them

The belt, fumbles
My hands feel dumb
The zipper sound of a thousand lions
His hair smells of sweat
Sweet anticipation
A beautiful indecision, I swallow.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Thursday, September 10, 2009



LaToya Kent - SWEET OIL
(physical copies available 9.11.09)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/latoya-kents-sweet-oil">Valous by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

DeLO FI vs. Dookie Behringer - DRUG WARS and Other Minute Minutia
(physical copies available 9.11.09)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/drugwars-other-minute-minutia">a cut, put an E on it (intro) by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

New Surah Orchestar - SONGS FOR AMIRI
(digital download only)

<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/songs-for-amiri">ekua by CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

visit our online store powered by Bandcamp@


So a year ago i started a boutique record label specializing in live electronics, hip hop, electro soul, and re-genre(make your own ish). we wanted to provide a very structured curatorial vision to what we presented, we wanted to be artful, soul epic, and witty. we wanted to make sure that every release would be available digitally and on tape. (of course we still had to make cds).
so here we are - CLEVELAND TAPES - and we are offering a contest to help us get the word out - send 25 people to our site, and if 5 of them purchase an album. we will give you exclusive remixes, mash-ups and singles for a whole year. yes! a whole year! here's how it will works. you send them to our site-and you email us their names and emails to clevelandtapes@yahoo.com

we check and see if your folks played ball- and then BAM! every week 320 bit mp3's show up in your inbox. its that simple.


Wednesday, September 2, 2009



A good friend sent me some of her new fiction and while reading it occurred to me that this city of cle has so many folks without an outlet for what they can offer, without a safe place to explore new interest to push older ones and make waves toward actually reaching their goals. a live's work.

its time to change this:

so with this - the Praxis Method - i want your thoughts. what would you like to see in the form of forums, book clubs, shows, make some random shit parties etc. - any ideas that will make this dull ass city of ours better for the fuckers who have to live here. you can do it as a comment here on the blog or via the facebook.
let's go!


Sunday, August 30, 2009


So i've contemplated bringing the heckler blog back, but alas- DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING THE SHIT.
went to a few events last week. heres some flicks:

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

when glass turns to sand again- a memoir


a tongue of candle
a thigh alabaster promise
and we cannot imagine a time without.
where we chewed flowers in a path of crumbling wills
your girlhood knawed by the petty- his a small hand
but you forgive him memory
believe, confused perhaps that sex can be healing
no i misspoke, you were hoping they could accept a gift
the (y) is for another time, for i have witness so many broken moons-
so few of them knew of themselves as flowers
we collapse time)
did you feel it? a second melts
decades, when we touched ourselves in belief we'd meet.
each tiny alone snatches cuz) they ignore genius,
focus instead on their dreams
on what form will i ghost to capture you?

for sonnets are never vast enough,
sestinas do not hold glory
love drips your spine,
and your eyes collapse stars
a hand trembles secrets, a mouth of tulips
franker than the solar systems
me, i am tiny, happy against your envelope- no enemy
full of me heartlion
]there are millions who will struggle, but we change time. we do.


you left today. it would be the first time we'd be apart. as we were walking i could not help but notice how your eyes
glowed in the muted sun how you held your head, away as if saying goodbye would break us, maybe that's what i believed.
and as you closed the door, i lingered, wishing there had been more time, i felt as if things had not been said.

i can remember the first time i was in love
it was the summer of my 7th grade year,
she was tiny, her hands could fold into one of my own.
what a beautiful face, so muted, doll like really.
we would meet around the corner so as not to deal with the scrutiny of our skin, those pensive moments
were so charged with desire, or what i understood of it. and we took our roles easy- i pushy, and plucky
with early prizefighter brow, and she soft and giggly - submissive. i think she knew the roles did not fit, could
feel us struggling for our skin. we had terrible teachers though so there was no chance for us to be ourselves
we only small decades out of being created so how could we have been self made.

somehow we knew that our peers would not allow for us to be, they already had begun the age old separation of the different.
for some reason lost to me even now, we avoided this, and made our way to SPIKE'S Jungle, feverish, wanting our embrace
held up in my mind, and as if our story was being plot-ed by the Hollywood Maven, it was her mother coming to the front door,
and explaining to me- i was not to see her again. my brown skin stung, and as i walked away the tears wetting chin, i wished
i could burn away my skin, i could not open my mouth. i could not ask why it had happened. i just took my shame, made it clay
to place in my stomach, stoking.

my shame made it clay to place in my stomach stoking.

i can imagine you as a fourth grader, pulled tight, the glasses riding the rims of your nose, those eyes. from the few picture i've seen
they have always been the same they ease into ether, blaze soft trails, have always been a woman's eyes. i wonder if you kept a journal,
a pulsing record of your time, your crushes, and defeats-did you think of yourself as pretty?
how often per day did you blush?
could you see me in your far away did your thigh redden in the promise of their wanting? we(re)
you able to have a childhood bare foot on spring wet grass, double dutch sneak and read your mother's romance novels.

at 15 did you want the kiss, sneakily behind a bush, and of the boys of your childhood did you secretly want their attention?
were you always serious? i am alone tonight, and my thoughts drift pages, stories float like escaping Napalm across the occupied
soil, i keep bringing your face to mind in fear that it will dull, that the colors will bleed away, and i will not able to locate us. i know
it is irrational, but i am allowed for i am alone tonight and missing your voice.

so it started snowing and i went for a walk, taking the trail we made familiar, then to the swings, back to mine. but that only made me
miss you more. did you think about me last night? i got your note, and it made me nearly weep. i'm going to go read now-
sleep well dear-heart.

(this is an exercise in memory)
it was a week before i was to be married, and i was driving around trying to clear my head
after awhile of aimless peak oil i pulled into the now defunct downtown strip club THEATRICAL. the vibe was pleasant for it was a weekday.
dancers were plentiful, and after a time i approached a dancer for a lap dance, she was pretty, and had the ass divine.
we started to sway, both of us convulsing in our roles. as the night moved toward the close,
we made plans for us to meet up after her shift- the price was set, and the hotel picked - i began the descent, mapping what would be a dishonest
marriage. really it must of been doomed from the start for how could i keep a love commitment with so much wanderlust? did i even love her?
i felt and still feel that i did. i just had no understanding of myself, and what could make a love relationship real without playing house, without wearing
the frustration of responsibility. and when we finished, it was rather sweet, not at all as sleazy as it could of been,
we treated each other as if we were more than our roles demanded. sure i had paid for sex, but i had provided a sweetness
that she would rarely see, it was not as if i was an angel, or some such, i just was from a different place,
i related a little more tenderly than my role promised, and it was only because i was coming from outside her deal. although i wasn't a john i was still
paying which made me no more than a john. no more clean than the next john she would encounter? and why? for i would go back to our second floor, climb softly in bed
and pray my soul to keep.

"i'm not frightened of you. you all want to go to bed with me don't you? but it's me who wants to go to bed with you,
but it's me who say so, me who directs, me who rides you, me who cuts your manes with my scissors."

-Frederico Garcia Lorca

did the world sprout without any connection. well the earth, although beautiful pushes for someone to own its rivers, hills and valleys
it seduces the eye with bounty. in this it is an act of evil, even as it is passive, its what happens during the push for ownership those
that make the move, become fragments, push a domino down the steps of fate.
it was in the melee that i fell for her. it was summer,
my first year of college had been a mild success, and i would be embarking on my first tour for reading poems. there was nothing to it really, only reading a moderate set, no a short set, for i knew that if i left them still wishing to hear more than i had earned my fee. first stop was St. Louis, a dismal city, but not without its charms. i wondered around the downtown, looking through shop windows, and bantering with bums. there is a melancholy to the city, as if it knew that its ground was soiled with a blood promise, and there was no denying its history.
the downtown was sparse, more shoppy than i'd expected. the buildings were not old, and not new, but there were only a few skyscrapers. the workers i saw, seemed to be more haughty than most, and the bums were extremely funny in their parroting of the power. i made my way into a coffeehouse. the red awning promised home, so home i went.

the place was cramped, and darkly lit. faces were shadowed, folks dulled by the sitting. at the angles the old men jostled for disaster, each atop of the stories pushing for a way into the light. two of the coffee mavens pulled at chairs, wiped the odd spill, there was nothing there to grasp in their eyes. i took a seat casually flipped through the poems i'd hoped to magic. i watched people more than i worked however, and when the shift changed i could not help but notice this slight brown skinned young woman, more boy than girl as far as figure, but she had the most gorgeous eyes i had ever seen. she seemed more in touch with the regulars than the older women. more alive than anyone i'd seen really. i could not take my eyes off of her. i had the insane feeling of promise as eyes met gaze focused- ala! destiny, i thought that if i looked studious maybe she'd notice, and feel the love flow. of course, it would be too easy- if she did respond to my missive face- but i knew better and decided that direct action would have to be the method. i was after all in her town, surely i could extend a hand and make something happen for the both of us.(note to reader supreme huebris: see book entitled huebris)

she is unfazed by my advances and too busy to fool with my youthful excuberance. i was not defeated by the brush off, i actually felt that i still had a chance.

perhaps you should wait around. i get off around 5.

eureka! i mumbled that would be fine, and mentioned that i had a reading to give at the college, "its in the student hall."

she mentioned that she would get me there in more than enough time, and went i went back to my poems.

my mind fluttered about, ahead of myself, wondering if there was a future that i could control. perhaps hope was in the mode of youth, but i was more than just a young men
i indeed had several steps i would fail to take, but that would only be known later, right now i had a daydream going, and it involved a woman i barely knew named Blue.
the day faded, and her face softened- her eyes, which seemed grey, now had this greenish tinge to them. as key hit the lock, she grabbed my arm, and we swung in together. the city seemed smaller now in her company- more in-tuned with the earth. i do not feign when i say we fell in. it was that fast.

i do not remember the reading, or the going to her place, or the night there after. i do remember the cat, and its very unique way of purring more like a growl.
the light from her window flowed pulsed by the silk blue of her makeshift curtains. it made me feel as if i'd died. i had never seen a young woman's house that was so other worldly in its appointments. art lined the walls, books lined the base of each wall - so many volumes that they all stood on the edge perfectly, as if the floor was an invisible shelf.

how did you sleep?

her voice was music, a sound wave epic.

fine, i answered.

you snore, but you're cute so i think i'll keep you.

she giggled, and it caught me off guard how affectionate she was- snuggled up against me. i began to consider that touring would not be so bad.

your poems are very stark, and sad, it made like you more.

i stayed quiet, i was and still wasn't too comfortable with talking or hearing about the poems. it was something i had to do, i had not considered praise when
i began scribbling in notebooks, doodling words.

i think they enjoyed you. i think you scared them, you seemed so old and beat up.
sometimes i feel like that, i offered.

she kissed me long, and hard, the mouse of her tongue ate at me. her back melted in my hands, and my middle rose- she met me
and we floated the early afternoon.

ra- can you stay here?
i can come back.
do you want to?

her eyes were too much for me.
up until then i had not contemplated any of the feelings coursing through. i guess i never had witnessed a woman's magic, or its hold over me-
yes i wanted to come back.

why? there it was out, she wanted the truth,
i love you. it flew out of my mouth. shocking me.
i will wait for you, i do love you too.

i never saw Blue again.

(benediction) i would think of that summer from time to time, and realize what we were asking of each other could not
of been sustained by our youth. it occurred to me that the extreme mental violence i had committed on her by never showing up - i was to do this particular crime several times after, and only now through this love i share with you dear-heart. do i have the courage to take this first instance of my descent, no my self-inflicted demise scar my innocence.

4. or (and what is this supposed to be?) an imaginary letter as if men told the truth.
a play for play of my demise?
the sly treatise on sex and its additives, the mode of desire when couples tell their stories. possession still holds me in its vice
for it appalls me that other men have touched you, have brought to the watering, what kind of gene build patriarchy hold me in, logically it would not be too healthy for a woman of your age to have not come. is there a relationship with you that i secretly despise, or the possible prowess in bed- for you have had some tremendous trembles in my arms as well. besides my logical mind says she would marry you. after just a small week knowing you intimately, but no, that means nothing, for they never would of asked- and she never wanted marriage.
but it is their cocks that fascinate me, for it is the sucking of them by you that rises into my mind, and causes the feelings of possession.

why that particular act. you have said that you enjoy it, but have not been prone to blowjobs. is it that sensual, and special to me that i secretly wish to be the only cock you've had? why do men hold such a providence with a woman's sexual experience. why do women feel they must avoid the subject entirely/ or lie about the partners they've had. i know i am not the first man to have these feelings, but i wish to conquer this mindfuck, for it is the last linchpin of my ill-formed self -esteem. flashing images of one of your men between your legs fisting away, the times i have held a woman's ass to my cock and plunged. but what sweetness we have shared, what a great re-connection. it feels very much like i have never had sex before, but i know it is not shared by you. you do not feel a virgin when i hold you against mine, it is not that you feel, but the terrible reminder of other times, the rise and hot that has always made you sexual, that kept you fucking even as the relationships grew death, and you fell away.

i wish to own your history and color it me.
so the first children born into feminist politics, well mature feminist politics were born 1974-75. that would be me, or folks born during that time. may be that's why i'm writing this, its exercise in redefinition. a sign that whatever was pushing women toward demanding an equality so richly deserved got into me too.
perhaps i was born knowing women to be equal by some beacon in my mother's womb, and that's what pushes me to respond to my demise and attempt to snuff it out with paper and pen.(many folks will find trouble with this).

deconstructing is hiphop, yes, it is modern, even in the growing retro-ness of culture, a conservative push politicians, ministers, army, navy-
even the homemade bombs tearing at the face of Iraq are retro, the people pushed to the edge of atomic strike out, they know no flag, so they strike out to color their sky, to wave their anger toward the unknown enemy-greed. greed acts just as lust, there is no logic, only gain, only the gathering. the instant. but how can something so vile produce an orgasm? the singular expression of joy, and pleasure. if you can count your orgasms then you haven't been living?

Monday, August 10, 2009

I WANT TO BE LES McCANN:: or The Forging of a Key

THERE is so much about Les McCann that i love, the piano is such a draw first off. ever since i saw Stevie as a child i was infatuated with the piano. it wasn't how beautiful it sounded, because its really when you think about it too powerful to be consider strictly beautiful. its lush and rhythmic - more drum, and skill and magic - its the command center of instruments. for you just know that the piano player never misses a note, writes most of the songs etc. when i got older and found out that horn players- the one that comes to mind is Miles composed core compositions on the piano, made sketches for future work on the piano - my love affair was cemented.

a good friend of mine gave me a piano last year, and while i couldn't afford to tune it, i would play it from time to time - waiting for my opportunity to get lesson. when i moved i moved it, and while it began to be a holding stand for records, it was mine.
enter Les.

Roberta Flack's first record has the tune - COMPARED TO WHAT. so one day on a digging adventure i found a copy of McCann's version. it floored me, and made me realize that what i was loved about Flack's version was the push of the piano, the piano riff drives that tune, and turns it into a fuck classic- you can put that song on today and people will dance to it.

well. i have moved again, and i had to leave the piano there. had not the space, nor the energy to move it to the new digs. i feel like i took a step back, like i had spurned a long time lover just when i was finally understanding how to love.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

modo nigga, and the white spookems

i live on the edge of ohio city, and one of the most fascinating things about the west side is the genre splice that is culture over here. sure there is the race camps- latino, black, whites, arabs. but then there are sub genres- whites who hang with just blacks. blacks who date hood white girls, but only hang out with ricans. etc.

i'm sure you get the drift, but what is not melding is astro blacks and everyone else. the art kids are alone in the skittles rainbow. SO. imagine a woman, mid thirties walking at night down Lorain AVE- no one hits on her, but the city itself is threatening . . . nostalgia. lets say she grew up on this very street.


II. she hung up but only after. there were no meeting of the minds place for her. being born here should make a difference, but she had been away and time makes things pass, for it is the past. the street split ten meters across the whole dark of it. lit in odd specks from windows, cigarettes. old liquor poured into Fel’s nose, touching at it with her own baggage, the men she had loved and this smell were one it seemed. and she walked on the corner cross blinking the red of cyclops . . . littered in odd glances the whispering lust tasting at her face, body. the military wool of her sea coat keeping every turn the wind made, in. her lips now. Fel had made the mistake of licking their dry and citystruck surface thirty minutes before, and paying for it with an ever widening crack splitting her top lip halves. she had learned to walk fast here. the city with its clasping men, dead eyes, her face. it was this in her head menacing steps now, she pushed it back, turned the corner into distant music. a blue light pitched a john’s shadow and suckapuss counting his day away, bills in hand. her clutching at her nine to five skirt flailing about ankles, his belt and zipper singing his sold shame. if he really was, for Fel thought he should be, for the woman in her street judgment would of sucked it and paid. she lit a square, pushing the tobacco out cool smoke, but she had since stopped for its hard aesthetic and smoked now for the heat it brought. they jane began to rough talk the man, needle him with the role he played. Fel laughed at this, for hadn’t it just been the other way around. the corner spilled further, black against the striking moon. the people, their eyes bright with secret deaths no man ever know. just simple freedom as it would seem to the dead, and they tasted it gulps from the watchers’ shot glasses. light snow had begun to fall, old men scrunched their faces lit each others’ cigarettes and talked on. the young crept for doorways and the out halls of apartment buildings, their mothers out in these same streets, only to come home when the moon gave way, as grandmothers scoured the corners for their daughters’ sons. they had been born to the prize of abandonment, and those who were not mimicked the former, only to begin the string of defeats again.) Fel had been able to compartmentalize these things that glare to the outside, (for it was not really hers to face while others denied it) for it bit into the very heart of it if she did not and the men who had seen her father kill and be killed (and those who killed only to be killed again) saw it as their burden, a solid proof as to why they continued to suffer. Fel made her way to an empty stoop, perching on the second stair to take in herself again. and of her what could this street have told her? her dance was held in the eyes of these women, everything in them a haughty up and moving with gravity instead and still chasing each other with high laughter. three of them to match the three penny men, their nickel stories pitched high on broken shoulders, their faces lifted with each note the talking grave.) when had she stopped knowing them. she hadn’t. and could not place it. ‘Skrow could place it.’ she said aloud, but still to no one. she had always knew them as hers, but still they were not. and of their color which shade was her? and of their death, which life was owed to her. (and that would not be solved today. for it is not in stories) it was to be kept just out of reach. dangling above them as their place trembled beneath. she knew that she had been here, and it had turned her into . . . ? she had not noticed the almost a hundred blocks she’d walked, and the time stood still for the sun had long since gone down and night flowed hour into hour – the same. a bent man with his bags and junky walk sat beside her. his metal keys stapled to his denim jacket front, and the stench cologne clashed with his eyes, (which he blinked now, then again.) he had no teeth. – ‘ you got no watch?’ he drooled. and wiped it up with a tie (handkerchief), holding it to his face, then blinking. she ignored him. and inched away(politely). ‘ you got no watch. you stuck here? or you lookinggggg? ‘ he turned his head the gray strands of hair on end. ‘ you got some nerves . . . we talk or take. ‘ and turned his head and gave her a sniff. yeah. thanks. Fel said, dryly adding, and you shouldn’t talk when you take. and smiled. a couple of less creative sentences from the bum had Fel mumbling, “what a fucking night. this shit grows on trees over here.” and he was gone. walk.


Wednesday, July 29, 2009


Singer, writer, multi media artist LaToya Kent combines a sweet voice, with gritty imagery on her latest album and first on the boutique label - CLEVELAND TAPES. SWEET OIL is produced and co-written by ra washington(LeRoi Da Moor), and captures Ms. Kent in top form. After living in Southern Cali for 6 years, Ms. Kent is poised to turn heads with her remarkable energy.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

the further adventures of gentleman richards - Chapter ONE

First chapter to the new novella, which is a sequel to my book - HUEBRIS.
Which can purchase/or download by clicking the button below:

for you.

so once again, here we are with the esteemed Christoph L. Richards, and his cast of unfortunate characters. before we proceed with the fiction, the legal department has asked me to inform you that this is indeed a work of fiction- any illusion, or actual jacking of real life or historic events, both real and revisionist, is on purpose and is meant to be taken with extreme seriousness.

this is after all, a work of art.


ra washington

(we have included Mr. Richards introduction as stated in his contract.) -ed.


"i love him who willeth the creation of something beyond himself, and then perisheth"
Zarathustra as told to Nietzsche

it was our sincere intention to write a memoir of parts, but after further consideration we felt that my unique story would be best served under the medium of fiction. we sought to upgrade the writer, but we were turned down by all the big names:

phil roth
steve king
walt mosley
deanus koonitz

delany was only interested in the pornographic elements of my life,
(wait. samuel r. delany- author of DHALGREN) there.
but i for one do not find his brand of meta gobble in the form of gay sex very stimulating. perhaps if some hetro fucking was involved, but alas. he is gay, so it must be gay. i dont really believe this, but why not.

in any event, the job fell to the relatively unknown ra washington, who although limited in his ability to write, has made up for his lack with zeal and verve. he is not a genius. we are not peers, but i was able to salvage his butcher job into a best seller in several journals, most notably Sports Illustrated Magazine (excellent book review section).

i suspect he may be a complete idiot savant.
so with the commercial success of HUEBRIS, we come to the crossroads and begin another episode of my life. it has been a one ball(ed) journey, but not without the occasional pinch or two. we have decided to call this one-


Chris Richards, character.


FOR THE SAKE OF TIME: Simone and Judith

SIMONE de Beauvoir: it would seem that after all this time writers would at the very least attempt to have well drawn, fleshy women characters.

JUDITH Butler: that's assuming they know any actual women. most male writers have the social skills of small rodents, so they don't know any women besides a sister or mother, an aunt or some such.

SIMONE: true, but is it really that difficult? the men characters have interior dialogues, a full range of emotions, passions. but the women characters are set pieces for self loathing, or the bed and a man's ineptitude in bed. they are used as foils to show how brilliant the men characters are. like this book for instance. the two main women characters bare no resemblance to actual women at all. they are just furniture. perhaps you could write a guide book, have that fancy university press of yours put it out.

JUDITH: well after my vacation in the Hamptons. i suppose i could smash something together.

SIMONE: well there is a perfect epitaph on pg. 75 of the second volume of my autobiography.

JUDITH: i did not know you wrote an autobiography!



SHE was running late, as was her lot after traveling across town to see Ben's band - SEXUAL FREQUENCY. despite knowing better, Rebbecca still thought of herself as the ideal girlfriend. loyal, supportive, docile. god! she hated the term girlfriend. she had not been a girl for some time, and she was not, and would never be a lover's friend. men had no concept. friends don't fuck, friends go to the locaql sports bar and shave each others back.

but you had to support the man. support the love, even if he never supported you. besides she hated his music- thought of it worse than Christoph's old band VERNACULAR.
(see HUEBRIS, The Notes, due out fall 2010)

SO. she was an hour late for work after the second morning quickie. (she did not come the 1st.)
but Ben was good, and non-committal like she, and since he was an idiot of sorts and means, he was completely at her wit's mercy. Christoph's ego, really his whole soul lived in debate. that is what she loved about him - at first. what she secretly channelled to make herself actually exist in the world of ideas. she had always felt that it was akin to a sort of social suicide to let MEN in on how smart she was.

when she was twelve or so, Rebbecca heard her mother correcting her father. it was nothing anyone would ever get mad about, a slight as a sneeze amongst the thunder- but her father wanted to remain firmly in the realm of idiot.

"no one fears a smart man." he'd once said.

Rebbecca still wasn't sure if he mad at his own brain, or disgusted with mama and her for theirs.
he went dark at the mere sound of her mother's voice, as if the vocal timbre could scrap along the side of his feeble skull.

yes, ben was more like her father and when she was completely honest with herself
(a rare case indeed!)
that was the reason why she loved him.

the train pulled into the stop, time slowed as the dead - living, working for dreams began the final
click of their journey, each secretly praying that dreaming would not cost them more dignity than they had.


Analysis of opening chapter and preface

to with-
it seems that our dear Mr. Washington has taken to a more poetic (seeming) approach
to the prose of the sequel. while poetry is afforded a prestige that's mostly deserved by the actual poets working in this ancient of mediums, it lends itself to prose through its POESY! (see Ezra Pound's Guide to Kulchur)
very well then, Washington may indeed be an idiot, we will see.



do you still think about her?
the candle flicker brought Hamesh's eastern features to the fore, her eyes were white hot.

why do you ask?

only you would think its okay to answer a direct question with a question.
last night you called me her fucking name!

Christoph had never seen her mouth turn acid, all of the color in her lips had gone terse.

if i did call you Rebbecca, it was surely in the middle of an awful dream or some such.
its not as if i wished you not to be here. come on baby, i know you better than to be jeal-

she cut him.
no Chris, i know you. you live so much of our stupid life together in your head. it seems only natural that you would slip up like this. am i not enough?
don't you feel loved? am i not enough.

Hamesh tore at her blouse, exposing her soft and hard to him. her breath ragged and salt.

pain has an element of Blank-
it cannot reconnect
when it begun- or there were
a time when it was not-
it has no future- but- itself

- Emily Dickinson

some of the storm had passed, but Christoph still could not sleep. he could hear the slight purr of his lover, he oblivious to what she had actually accused him of, tried not to think about her, about Rebbecca, about himself.

there was something quiet in the house that enraged him. had we become so old and scared of dying that we had forgotten how to live. how to be with each other. everything between was odd swords.
tin words, and silence.

oh, the silence.



in a four unit apt building there usually at least one tenant that drives the building past an acceptable level of craziness, or noise. nor did they care. the building that Hamesh lived in was one of these buildings times ten. for the neighbors next door - Claude and Breen were the most notorious laughers in the TRI- State area. everywhere they went, and more to the point - they went everywhere with each other they were hysterical- two wee kittens on a sugar rush.

Claude was peanut butter brown (the local madame DEE said he looked like Eric Benet) with large coon eyes, and a perfect Cosby nose. his curls looked as if he had sprayed curl activator and placed his head in the oven for twenty minutes to cook.

Breen was petite, and fair skinned with eye brows that arched naturally as if tweezed. his cackle was high pitched, and he possessed the most ridiculous set of muscles stack onto the skinniest chicken stalks ever invented. he also possessed the longest tongue know to modern man. it furled an amazing 12 inches.

both were consumed by a love of drink, both were considered gay by common folk, and gods by art brut chicks wanting to get their pretty nig freak on.
of course as novels like this go, Christoph hated them and that only made them louder. it was so bad that Hamesh actually considered moving to christoph's place till the building blew up last winter because of faulty electrical wiring mixed with lit crack pipe.
(see HUEbris Appendix on sale Fall '09)


our little systems have their day;
they have their day and cease to be.
- Thomas Merton

the clinic was quiet for once, so Hamesh let herself relax in her office, flipping through a public health journal as if it was written in braille. she had wanted to be a doctor since she was a girl, her mother was, and so was both her sisters. but they did it for money, plain and simple. she did as a passion, and secretly despised herself for it all for she knew that deep down it was not her keen social justice, but because she wanted to distinguish herself from her sisters (names? come on, you not gonna remember?) who had always excelled.

always at the top of the class, always prettier, richer, with better taste in men. she was the runt, skinny to an almost alarming stature. sure, she was curvy, but she was kind of boxy as well.

DAMN, she thought. why am i doing this in my head.

she knew it was not true.


Amendment of the previous paragraph
by Christoph L. Richards

while i agree with most of the portrait drawn of my dear lover- she is in fact quite boxy, and a tad chubby come to think of it. which is a luxury that her people only have here in the states. if she was still living in INDIA, she would be as thin as an ETHIOPIAN.



a spider of dust traced the street light throughout the room, a pulse was kept by the hiss of the steam heat, its counter point- the hum of a neighbors TV, the air in the apartment felt light, perhaps because once again they drank too much, too fast- but they had reason to celebrate.

Christoph had finally sold his radio piece about meta fiction and it would air next week.
Hamesh cooked a dinner filled with burnt smells, and muted tastes- he choked it down with beer and gaul, each swig pushed the nasty bite down his throat. she knew she could not cook, it was one of those unspoken truths between them. if they ate at home, it was Christoph, not Hamesh, who provided the spread.

NOW, after her two bottles of red, and his twelve pack of a local micro brew - she swept along in full silk, the candles flickered winter, it was really bodice, tight and sheer- her face made up gypsy. it made his middle grow, and pump at the seams of his jeans. Christoph tried to ignore the heartburn scorching at his chest, and throat.

it was rare event when they played at seduction, usually it was a late night moan, and rub, a few awkward tongueless pecks and over. him satisfied in his mind, and ashamed in his body.

but this night, oh, this night! he would give her orgasm after orgasm, he would destroy her with the pleasure surging up. Hamesh twirled, and swooped to the anti rhythm and fell to her knees - Christoph, surprised and aroused, gripped at the arms of the chairs - a life-raft on the Titantic.

he was SHINE- he would not drown, no matter how black his heart was.

she asked,
what do you want me to do with this?

she grabbed his middle and stroked toward the sun. he flushed, his heart suddenly seized up and the fire came rushing up. the smell came before the sound, and Hamesh fell back confused, and totally engulfed in the most awful burp ever created.

the house smelled like rancid pork, and beans. then another, more powerful belch - threw Christoph from his chair, and into a projectile vomit that lasted a few minutes that slowly turned to dry heaving, and burping.

when he came out of the gastro trance, he realized that the first volley of gut landed all over Hamesh. her face was pale and twisted. he had no words. again she was covered in him and again it was epic. he chuckled as he lifted her from the floor- the smell of his guts, twining with her sweet perfume.

(end of Chapter One)

Friday, July 17, 2009

subjective/objective - MUAMIN COLLECTIVE'S World B. Free

In the 216, where everyone knows everyone, and at the same time knows no one - its rare to find folks of a common ilk. to make friends across the crawlspace, and watch as you both take your lumps, have success, and repeat the process over and over again.
and this might be for you, who really knows? i'm not one who can say -

Muamin Collective started with a concept - rapid fire critical thought over beats. simple? not actually as easy as it is said, but over the last 8 years what started as a concept, has become praxis. aaron "aLIVE" snorton, and josiah "zion" quarles have made a master work, three albums later - WORLD B. FREE is the perfect summer spin, a drive thru nostalgia and future. it is ASTRO BLACK, relevant, smart, asholey, and funky. the mix is sublime, thanks to their partner in crime Ereact - who brings us their vision clear and bumping. i want to say on the record, in this blog - THE BEATS ARE TERRIFIC, EPIC AND THUMPLY! period.
aLIVE IS THE TRUTH. and its only the beginning for his science, even though he's been building on it for years. original. heard it here first. his spit game is nice to and its the perfect compliment to ZION'S supreme gifts. there is no MC in the 216 seeing this guy on the crafting of a song. he is miles ahead, it makes me all excited, cuz finally its time and i'm picking this crew to do it.

listen to the links above and you will hear it yourself. i fucking love this album, and while i make my own ish, there is not just one book in a library, not just one record in the record store. its okay fuckers you can like something from your own town. no one would hold it against you.

to all crews - STOP THE HATE.

its a fact, not an act. let's unify on some real and lets not be gate keepers for this little tiny ass universe we tend to live in.
we all can get it, why should people have to choose one over the other? we can all be heard there is so much space.

so much potential.


PASTICHE ALBUM sneak preview.

<a href="http://moormusak.bandcamp.com/album/pastiche">for the midnight by leRoi of CLEVELAND TAPES</a>

Thursday, July 16, 2009


it begins with hello, and ends in angry words.
takes the shape of anticipation
rides out harmful, a static.
a hurt. someone must do this.
and then you wait it out
as if a thunderstorm, but it never fades . . .
it keeps banging at the windows
thumping the roof.

the magic part is when hello begins . . .

Monday, June 29, 2009

my imaginary harem - The Aquarius List Pt.1

on the lindy loo principal of imaginary harem building- i have compiled a secret wish list that i will share with you. a few years ago, while doing some press for some early blktygr show (ha. doing the press!) i told a french journalist that all i wanted was a

"black lady who wrote french poetry, read sarte, fanon and had a fatty."

(definition of fatty - is a big butt, but not just big, it has to have a soul and porportion to the actual overall body)
[not everyone who reads this blog would know that.]

and while making a list like this is fun, perhaps an adventurous publicist will find my humble blog and make it happen - an actual meet and greet. seriously though, while this list is made of lust candy, only one was picked strictly because she is fine.
So i decided to break the list into two posts, i encourage debate on this one so have at it.
and here we go:

10. Keri Hilson
Keri- what can i say she is the truth. wonderful pop talent, beautiful. according to certain magazines- she
is a composer, and writer of her own music. i am a talent whore. this picture is not even close to how fine she is, i was so taken by her face. wow. double wow. she has face and body games!

9. lisa bonet/cree summers

what can i say- a different world
put me on the path to loving these two. i remember the first time i saw denise huxtable- wild, creative and damn fine. it was around 6th grade, and girls were starting to be on the agenda. i thought she was the perfect girlfriend - cool, smart, sexy, with a hipster flair (before that type of flair became co-opted). for some odd reason i cannot even remember lisa bonet these days without thinking two things: 1st. wow she was in ANGEL HEART, great nipples, and 2nd. she made the most beautiful baby with lenny kravitz - i mean their daughter is seriously fine and grown up now. which makes those two - wow they have to be in their 40s.

cree summers is just fine. i hated her character o
n the show, but hey i seriously wanted her and probably masturbated thinking about the both of them in some kinda nerd threesome. the real reason for cree other than the fact that she posseses an heavenly ass- i love her music. cheese stick that it is, i love her songs. really nice voice.
[don't believe me? check her out on myspace. oh find the link yrself.]

8. zoe kravitz -
that's it. first saw her in the jay z video and i fell in love. not only am i seriously infatuated with her mama, but her daddy has to be on the top of my "i'm straight but he's fine" list.

7. gwen stefani
ever since i'm just a girl, i've been infatuated by gwen. not for sure looks mind you, but she is fine. and i typically don't even like blondes. too easy to like em, and i do not like it easy. this pic of her is too much, but i find it kind of funny seeing how we first came across her image in popular culture all valley girl ska and ish like that.

6. grace jones
first off let me say, grace jones makes some pretty raw music, and was a fashion icon who held herself to a very high aesthetic. she was challenging the very notion of beauty, and what it meant- and still should be considered a visionary. many remember her from movies like BOOMERANG - where her
power was held in the marvelous line -"she put her panties in my face!" i love me some grace jones. earlier today, while i was loop digging i found one of her records, and its still hitting. i'm not gonna give you the title, cuz frankly i help you too much.
(shot out to the record hounds.) this picture says it all, and her name is the perfect description of her to me - GRACE.

AND SO. that is the imaginary harem list 10 - 6, look for the top five in a few days. the diversity of spirit, and the independence of these women is what makes them extraordinary. sure they are all quite beautiful, but while physical beauty is a wonderful thing, there is something else that speaks to me when thinking about these wonderful women.
strength is a concept i've been thinking about for sometime, here is what is catching me up about it - its totally subjective.

there are somethings we all can agree are strong, or aspects of strength, but when we get down to who is strong and who is not, it begins to grey, and its that grey that makes it so damn interesting to be alive. i've been finding myself counting my blessings and really thinking about how wonderful it is to be here now. so many things are changing the air is electric with change, my fear is that we all may be to busy staring at the beauty of the changing times to define it. that once again we will have an opportunity to make a huge jump in the quality of life for the planet and we will blow it for lack of vision. or worse- authorship. damn i love women.