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="">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 . . .