Tuesday, April 28, 2009

prince and tavis

last night, while dozing off a good friend sent me a text - "prince is on pbs." 
at first i was like -"so!" and then it hit me. PRINCE IS ON PUBLIC TELEVISION!

i found the channel through the direct TV maze and caught about 20mins of conversation- prince
and tavis smiley. it dawned on me that i have never seen prince talk, and since i have never been a fan of tavis- i had no idea this guy was the best interviewer ever. waves of connection trickled through me. it was as if everything they touched on was speaking directly to me. 

seriously, never been so moved to action by 20mins of interview. and while prince said some things i don't really agree with, i agreed with where they were coming from. they talked about two of my favorite historical figures - jack johnson, and dick gregory. two men who defied classification in such a forceful way that they made revolution in everything they did. 
when it was all over i couldn't help but feel like i never really loved myself like these men. and if i was to continue to grow- it would be nearly impossible to do any growing at this point without examining my image of self. my love of self. 
and just think, it all began with a text.

even an asshole can smell the flowers

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

oh, my ... god

city walking. thursday. before black poetic rehearsal. took some flicks of the abandoned house next to mine, and proceeded downtown via bus. met up with this man, who was collecting change near tower city. he told me he had just been laid off, and that he wrote songs, but "its hard to write songs when you are hungry".

that stuck with me -
its hard to write songs when you are hungry. time. the ultimate commodity. valued all the more, as we become a faster society. as we fail to combine our ambition with what we need to be sane. 

sanity. the subjective deal breaker-
says, we will not be insane. you are stronger than that. and strength, the most unfortunate possession. it has no place really. we just wish to project it as a place to be. as a trait that is atop the list. but it fails you, just like  pride.

a candle flicker

the monsters attack us when we are at our most disconnected. pride sucks.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

and we fall heavy tongued, loosing our center

i have lost the ability to talk.

i just simply feel like i've been saying the same things, and getting the same answers. the stimulus from discussion has always been lacking. its hard to get into a discussion of form conventions in comic books, or some obscure Redd Foxx joke in bars. and when i do go there it becomes a rant, and i feel like i'm entertaining people instead of having a dialogue. 
(get out the tissue.)
but seriously, the art clowning days are just too fucking fake. i do not feel a real sense of community. we are all stuck in our own heads. or we are blowing smoke, discussing projects we are never going to finish, or whining about the latest perceived slight. just fucking weak minded, and petty. so i have stopped talking. most of my friends have not even noticed. some have, and wonder why. i feel slightly guilty cuz i do not have a concrete answer, and how asshole-ee would you be if you were just like,  "hey i'm waiting for something." some magic to break off into my ass. and its not like i'm not busy and productive. i am. most of my adult life has been just that. and there some cool collaborations on the h
orizon. but i feel foolish, and lonely. the greatest joy as an artist is the process, but there is no critical outlet to discuss process. and results are not looked at and discussed either. its as if we spend most of our time not being amazed by how much beauty exists, and how wonderful it is to be alive now. 

that wonder that children have. i want that. i want to marvel, and be amazed by what my people say and do and are. but fear obscures our achievements, fear pollutes our discussions. we become monologues without speaking. we become jaded along our day to day. Jouvert, a five yr old sweetheart that i've watched grow up (my friend Amy's kid) says on the tape i'm making -

"your turn, your turn. your turn, your turn."
there it is. the babies know, and we fall heavy tongued, loosing our center.
i won't let you down Jouvert, Uncle Feeqy won't let you down.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009


like she said.
for real?
how did he take it?
like he said.
so papa clarence had this cd the last time i was spinning. he was like trust me, its that shit. so i pop it on, and its Prince on a trip fantastic(not the name of the song). i cut it off and say,

" ain't nobody tryin' to hear this right now" he puts out the boo boo lip. we laugh, and the night fades to memory. the very next day i read poems at the Karamu House, and it dawns on me the flippy jest is the exact place the the world is in. NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR THAT SHIT.

AND THE needle skips.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

something to loop

"to wound the autumnal city . . .
so rare in this age, no wind."
          - Samuel R. Delany

there is something to the night in beat down cities. the desolate creep along its main drags, i lowlife-ness to the clusters of night people- all of us looking for something, many of us finding nothing.

i found this- gray sedan, late model - maybe a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the fronts of the modern, slumping front nose, sleek in the target way. heavy design, iffy quality. 

she gets out, her jacket not nearly warm enough, his face obscured by the tint. she walks, every several steps a look back. its as if she is still not sure the transaction happened, perhaps she dreamt it all after a late night drag-out with the man. he was there once, and now the remnants of him coming and going live amongst her. possessions from a war she did not declare. she wished to love him. she wished it to be as she always imagined love as a child. you meet a man, he is good, some bad- you love him in-spite of himself, and he manages to love you just enough, and you live.  you live, and you take his frustration along the sides of your face, his constant picking. that mouth that once whisper along the nape of your neck -"i love you" - late night, out of the blue, picked from a deep sleep.

i watch her walk. i imbue the walk with story, i lick the night for stories. 

this is not her, she went to a party some years ago, she tried the heavy bathroom drugs. she was a booze hound as a teen, a little pot, some pills. she took the play along the mirror, and it changed her gaze. IT. this monkey was euphoria, and it claimed the in between times, touched at the fabric of a coping. held on.

it was a grey sudan, late model- a chrysler, perhaps a dodge. the tint was a perfect obscuring. yeah- his face melded into a thousand johns. she clutched her 20 in the clammy fist, looking back, as she wiped her junky nose with the spring jacket sleeve.


i come back into my home, it is warm. the trickle of the tank filter flutters ambient. my babies are floating in pairs, the plant vibrate as if shown in spotlight. i shudder to think of what these nights bring for others. for me, it is the chance to witness, and come home again. pull my blue felt blanket to my nose, write this
looking back.