For Gabriel Don on her Birthday

What do you gift a girl with the eyes of she that has seen the world, surely more than just a ring
What is that potion thing that makes the heart sing, amour and Absinthe, I dare you drink a glass full
She courts the wind in a summer dress, pales dark corners with her face, fiery she you lovely thing

Walk these city streets with me, undo the underworld, blood and paint smeared on graffiti walls
Alarming, how the under dogs dream when she comes a waltzing with her Lower Eastside Artourage
The nest of them fluttering within dungeon of subway cars coming to stops emerging into light

Lifting like abracadabra, ghost of Christina in a community garden, it’s in the way she sidesteps
Sidesteps the sad men with blue guitars and tambourines, wailing while they swig bottles of booze
Burning smoke into them, smoke from refrigerated birds, blind ass and meat, of this we shall eat

We know torture as we surrender to this our serenade, she is wisdom at heart, lady of the la la leaves
They call to her, falling around her body, she is Georgia O’ of NYC, young and yet saddened by the days
Memory of Arabic women under siege, mothers of tomorrow penning poems of future melancholia

Saudi Arabia, oh dear Theresa of the teaching nuns undo your hijab, show your face, it is a fine face
Fair and your auburn hair, what artist wouldn’t want to demonstrate with splendor, his talent
Paint you in many ways, complement the many reasons, seasons you continuously inspire

With words, the cannon of them bursting onto empty pages, what flowers will do for a statue
Give glory to life, heave kerosene onto fire, drop form a blessed mountain top, dance naked
I give of this to you, our rememberances in virtual reality, it is a heart you possess, your glory I desire

My Lars Von Trier Movie

In the city of my familiar girls wore thin from the sun in winter they dried as grape

Orange leaves that fell they wandered through wearing boots made famous

Within the pages of Seventeen I ascended upon teen queens brunette and blonde

With names like Brooke and Ashley dressed in tight jeans contemplating stardom

Winter came the years by we hovered around television sitcoms and soap operas

That wonderland I relived throughout books by Agatha Christie and S.E. Hinton

We were the Hardy Boys brown and scholarly courting knives and catholic girls

Kiss posters on our walls listening to urban radio we were rock stars and deejays

Stairwells of public housing we brought girls to their knees stroked their hair

An army of us stealing our way into bodegas running off not ever paying a cent

At the street corners we stood throwing snow balls yelling insults at each other

My Septembers when I read Nancy Drew in a park in fear of neighborhood thugs

Dream world where black girls had been forgotten in the yesteryears of home

I was emblazoned on fields of grass where girls stood to cheer holding pompoms

First exclamations of love, proclamations of uncertainty what was a boy

Unnamed to many as lover just a kid with perks a talent afoot style to relish

Portrait of the artist as a young man caught making pencil drawings of centerfolds

Shaming of youth where white girls were untouchables like my mother’s Vasoline

Tomorrows babies Kath Kathing like Kathy, dangerous girl with cobra tattoo

Purple lipstick red rouge black blackness what do you do with a black poet thief

Rimbaud redux an African Jean Michel painted my seasons in hell colors of sex

Sexing warm girls watching the curiousness of their eyes what they saw in me

A devil sheep marching them to church altar the process of processing authority

My guard my god allowed me this power to mold mesh the skin in Jewish faith

That a black man touching the flesh of Jewish girls, Jewish sex builds a mind state

Who am I? Svengali, third lover, I waive wand. Pen is sword I enlist by command

I am not the Black Marquis de Sade or the sadist who raped the minds and bones

Gave of my heart I tutored not torture tutelage, Flower King spreading rose petals

Black Cocteau in honor of theater girls who fell in love with words I had carved

Put to test presented for them to perform portray, come from under to fore

Black man black coitus fang of foo round the way girls never bothered to inspect

Concoct a concoction if you please, potion to possess perhaps to undress

Time when Christina Rossettis on Horatio Street contemplated suicide

How I reeled them in thinking of this kingdom of corrupted girls bargain shopping

I mouthed nipples pink, flat bottoms strands of hair that fell freckles on chest

I cursed Sylvia Plaths into memory of Kenyan girl, ghetto girls waxing poetic

All Catholic School Boys go to Virtual Hell
After Making Love to Italian Mama Leone’s

I sat with the Catholic girls during the spelling bees at ol’ Saint Stephens grammar school
Poor little me, the damaged African boy who knew nothing about pussy,
What the Latin boys called chocha

Was it puppy love when Kathy Florio kissed me, sweat burning around her neck
It was the gang girls I was after, Sandra, Monica and Angela Savastano
They reminded me of the chicks in Faster Pussy Cat Kill, Kill, Kill

I was watching cable pornography then, Al Goldstein, that Santa Claus Jew
He knew what was up or in and out, Screw he called it, yeah that was it
I was watching people screwing, sucking, touching, it was titillating to say the least

Soon after my parents sent me to high school, an all boys parochial school
We wore blazers and ties, I was nicknamed G.Q. for throwing a scarf around my neck
The only girls I saw were the cheerleaders, jumping and screaming out my name

But sex never came until I started college, an art school where I painted nude figures
Plain white girls with little bodies, on white matted paper I drew with pencil
Thinking, imagining until I laid eyes on an Italian Mama Leone, oh the fat of the land

She stood tall, cute and all, the lard of skin rolled off her body but we were doing it
This is what I imagined sex to be, this is what I saw on t.v. that Goldstein jiggy
Her body bouncing on top of me, all that flesh, round bottom, booty, bodacious

So I had conquered a villa, set afoot the makings of a man, the tortured artist
Profound as the heroine punk Kathy Acker, my beloved Kathy I went to see a reading of
It was there I met Sharon, an Israeli diva with breasts, bulbous, oh how they popped

Back at her Christopher Street bedroom that spring season we listened to Elvis Costello
We kissed and fondled, each time she told me to wait, wait for a better time
So on her birthday we attempted the go but it was a no show, failed attempt at lovemaking

I had learned some women want you and when they did they let you know about it
Others gave you sex for free and when they did you better pounce or you’ll regret it
So when I met Christine, that older woman, she fucked my mind free, gave me all I could ever want

She was married but when her husband was away, I would slip in become king for a day
We took our troubles to San Fransisco where in the California Hotel we were legendary lovers
But it was youth I was after having been to the mountain top, I wanted to swim in the ocean

They came in licorice, candy cane, coffee coated lollipops, young girls from Unice high school
Inside the cafes they sat with older men talked about Titian and Van Gogh, posed for pictures
I found my very own Britney Spears who sang like Liza Minnelli, she aspired to be a star

It was occurring to me it wasn’t sex I was after, love was a discourse between two intelligent lives
I found one muse among many, I directed, photographed and painted but love ain’t that simple
Even Roman Polanski and Woody Allen were known for shagging the very actresses they put on stage

The Catholic boy in me felt he had sinned, I went seven years cold turkey, picking flowers for women
But it was the time of the internet, Century’s end, the chat rooms of the world had just begun
In an art gallery I connected with a woman across the pond, she was to be my virtual muse

For ten years we have never laid eyes on each other, the phone calls and emails
Now I find myself on Facebook where I reach out to other virtual girls, wanting not touching
It was one Polish girl I fell for but was it love, telling me she dreamt of me, touching ourselves separately

In lonely rooms, sending vibes across the world, who were we, was it that love had died
But my friends were getting married and having children, my brother had found a girl on Match dot com
I moved to the East Village where the art girls run like wolves, found a Brooklyn girl from MOMA

Our one night stand became a love affair, a typical, normal, get out of the bathroom I gotta pee affair
She brought me to Brooklyn, from Williamsburg to Bushwick to Greenpoint, I had found me a home
We went off to see her mother in New Hampshire but we fought, we fought like artists do

So I took my troubles back to my family where it all began, I made amends with my brother
I watched as my other brother became a father, I was getting on with life, it wasn’t sex I was after
I had found God, it was about self love, love of mother, father, brother, waiting to click like on Facebook

It takes a Gentleman to deal with the NYPD
And if you’re Black you better have your Hands bound back

We’ve always had problems with the police, cops, bobbies,
Boys in blue, crime fighters, night watchmen, Gulliani soldiers
What was it that makes a man with a gun in his hand off at a boy
Was it the color of his skin, was it the damage within

In his own mind, a world of racism, power and control
On patrol, walking the beat, answering a call
Come a coming, come a come a knocking

In neighborhoods with the drugs, the scrubs
Eye on you, eye on me, eye on everything they see

But this is who we be:
We be brown, black, tall, short, wise, wounded, apprehensive
Proportioned with potential, juvenile delinquent, Afrocentric

We be black businesses, oppressed for centuries
We be Jamaican, Rastafari
We be Bronx, Brooklyn
We be U. S. of A.

It takes a gentleman to deal with the NYPD and if you’re black
You better have your hands behind your back

Police officers doing police duty, every morning, noon and night
They are called upon to save a life, protect a husband from a wife
Charging at him with a knife, is it her life they’ll take, a black woman
A black life, what can’t a policeman with a gun control even if a knife

A black man attempts to kill himself, cops are called to his door
They are met by his family at first, apprehended and brought outside
He is wild and wooly, lectured, handcuffed, put in the back of a patrol car
Tonight he’ll sleep in Bellevue mental ward, locked up for as much as a week

Two men in transitional housing, arguing and threatening each other
One man goes to the police station and reports on his roommate
He is confronted by the cops, before him they stand, a band of blue
Casual gentlemen giving orders, making him obey, closing the door behind

It takes a gentleman to deal with the NYPD and if you’re black
You better have your hands behind your back

We be chic, we be abracadabra, we come from Afrika Bambaataa
We own this, this is the mind under drugs, this is the mind getting off drugs
This is the mind getting off drugs and getting an education

We make use of grade school grammar, mathematics and social studies
We’ll never set foot in your colleges, we’ll marry into institutions

For some of us we law abiding citizens, been through the schools and education
For some of us we have come to America for a better life, a future wife and child

Where are the men with stones, gold chains and freedom, we need them now
We need them now and why do they hide behind the magazines and camera lights
We need them to take a bullet for us, we need them to walk on water for us

It takes a gentleman to deal with the NYPD and if you’re black
You better have your hands behind your back

Did I have to have gone to school when the cops came knocking on my door
‘Cause I had been a fool, took a knife to the air in front of a friend
Did I have to have gone to church when the cops handcuffed me
‘Cause I had gone off my pills and I’d been cussing at my mother
Did I have to have read James Baldwin when the cops questioned me
‘Cause my roommate said I was in on the plan to rob our apartment

Police officers doing police duty, every morning, noon and night
What is it that makes a man with a gun in his hand off at a boy
What is it the color of his skin, was it the damage within

In his own mind, a world of racism, power and control
Please don’t come a coming, don’t come a come a knocking

Mis-Education of Fuzz Glass or Prognostication on the future of Black Girls

They came from cocoa villages, black skinned with their afro dos, corn-rowed, starry-eyed
To give a helping hand nurture what was the future of Ghanaian school children, African babies
Their working parents called upon homes of homes for available girls who showed some love
Brought into this world kindness of angels, these woman-child, taught to embrace give warmth
Butter the mouths, in the houses where mothers left for work at morning’s dew, they woke
Maids, madams, bathed boys, bath water and soap, prepared them, a day which stood at guard

Accra, city where imported movies, Sodom and Gomorrah and Taxi Driver were gossiped about
Young diamonds of dust, head kerchiefs on their heads, telling stories about blood lust and skin
Matured as cosmopolitans carried on with men, neighborhood thieves impregnating them
Making them lovers, by the bars and boys quarters, getting their periods sooner than expected
Hopes and dreams brought them to America, alongside families who promised education
They came from cocoa villages, found French perfume to be lovely at stores on Park Avenue

They were born and bred New York, from ghettos in Brooklyn, Bronx, Queens and Long Island
At a time when words were bullets that permeated ghetto blasters, poured from lips of MC’s
It was the East Coast, gang war fare, tough turfs, cold bread and watered down tea for lunch
Empty buildings, broken windows, subway trains, graffiti walls, stick up boys spraying pennies
Sure shot girls walking rails, making beats for radio, Roxanne, Roxanne, I wanna be your man
Underground parties, brandishing uzis, cutting blow, humping girls in the dark blue after glow

They were native tongue, Afrocentric and conscious, spitting poetry about kings and queens
Queen Latifah and Moni Love, Come on and get some, brown skin honey, spoonful, cinnamon
Political activist, sharp blunt blowing smoke, cut cutting the system, public enemy number one
It takes a nation of millions to hold you back, watch glorious girls in kente cloth braid their hair
Dance the way from Boogie Down to Canal Street, Blondie did not put hip hop on the map
She smoked the puff out of tall white sticks, was to CBGB’s, what Big Daddy was to Kane

Hips be macking, big booty be shaking, white, black and brown skin girls all out club clubbing
We were peas in a pod, Super models, glamour age, R & B soul singers, all world was a stage
Acid jazz, higher learning in black colleges, art, dance, nutrition, nursing and a doctorate degree
Queen divas were born in the 60’s, black girl groups like The Shirrels, show stopping numbers
1, 2, 3, Hit me, God Father James Brown, They bowed to you, from Tina to Chakah to Whitney
Modern day bombshells, black goddesses under a spell, talking eternity, singing songs of soul

They come from Cosby, they come from Aaliyah, they come from TLC, millennials, smart phones
Uploading selfies, Instagirls, septum rings and twistas, short blonde afros, blue lipstick, necklace
FKA Twigs, what Sade was to Neo Soul, the young urban girl is to social media, dance killa dance
Break the bones in your body, shake shake it until you set the monsta loose, grown groan girl
Singing the blues, trick tricky, modernist sista in a mondernist world, Zadie Smith, white tongue
Lick her pubis, suck her nipple, girl on girl, you make me wanna, you make me wanna, girl fight

I am man of the world, never set a foot outside your door, New York, New York City, I spit
Not blood but words, been analyzed, profanitized, they called me Fuzz Glass, gave me white ass
Black boy in a black bandana, lived among the treacherous things, drug addicts, alcoholics
A double life of art and madness, saw the fear of midnight, like a morning star followed
A home in Harlem now, after having made amends, Black Gold of the Sun, a book, a memoir
I am a black man in a black world, revolutionized, I dream of days where black girls spin webs

Sitting with Keith at a Bar on A

Some guys walk easy, they don’t strut, they are one with the ground
They are a walking flag pole, tattooed and torn, blowing in the wind
Eye of a pirate, pissed on street corners, waited on broken bombshells
Sometimes straddling a rhythm guitar, dirty jeans, wicked alligator smile
Leather skin, British boy good looks, Marlborough lip, tobacco tongue
Come dirty like a knife, shaking the reggae off the street, Rasta boys
No body guards, no lifeguards, looking death in the eye, laughing
The tall and thins, slip in like fins of sharks, gritting bloody teeth
On the dark corners they fight with breaths so hard, move to the beat

In walks Keith, rock and roll ghost, perpetual smoke pours from his lip
Puts his arm out for the usual, bartender nods in agreement, the regulars
Make like regulars, playing cool by the juke box, playing pool in the light
All at attention, he’s angling over, locking up a doo-wop tune, so soon
He calls up a girl to dance, body tight, match light, groping the way down
Falling for him, stranger, dolled up just enough, in her eyes, a magic puff
Backing away, he stands there watching her dance alone, smoke lifting
Original Van Gogh, painting her with his eyes, ashes builds at the tip
No Jumping Jack Flash, no Rolling Stones, cock eyed and wonderful

Blues on a Monday night, thump thumping through a seduced bar crowd
Here to see Billy go at it again, his band is really big shit, yeah, yeah
To my left is a Marley man, to my right is Keith, tap tapping is knee skin
Jiggling the cubes in a glass, smoking a rocket ship cigarette, blazing
His face is a weather map, takes me through Tahiti to the cold under
Whispers something in my ear, can’t understand, bob bobbing my head
Smoking a rocket ship cigarette, alarming, he blows a whistle into the air
Loud and above it, I give Billy the fist pump, look at me, I got Keith
Sitting beside me, orange and blue, like a decked hammy boy bitchin’

So like he doesn’t stay for the encore, makes his way out before Billy
There on stage smashing his guitar, Keith would have liked that, maybe
He wasn’t Live at Leeds, he was cool with a cigarette, held that baby down
Played the chords so easy, always hammering down, lighting up a crowd
Never saw him play live, here on A he never bothered to strap it up
Just walked in on us when we least expected, sat, listened on, dangerously
We were the lucky ones, never saw Mick, Charlie or Ronnie, we saw Keith
Sitting there with a smoke, glass of fire water and cubes, playing himself
A delicate British gentleman, walking wounded, crazy with the days

Johnny’s got a Blade

Johnny’s got a blade six inches long, he picked up at the Army Navy Store
We sat the stairwell at Phipps, while he went to chat up Eva Lamore

When he came back he told me to smell his fingers, they smelled of pussy
Johnny’s got a blade six inches long, he used to penetrate Eva Lamore

Johnny was the new kid in town, girls stopped to stare when he came round
Had that hair slicked back, black with streak of grey, no curl could be found

Wore shirts rolled up at the sleeve, no tattoo on the bicep, none what so ever
Swore he had it removed back when he broke up with a girl named Clover

Johnny never knew how to play the guitar; sometimes he used his fore arm
Imitated Billy Zoom, tapped fingers to play chords on songs that went boom

Nobody stood up to Johnny, wasn’t the way he fought, was the way he stood
Had those hips slanted to the side, cocking a cigarette, showing some pride

Older women loved Johnny; they looked him over where ever he would go
Some brought him home for coffee; others kissed him under the mistletoe

Johnny never owned a gun; he wasn’t a bad boy who got caught with a .45
Kept this blade in the pocket never knowing if there would ever come a day

Johnny took to drinking too much; he had gotten on with the wrong crowd
They pulled him every which way, never knowing if he would end up alive

One night Johnny got into a fight, he pulled out the blade, stabbed somebody
Stood over the man, watched as he bled to death, Johnny dropped the knife

Ran for his life, never looking back, sat at a bar wanting to talk to anybody
Tell a story about a good looking man and a knife he owned, a life he took

Johnny had a blade six inches long, he picked up at the Army Navy Store
We used to sit the stairwell at Phipps, while he went to chat up Eva Lamore

META Postmodernist Black Revolution
Queer Culture, Gangstas, Lit Kings, Word Pimps

The post Gil Scott Heron revolution emerged as a boom box in the ghettos of New York City urban culture, inside and outside buroughs like the Bronx. With turn tables, dis jockeys spoke a new language. MC's rapped over human beat boxes wearing Kangol hats.

It was an uprising much like the revolutionary turns in the 50's, 60's and 70's that preceded. It had always been a sense of who were we and what did we stand for. What were our rights? What would it take to demand them? Who were the ones to lead the way?

In the Jazz Age we were refined as entertainers. The Duke Ellington's of the world. They fed that innate white sense of endearment. The revolutionary aspect came from what it was we were channeling. What would be deemed as jungle music, given a classical turn. But as the years and decades passed, with each performer we saw spirituality take its toll. That the power of black spirituality as well as sexuality, incorporated with strength in talent and composition can outrightly speak for a generation. From Miles Davis to James Brown, Aretha Franklin to Tina Turner.

The late 60's into the 70's were crucial because were dealing with Woodstock, Vietnam, The Black Panther Party, Blaxploitation films, birth of Long Dong Silver, Angela Davis and Disco. Gil Scot Heron as much as many black revolutionaries emerged from this decade. They were driven by essays on slave narratives, the civil rights, Martin Luther King and Malcolm X among many others. This decade helped in defining the present understanding of the sociopolitical status of the black person from unemployment to imprisonment, how the black person has been denied his right as intellectually free and with that the continuing of enslavement due to the increase of black men sent to jail.

The status of the black man has often on been questioned by the presence of the police. Be it Peter Tosh in Jamaica. Linton Kweisi Johnson in England. Ruby Dee reading off the list of black men killed by the police. In this our new age we are once again confronted with the reality that the black person is not free. How unarmed young black men can be killed with no resolution. The young black man is being denied his freedom. His freedom to be. His freedom to exact a sense of manhood and intelligence. What can be said is that what is being done to further the cause of the young black man with respects to education and employment.

How a group of young black men walking the streets can cause a stir in the heart. Why should that be. Why should they be inspired to behave in such a way. Are they products of a system that fails them, forces them into a life of crime. Once investigated further it can then be revealed this is the system; a white system that keeps governing with an upper hand.
To settle on a deeper meaning it would be one that keeps its black citizens in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail. That is the supposition. To be black and walk the streets you are easily on the verge of being approached by the police for questioning.

But this is a new revolution. A Meta Post Modernist Black Revolution. There are divisions of black youth. We have been desensitized by the horror of young black men getting killed by the police. Michael Brown is a hero. His name stands for something. Perhaps a martyr. There has been many others killed but as a name he brings light to what has been a massacre of black youth. It speaks on the future of politics and socio politics, urban politics and situational politics.

The marking of young black men as criminals is the first mistake. The employing black youth as prisoners is then another mistake. This wronging of a society and a race leads to a larger question of survival, monetarily and even intellectually.

Among those who chose a safer path we see the progressiveness in new music and poets. Saul Williams changed the scene in the late 90's with his spoken word. It brought a new voice to poetry. Theater gave way to voices in new actors and actresses. Writers like Zadie Smith with their academic intellect found their way into the mainstream where now we find
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

There's a newfound sense of sexuality among young black women who tend to be queer with their septum rings and different hairstyles. They can be inspired by female rappers like Angel Haze and songstress FKA Twigs. A variety of streetwise white girls are drawn to the masculinity of some young black men. Certain sections of certain streets and neighborhoods are governed by gangs.

The black person has been crucial to the birth of a new culture in a modern world for centuries. For now he uses the white affectation and influence to ward off danger. He and she manipulates the greater white culture by accessing themselves as intellectuals be it in education, science and government.

Despite the wrath of poverty and the future of the disappearing middle class, the third to fourth generation of blacks will define a future where they are able to survive by making use of technology and implementing facets of what was once detailed as white circumstance, blonde and blue eyed by tracing their history to a once privileged world where blacks were dominant, making way for a brighter and better world.

Mia Bella Morte

Kofi Fosu Forson

Monday massacre I hang by the bar with daiquiri thinking of Delores Romanyshyn a Puerto Rican Italian
who was the most beautiful.
Her face Sophia. Mouth Monroe. Eyes Bardot. I look at the reflection in the mirror back of bar I see Delores.
Drunk the devil I am I see Delores. May not be Delores who told me I would never forget her. Could be
Delores woman who sells at the market. I want to bring her home make love. Taste jalapeno. Shoot Tequila."

Fall to bed. Mindfucking Ezmerelda. An Isabelle Allende novel. Woman stands on patio long haired dressed in silk
Channeling her guapito. He arrives hot dust in back of limousine fresh from penitentiary five years done.
Walks into her room salsa salsa conga conga bella bella Ezmeralda pop popping champagne bottle.

Make love to me as if you couldn't breathe you needed my love to give you air bring you back to life.
Make love to me as if we were animals we didn't know when to stop or continue we were possessed.
Make love to me as if we were dead nothing mattered whether we lived or died we didn't exist.

Hanging by bodegas shooting rag cussing bout government polluting our minds crime pays I tell ya.
Made more this week than I would washing dishes at Mexican. But each time he puts them shackles on me.
Wrist buckle pin striped fall in line head on up into the bin white control white smack white disease white rice.

Revolutionaries making vodka out of hog water scraping burnt sugar from walls of rent controlled apartments.
Money doesn't matter tonight we can play Monopoly go on out paint graffiti hop a few trains to Times Square.
Score some from Isabella street walker lipstick love dildo lez makes it with men who like it weird and freaky.

Bar bolero washed up done night people looking for loud love pissed drunk drug happy shimmy shimmy.
Backroom orgy wild thieves making music chairs rocking bottles spill crash to make a sudden burst boom.
Loon room sophisticated chico chicas Harlem hustlers ramblers from Upper West Grand Central crash
Smoking phillies chit chat spanglomerican jive ass slow dancing something some one said blood on the floor.

Mommy Amore makes living off tips serving drinks to pimps cutting up blow transvestites giving head.
Hatian black girl stole her man did some woo yoo voodoo on his ding a ling wang dang ding dong.
Dresses up night after night leaves home comes here where there is no life people die night in night out
Two boys and a girl Pedro Ricardo Lisa the beautiful ones are not born they are made molded messed with
Pushed into corners they fight Salvador Sanchez Alexis Arguello Earnest Hemingway Hurricane Carter.

Tonight she had no soap for her bath took a shower piled on the perfume stood in a corner like usual
Poured drink after drink nothing funny about tonight Pedro locked the door after she kissed him goodnight.
Nothing funny about tonight she'll make some money for rent food stamps will take care of everything else
Catches herself smiling thinking about the future Pedro wants a job in maintenance Lisa wants to sing
Little Ricardo Little Ricardo standing looking forward she feels one two three quick shots in her chest area
Touches with fingers turning red her eyes open wide face explodes with fear she falls down collapsing

We Waxed, Berlin to Blunt

Guerilla action, painting tattoos on homeboy at 124th and Lex. Right by the corner homeless dried up like
you wouldn’t believe, branches for hair pounding dirt upon dirt. Meshed into concrete, push carts
stacked with wino junk. The lot of them wise cracking, jab jabbing at the mouth about God knows what.
But this is not your boy from Vermont homosexual thrown into the woods. This is not your sixteen year
old girl pregnant, beaten down by a boyfriend. Here, the wounded lasso virgins with minds of hate.

Street hustlers, ragamuffin. Diabetic black buffoons bloated. Shysters lounging on crates getting stoned
on someone else’s hash. Bombs go off in their minds. Hiroshima, mon amour. For some they served in
Vietnam, sitting in wheelchairs, dragging their legs. Hispanicas gather in prayer. Oh mourn another one
for succumbing to a bullet. A doorstep in the Bronx candles lit, well placed white and blue. Apocalypse
now. Papa Gatos and the drive by somewhere in Cali 1985. The stick up kids never died. Gentrification
made them mama’s boys. They found other ways to have fun.

Walking silhouettes, sleeping shadows without homes. On some days it rains, turns them into wet
rotweillers foaming at the mouth. Bugs, barbarians of these streets, above ground is the underground.
They have a common language onto their very own. Who takes turns on the woman among them? Is she
slut to the world or kept hidden lost among memories of mothers and fathers, a sisterhood of hookers
and panhandlers. Pack of wolves hungering, death before wealth. They sleep, carcasses on cardboards,
heating vents, alerted by sunshine, smell of McDonald’s French fries.

Whose religion is this? This is your New York Kamikaze. Hobos from men’s shelters suiciding at wee
hours of morning. Breaking bread with cigarette, penny for your thoughts while an art surgeon, needle
man draws blood. Make him feel as if he’s in a fight. Is it cobra on his back, names of people who got
sprayed? Make it colorful, fine, detailed and perfect. Shine, Hosanna boy, go get your Caesar cut, get
yourself a brand new face, from an O.G. to pimp, Daddy to uncle.

We waxed, Berlin to blunt. There’s no name for poverty. Accept the seeds in your pocket. Pennies lead
to dollars. How low can you go? Do you heckle them inside the jails or beat blood into them for being
trans and black. God lock up his sons. Put them in detention for the hurt they perpetrate. How could a
boy be man, hole up in a tank, getting squeezed by another man twice his size. He had mauled like a
tiger. He had raped like a baboon. Burn this into him. Two years without the light of day.

Would he come out a man or live to do it all over again. Wage waging the war. This is not a gun fight.
This is me putting you in your place. This is me telling you I’m ace. We come from beasts. But we come
from so much more. Why would you want to get caught up on Kierkegaard. You’re living it up, oh yeah.
Out on parole. Got a white CEO holed up in your room doing blow. Got jumped in Harlem for his wallet
and chains. You played good Samaritan. Brought him home for some white powder. The look in your
eyes. The sweat on your face. That sunshine of a smile. All that teeth and the air blowing out your nose.

Like a child you shake. When your parole officer come come a calling, you shake. Yes ‘um. I dun take my
medication. I been to my physician. I dun seen my psyche. Like a white boy on Daddy’s lap, you stand in
front of your female parole officer doing good. No tears in your eyes. Your heart beating faster than a
drummer on the platform of the uptown 6 train on 14th street.

Cause you know she’s packing a gun. She’s gonna weigh on you a ton. Them eyes are watching. From
the streets through to your lungs. Breathe the words of a warrior thief. Pick up on the fresh girls at Port
Authority. Bring ‘em into your world. Watch as they stress me. Listen as they talk honey into me. What is
It that these girls see in me. What is it that makes us blood. I’m not your brother. But here we are
fighting for our lives. Like the night to sand. Your skin a darker shade than mine.

We will learn in time where the sons of our fathers have come. That they were doctors and lawyers,
scientists and surgeons. We need not wait in line while we have our bodies checked for gold. That we
have bought and sold.

On the streets marching, swaying as the wind blows dirty weather. Together and alone, separate and
Surrendering, we own our sadness, the violence of our tears.

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Kingdom of Whores

Kofi Fosu Forson

Kingdom of whores with tattoos cracked teeth chipped fingers fading nail polish
Bedford Avenue girls crash as if fuck finale end of nookie bootie call the quickie
Tumbling between crowds cockroaches Vice fanatics bearded leather boots proud
Sophomores inside pastel bars light beers in hand effeminate intimidated sexless
Bartenders masculine alpha males channel spirits sex gods potions concoctions

Night an I Pod vinyl record tormenting our soul an edge we choose to love or kill
Running away from ourselves into company others lovers friends worst enemies
Fear cavity pulled at root imagining world outside where we drink with wolves
Sit among murderers nightmarish room music dark corners where people kiss
Draw themselves into conversations one act plays hoping for moments of bliss

Half lives damaged new generations plaster walls with shit Howard Street corner
Headlights flashing onto excrement caked four feet above ground wooden door
Piss Christ Karen Finley they were the first Kathy Acker said "Fuck Me" in public
Pubescent girls barely legal posters inside jail cells middle aged men wanking off
God platinum blond pop star with bikini wax giving blow jobs back of limousines

Post feminism pussy was king butches on wheels death dying arms of heroin chic
Model amour design porn fetish stiletto magazines Richard Kern photographs
Women politicizing the word "Bitch" carving a niche within this dog domain
Men emasculated porno pathetic penetrated by well paid strippers strapped on
Fantasy I always had would have wanted to tie up Brandy read her Baudelaire

But was she muse fallen desire on blanket as I crept drunken kissing her feet
Leaving this crowded dorm room returning accompanied by another familiar
Pummel me leather boots belt fists chaos drunken students watch scattering
Slave in a hierarchy displacement black intellectuals diagnosed white disease
Love neurosis falling for Euro American women those who prefer Black English

Post Neo Expressionist Gangstas chaperone white dolls through ghetto scums
Crack addicts prostitutes middle aged divorces art whores share in empathy
While educated black women disown their very own black male syndrome
Gang or crew leveled threat onto these streets left their mark paint tags blood
Dangerous minds attracting desperate junkies feasting on the crime of art

Voyeur women wandering the city alone Central Park to Sundays in Tribeca
In eyes of men walking fantasies for some chance to dream or perhaps undress
Inspiration for artists who fought for light in these girls they saw potential
Muses loving wearing their worth on these men like coat oil seeping through skin
Making art posing for painting traveling for miles just be face in a photograph

Women begged to have philosophy whispered in their ear wilting in fear
From men who turned them into sex muses new era of porno kings smut sadists
Fucked girls on videotape posted them for all the world to see this our new kingdom
Whoredom seeking fame history reminds us of frontier women Hollywood glamour
How girls go by not a thing we would change they grow wild seeds spread wild flowers

Generations/ born and let loose into a world...
Youth culture is the new disease

We come from generations, born and let loose into a world of people we don't have control over. Subjectively we need to belong. We need protection. Family is the given, providing us with any and all of this. But on the exterior are people we find in the outside world, from schools to neighborhoods to church. We are bound by all of this which forms us as people in our psyche, strong and vulnerable.

The first generation of Ghanaians who migrated to America, my father included had the advantage of being highly educated. They were gloating on the success of Ghana as the first African country to gain its independence from colonialism. In a sense they were Kwame Nkrumah's children. They brought with them the scholarships and ingenuity to the United States. My father was studying as a young man somewhere in the Midwest. He stayed with a family, a daughter from this had never seen a black man before. Decades later they met again sharing in their friendship after all these years. But such is the rhythm with which generations find comfort with each other. Off and on, my parents and their friends politic about the times growing up in Ghana. The friends they had in common. As the years have passed, some of these friends have died. There's a bond between them as people of a nation, an element which borders religion and gender.

As septuagenarians, they all seem young. There's a vivacity in their voices which stem from the strength in their hearts. As they are in good health with the occasional complaints and scares, their conversations circle around friendships and world politics. Being close to the partnership between my parents I am aware of certain people who play important roles in their lives. These are people they make peace, have long standing friendships which trail back to their childhood in Ghana.

This circle is the most important. It's a bond which keeps them initiated with the going-ons in Ghana. Initially making them Ghanaian and not African American. The first generation of Ghanaians are Ghanaian by all means. Their minds are not swayed by standard American values. Their mind and hearts are in tune with the land and place of Ghana. Whereas they may or not value moving back to live, their friendships with other Ghanaians, which they have cultivated over the years gives them a place of longing and home.

I belong to the second generation of Ghanaians who came to America in the late seventies. Ours was merely to afford a better education and healthier livelihood. Upon my father's suggestion my mother and I along with my younger brothers joined him in New York where he worked as journalist. At this point and time I was about the age of ten. I had formed a notion, however small of who I was as a boy living in Ghana. I had gained memories of Ghana, from schooling at the Royal Preparatory, our living situation at the Airports Residential Flats, an apartment building in the neighborhood of ambassadors near the national airport and even previously as a child living in the Nyaniba Estates and the life that centered around my grandmother's compound. I had friends. I had a sense of sexuality, an idea of which I felt was disease which stem from other diseases within the family as depression and incest.

Living on my grandmother's compound I shared duties and living arrangements with my cousins. We were chastised by my uncles for misbehaving. Most of this behavior centered around my female cousins exposing themselves to me. There was always the act of girls in the neighborhood exposing themselves to me while we played house as children. At that stage I was not mature enough to engage in the act of fornicating. Although these girls were welcoming and willing.

Sexuality and philosophy had always been notable diseases in my upbringing which were the underlying themes of my life as artist. Much of this was on my mother's side, the heightened sense of art and creativity and bouts with depression. So I am not surprised in retrospect looking back on my relationship with my mother and how we engaged in emotional incest, the act of seeking illicit emotional comfort and trust in each other. This has served as the themes in my art over the past two decades, most of which dealt with painting muses and working with actresses in the theater.

As for my generation, this group of Ghanaians, pre-teens, who had a sense of themselves as Ghanaians, there was a sense of culture shock. They weren't old enough to consider themselves mature but they had pride. This instability caused friction. There was a constant strife between accepting the influence from Black Americans and white Americans. We lived independent of each other as we dealt with themes in pop culture, music, everything from rock and roll to rap music. I suppose I was more sensitive as an artist. I was rejected by some black Americans for being peculiar. I was more so accepted by whites. This influenced my everyday life from the shows I watched on television to my thoughts on beauty. Could be said I was suffering from a "white disease." It was something that endured hospitalizations, medication and therapy.

It's more than the cultural disassociation. This is a disorder of diagnosis. It can be said this was a result of my father forcing me to use my right hand instead of my left as a child (see the book by Alice Miller, Drama of the Gifted Child), the conclusion of genetics on both my mother's and father's side and finally the circumstances of being the only black boy among a culture of whites.

I wonder about this generation. Who were we? What has become of us? As an artist I survived the Neo Expressionism of the East Village, New York, the art and music culture, the post punk movement in New York, the revived new literary movement in New York, Kathy Acker, Tama Janowitz, Jay McInerny, Brett Easton Ellis. I got a sense of art openings, clubs. Four years at an all boys parochial school, Xavier High school prepared me for the world. But in-between my turn at college I suffered a mental breakdown. After several attempts at a variety of colleges I entered Hunter College where I got a degree in English, Creative Writing after seven years of trying, stopping and pursuing it further.

The 80's was a knowing period. The 90's was about experience. The 2000's was about commitment and professionalism.

After reading Ekow Eshun's Black Gold of the Sun, a gift from my father's friend to him, I changed dramatically. It took me back to my very own experience with Ghana. In Ekow Eshun, I saw somebody I can relate to. His experience in England was mine in New York, a life of multiculturalism and confusion between what is black and what is white and what comes in the middle. I started writing black poems. And after years of a tense relationship with my youngest brother, a twin brother of his who committed suicide, we rekindled our friendship. He serves as a black soul mate among the continuous white influence virtually and within a community of poets, most of them I'm committed to as associates.

I also am having a life changing ongoing virtual experience with Toronto artist Jessica Karuhanga on the themes of African identity, roles of gender and a self awareness living in a big city. It's a commitment which words cannot do justice. It says a lot how the future and technology has paved way for better communication.

And last night I saw Linton Kweisi Johnson read at NYU. It fueled this blog on generations as he spoke about the very subject matter. I have gone far back in time to relocate my identity, who I was as a boy and claimed a right as artist. The pain and suffering along the way.

I move forward with an awareness of being a black man with a Euro/American influence. The complication that comes from being an African living among African Americans. Accepting the difference and embracing the similarities. The world of white Americans has seen a turn from the hipsters in the East Village to poets I partake in readings.

The youth culture is the new disease, the fourth generation. The second and third generations have sought success in business, marriage and the arts. Here they hopefully find mutual acceptance as Africans who moved to America for a better life.

I for one am fortunate I came around full circle. I am aware as a black man living in Harlem, a place where I am committed within a community of treachery and business. This is where I live now. It makes me the man I am.

Black Rose, Yellow Daffodil

I’m your black rose, debonair, captain of this lounge, courting loose leaves
Green girls dressed in fishnet stockings, torn tee shirts, knife pleated skirts
They pose beside these leather sofas reading Fanzines, popping bubble gum
How I attract them like bees, swarming the corners of this City University
Where does the time go, here we can’t tell hours from minutes, we suicide
Drinking in color of Camel cigarettes, a hush overcomes us, no paranoia
Listen as lovers whisper; others carry on about science and anthropology
This place where nerds take cover from Misfits, Sex Pistols, Richard Hell
You come to me yellow daffodil, fresh out of the womb, sexual anarchist
Our words are voluptuous, barking up a tree, who do you choose to love
Where do we go tonight, do we dance at Danceteria, get drunk in Chelsea
Sea of people in purple uniforms under blue light, lime green eye shadows
Slipping through a crowd, cigarette girls, Italian boys in yellow zebra suits
Blood shot eyes, caffeinated teeth, face of a monsoon, I look upon you Betty
What animal do you see in me, I am a drug spread over your table cloth
Do you take me in by needle, do you sniff me up like coke, I’m your drug
What do you do with leather, black leather on your skin, the dancer within
Ballerina hyena, how the night goes where we go, foxes calling, howling
Make the smoke rise off the streets, the peculiar corners of these streets
Graffiti walls, men with Mohawks, where do they go when lights go out
This black world where flowers refuse to grow; left to rot in broken bottles
My daffodil, Nancy suicide, we die slowly drinking whiskey, wake me up
Let the wires in your hair fall down, electric, when we make love, we bruise
The evening arches, watching as the back of you bends, roar, this riot, roar
Shards of glass spread over carpeted floor; reflection in the mirror is fire
Bright light shining, our bodies wrestle, flower petals circle on our bed

Marijuana Day at Washington Square

First time I smoked pot I thought it was a cigarette handed to me by a joogie
Long stiff boogie rolled up in white paper looked a thing of Virginia Slims
That day I tasted marijuana I knew nothing of what had become of me
Fire brand well lit green grass dried leaves set upon my wagging tongue
Attempting to get high with the boys at Washington Square where we sat
Listening as Reagan Youth gutted the space on stage spilled over guts
Glorifying the seed indeed a crowd had gathered in honor of a celebration
Dead beats riotous giving fist for fun it seemed what was a strange smell
Dead boys lifting off the ground carved like thieves set upon the fury
Self serving hunger grazed like cattle halved to the bone carcass thing
Wasted with eyes closed left sleeping as the music cranked out loud

We were Sudden Death fell among throwaways out in the gardens
Caught our breaths stealing away what was left of smoked blunts
In that kingdom above clouds we had died shed our skins for torture
I never did get high for it was one drag I took certainly no inhalation
A drugged nation crooked at the limbs barely able to walk dragging
For some it was a pungent kiss among dragons with breaths of fire

Oh Washington Square we had set our eyes on your park on this day
Our eyes bloody red from smoke falling head first onto pavement
What sirens we heard were not from cops who stood at guard’s sight
Declaration of independence on marijuana day at Washington Square
Where punks gathered blew wind into sky sat among leaves on high

Under a reckless sun we dreamt our days to come at Heaven’s gate
Under a reckless sun we breathed the breath of charcoal black slate

What mockery do you make of us society’s political damned dregs
We have no decisions to make none whatsoever in the here and now

In our sudden deaths listen when the music is over fading out of tune
The musicians will pack up their instruments making us want more
When they kill off the mic the sun will go down and we will drown
Drink from the bars near and far while we leave for our death beds
What a day we had at Washington Square as the sun turned to moon

In Death We Trust

Cover of the newspaper read, 4 Mexican men stabbed two girls with tennis racquets
Raphael Nadel couldn’t save them, he was tearing off his tee shirt after winning a slam
Stalking Sandra Bullock, I would bring roses to her door, leave her alone forever more
Rock’n Rollers come and go speaking of Lupita Nyong’o, we have come for you Alek Wek
Bombing Sudan, for every dark skinned girl we take, we bring you Terry Richardson
Where have all our black models gone, Roshumba, Naomi, Grace Jones at Studio 54
Some killed for Allah, some killed for Jesus, I spent that summer mourning Jennifer Levin
Oh Jodie, I shot Reagan for you, sitting at a bar called Heaven, smoking underage girls

Getting a skin fade from my Russian barber, he cuts diamonds into the skulls of thugs
Jewish professors from City College, engage them in conversations about The Wailing Walls
Postmodernist machismo, strange men at a barber shop carrying on as blood brothers
Prostitution in basement next door, Hasidic men walk in and out, talking among themselves
At the Projects, word of mouth, selling smack to white professionals, a knife to the throat
Oral sex in the alley ways of Indian restaurants on Lexington Avenue, memories of home
Dead white boys waxed in black scum, their tongues tip to speak like street, ghetto, hood
Bellevue hospital, they are carried in blood soaked, cut up and choked, at night they sleep

Murder of a Hollywood actress, Adrienne Shelley, The Unbelievable Truth, he hung her to die
How blonde were you, Trust, she walked as books circled the sun, light bulbs glowing above her
There was a feather for every cap you wore, your eyes looked onto a world of wordsmiths
With memorable lines that stood golden, as if they were clipped to a clothespin in the sky
Under blue clouds, in an open field, you lay on your back, looking through eyes of a camera
Perfect girl, whistles surrounded you, followed you into empty buildings, loser lounge cafes
There was life in that body, when he tied you up to die, there was still life in your body
You would not just give up to death, you came from true love, fire hearted poetess girl
In your garden we will sing without words, hum without sound, make music drowning

Who Among Us Are Stars

Kelly Klein’s Underworld, Hollywood black and white, who among us are stars
Born Ramone, drank up Phillip Seymour Hoffman, made love to Hunter S. Thompson
Thief of hearts, where the red dressed gallery girls go, you’ll find a Madilyn Monroe
Social Media queen, she catches fire from flames that travel through the air
She rides horses, young British teenaged models posing, tank tops, underwear

In Berlin whispers about art hunks and art stars, what will they wear to the Biennial
Facebook friends with suicide rockstar from hell, she almost dies every other day
New York summer, we do drugs and fuck, walk the Metropolitan taking pictures
Night roster, tall legged blondes, fire starters wearing baseball caps back to front

New Jersey, heavy metal station, Puerto Rican boys driving through Lawrence Harbor
Latin lovers for mafia divas, met a sensation on the train, it was her ass I was talking to
Married with kids, she reeled me in, brought me into her bull pen, email love letters
I hadn’t decided if I wanted to die, bullet to the head, but a love affair with a Jersey girl
Woulda had me swimmin’ with the fishes, falling for twins, Mary Kate and Asley Olsen

Look-alikes at Heaven on Earth, I stood crunched and beaten, personified dimentia
Into my Washington Heights apartment they came, flowers in hand, gift for a god
The Olsens, under duress, walking my loft in Michael Kors, wasting time on my futon
Parasitic sociopath, strolled these girls where garbage men of society sat to gamble
In a room with French doors, I videotaped them reading words I had sacrificed for

Took on the persona of defeated girls who came and went, begged me not to fuck them
Trash he heaved out this door were not these beautiful ones, he called himself soldier
Vietnam Veteran, I marched these girls through, he often reminisced about Amsterdam
Black man from old America, when a black man could not look a white man in the eye
He drove around in Porsches with natural blonde women, got high on cocaine and pills
Made love to these women for hours it seemed, watched them cum, counting orgasms

Who among us are stars, he would have given everything to have known my girlfriends
Spent the nights slaying, telling stories about a Jewish girl, like ripping off her flesh
Taking turns having at it, her arms and legs, starving hyenas in a marijuana room
Mad Man of Dyckman Street, horror boys in Rocka Fella, gang raping seventeen
I sat with shirtless skins, long haired white boys, imitating The Allman Brothers

Raised on robbery, Dominican street boys spray paint graffiti on apartment door
God fearing roommate threatened to kill, ran to the East Village, Mondo New York
Stranger than Paradise, white money on Ave. B, Latin girls listen to Slayer on Ave. D
Pink Warhols, barhopping with Dash Snow wannabes, they wear their fame like wigs
Platinum under mirror balls, fallen dead on tracks of the L subway line another day

Romeo Blue, call it desire, gallerist’s girlfriend thinks you’re hot, she wants to make it
Run for your life from the hyper realists, walk like Bond, giving good life to their wives
None of them has ever owned a gun, gotten into a fight, just got beat up for stash
But who among us are stars, brass balled wannamaker, life taker, call it a strange condition
I was born this way, gifted, idolized by the crack whores, painting muses, American ingenues

They come from Nowhere with Faces like Alexa Chung

They come from nowhere with faces like Alexa Chung, prey on these pretty things, gun them
Put their faces in mud, wash them down with Grey Goose vodka; expel them from school
In their Hell Kitchen apartments under beds are men, sit down, feel a bicep, break a bone
We were once able to sit and wait while they dressed, watched television, read Vice magazine
Now we take turns on them, on the kitchen counter, in the bedroom we are polyarmorous
Come Carouselambra, come play with these play things, make them stand, the Empire State
Statue of libido, fresh fashions from Patricia Field, in these club dresses they go clubbing

You are not celebrity enough for the cover of Vogue, share photos on Twitter and Instagram
Place your German façade on your birthday cake, let the boys lick it off, let them prick off
You were made for business men from Shanghai, in a see through blouse you pose American
With friends you are a Munich girl, fit, protein shook, dancing with Pharell at Calvin Klein
We met at the B&N at Union Square; in the photography section I asked if you were a model
Who are these city girls waiting to be wanted, how you pranced as if it was Christmas Day
Love is a non-Christmas Day where the sun is shining and all we talk about is Tarantino

Django Unchained, poor shop boys eating potato chips, buying paper for hash, Arab sitcoms
No laugh tracks, body sizing, man up or man down, while the cops beat down the block
Post-postmodern queens, your day has come, paint your finger nails blue, braid your hair
Walking blocks of East Harlem, Black American girls imprisoning every man with their eyes
No BDSM, interracial couples at Mexican chop bars, potential hit men await their trials
In this neighborhood they stand at all corners at all hours, rotund black women fishing
I sat with an Estonian girl, looked upon her flesh, her soul, we talked about Dalmatians
Pale girls who watered my conscience, sight of them reading philosophy on the subway

I would love a woman for the sake of her being molded into the shape of the color of love
But it would be a woman of color who unearths this black demon, puts it to rest forever more
From the art girls who smoked cigarettes to the ancient lovers, I would have found desire
White madams trailing African boys into hotels, sleeping with them, husbands left weeping
Making love to promiscuous women in the basement of churches, wild horses, how they rush
Fangs of mad men, thieves, have all gone to sleep, now they hide in corners of unsafe streets
Some rust along the sidewalks, among the greens and concrete, female hustlers who begged
European boys who seduced, let these girls wage their war, I have come to this party alone

The Electric Pig Circus
Come algebra, all you mathematicians, all you geniuses who call yourself Beethoven
Evan Dando walked around with a guitar case, you pull your cello through subway cars
Who do you love, the Madonna of classical music, original cellist for Kronos Quartet
Where do the Dita Von Teeses go, where do they go to find their Mister Amore Amore
Coquettes in dressing rooms playing cowboys and cowgirls, pet tooth hang from necks
Bronx diva, her speaking voice like butter, she mates the madams in Harlem hotels

In a hustler’s world hustlers hustle, drive alongside police cars, pull trucks with teeth
Walk around high heeled and skirts, feast or famine, carve men like carcass, left for dead
Oscar Wildes from Jackson Heights, bookish, coffee cockatoos, smart without smart phones
Art talking themselves through conversations with Chinese American girls lust laughing
All the young dudes black like licorice, skinny jeans sag sagging, stick figures bragging
On the streets they howl, crow call, rat catch violent men drinking from beer bottles

Come closer, tumors on your skin make for tattoos, why don’t we kill a rhinoceros
Spend our lives behind bars, hunt a hyena, do serious damage to the walls at BAM
Fire trucks at rush hour, fire men watching as buildings burn down, we can escape
Call to the cows at Woodstock, run ourselves over mud, make money selling cheese

We will feed off the fat of the land, burn wood for fire, roast chipmunks in garden heat
Over the hills we ride our horses free into the oncoming sun, no chemicals, no rayon
Naked to the bone, spiritual gypsies holding hands, half a circle singing songs in Arabic
At night we chant, Nom Myo Ho Renge Kyo, move our bodies to the voices in our heads
Leave behind the circus of the city, flying pigs, man-made gorillas waddling Fifth Avenue

Black Porno versus White Porno
Relevance of Slavery and White Aristocracy

Lawrence Fishburne's daughter Montana Fishburne is a porn star. She also goes by the name of Chippy D. A striking resemblance to her father, Montana has skin markings on her derriere. She seems to come from privilege. Could it be in her smile. A face that has known success and happiness at one time in her life even if it came through her father's very own success.

In many ways Chippy D. is an example of a good girl gone bad, many examples as to how and why young girls are drawn into the adult entertainment business. It is not known personally or in the media what type of relationship Montana shares with her father but watching her in these sex videos it brings to mind other women who were unfortunately drawn into that world like Dorothy Stratten for example. There's something special about her, as if she is too good for this. Good in the sense that she has heart, unlike other porn stars be it young who are demeaned or forced into it, less respected, who exhibit an innocent, depraved or wild behavior.

Montana is more or less naughty. It's with curiosity and respect with which we watch her. It's very much like watching a sex tape of a famous person. But that presents itself with a different quandary. A sex tape is watched in secrecy. Montana is a porn star, officially or unofficially. She is not known for other talents besides the sexual behavior she exhibits in the video.

A great comparison after watching a Montana Fishburne sex video would be Paris Hilton's sex tape. They both obviously are from wealth and success. But the difference are in the sexual acts involved. Paris comes from white aristocracy. The video presents her as a young moneyed blonde girl up to know good or in a sense misbehaving. In an atmosphere of luxury she performs oral sex or has oral sex performed on her. This could represent any number of scenarios of proven women in history where we are given a camera's view of their lives behind closed doors. Paris is a better example than Kim Kardashian because Paris once again represents money, sex and power. After all her sex tape was one of the firsts in history.

Montana Fishburne's video is treated as porno. She presumably is performing for money. There is no initial intention to prove her sexual prowess to the viewer. Most sex tapes are employed to prove to the general public the libidinal energy of an actor or celebrity. Montana Fishburne is more like a living-breathing-fuck-doll. It starts with that silly, joyous smile on her face inviting the viewer into the scenario. She is quite playful and a good dancer. Her body is fit as with most porn stars. She has a tattoo across her shaven pelvic area. A feeling can be had that she actually enjoys performing oral sex. That as an act it is something she enjoys. Much can be said of her as a porn actress that she enjoys performing. She seems satisfied as she is being penetrated by a male porn actor. Their act is a series of pleasurable behavior as with any couple true to life. There is foreplay. It can be said that it's actually love making. Care is given in thinking about who she is so much that she is not abused. Her behavior in the video showcases her as a person. Otherwise in other videos she frolics, performing oral sex and having meaningless intercourse.

What is black porno? Is it as simply put a video of two or more black people performing sexual acts? How do interracial videos change this perspective if it's a two black men and white woman threesome or two white men and one black girl threesome?

From time immemorial as in porn from the 1970's featured a black man with an extremely long penis. Long Dong Silver comes to mind. Black porn was supposed to feature the black Mandigo warrior slave. Mandigo was a movie which featured the professional boxer Ken Norton. It explored the black male libido which was later popularized in blaxploitation flicks like Shaft and Super Fly. The sexuality of the black man has been expressed in Hollywood as a man of the streets with a sophisticated nature. What Sidney Poitier lacked in overt sexual libido, Denzel Washington acquired in his sex appeal. There's been a strong lineage in how the world viewed the black male from Paul Robeson to the present. He has always been athletic, at times charming, sometimes, violent and a good lover. What warrants him as a black person is obviously the color of his skin. Therefore at times he is type-cast.

In the world of hip hop, the sexual culture of the black male is prevalent. It's another entry into the world of the sexual black male. Two of its dominant features are the lyrics in the songs and the use of buxumous women in the videos. The hip hop MC's have been viewed as pimps in the past. They propose sexual dominance.

In black porno the men vary. They are either men with overwhelming physique or are particular making love or fucking black women. The substance for their performance is based on cultural similarities, whether they come from the ghetto, (this is justified by their vernacular both sexual and in its dialog). Upon watching any sex video featuring a black couple in a sex act, one is lead to think of slavery. That we were once born, shipped to the western world. The act is a proliferation of what was a mass of men and women, children who were sold. Watching black porno is more than just an example of a black couple expressing themselves sexually. It brings reference to the history of man. How primates originated.

What strikes me personally is that we are never privy to see a black couple making love in the movies. Hollywood movies normally don't feature black couples in the sex act. So when I watch black porn I feel exhilarated. There is a sense of community, a feeling or likeness to some one, people with the same experience, of the same race. It becomes a matter of race. The politics of race can start with porn. When represented properly, sex in its innate presence can be viewed through body types, femininity, physicality. How do whites perceive black people if they are to interpret their behavior by watching black porn? Singularly, the most crucial advantage whites have now of acquiring any thought process about black people is through the commercialization of porn. Porn in all its current display is a way by which many people determine the behavior of most groups or race.

Genuinely white porn has no basis on politics. It is profound in the sense of marketing. White aristocracy allows for a behavior which permeates the minds and souls of its people, both black and white. The term white porno is almost non- existent. The status-quo is made up of principles and ideas which go beyond a particular group. Racial politics and its dominance on society is ongoing.

Painting / Bob Thompson

Harlem Winter Blues

Hell is hot but I’m stuck on this here freeze, snow blind, watch me fall
Slipping on a mountain of snow, I need a shot, can’t bear this disease
Walking up a block, this ain’t no Czech Republic, but this here trees
Stand like wannabes, soldiers, shooting up the wind, blowing my mind
My nose is running, gunning, gotta get me some herb or purple soon
Don’t wanna sleep, but I gots to sleep, it’s ten below, up on a roof
I can see the snow, cold cockin’ white cocaine, do damage to my brain

Surfing the channels on cable t.v., from Real House Wives of Brooklyn
To Art Whores in Chelsea, sitting in the dark with my jammies on
Gots no milk, got packs of powder and some water, gonna make me a sip
Cracklin’ Bran Flakes never tasted so good, pour on the sugar

We gonna beat the blues into our system, hide in here ‘til morning come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake us up

Call up them dogs on Malcolm X Boulevard, roast us a red rooster
Keep the kitchen cabinets full of spice; pour on the loving all night long

We gonna beat the blues into our system, hide in here ‘til morning come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake us up

Gaining on a belly full, pot popping, our bellies go pop, weighing on me
Our skinny asses done get fatter, our welfare checks done get whiter
Why should we work up a nickel when we got paper, roll me up some
Make us some heat, cause we freezing at our feet, beat this cold air down

In this clear blue light, we washed up thugs, ain’t no summer to be found
We pissed ‘cause we ain’t got nothing new to wear, hang around like bears
On street corners with 40’s, doing shots of whiskey, cussing up them honeys
When we ever gonna take our asses to Miami, sit by the beach sip on a gin
Out here, all work and no pay, we grease monkeys, humping up on donkeys
Cold skin, stretch marks and tattoos, cum on the bed at a 40 a night hotel
Crawl back into the snow, outside, falling, holding hands like we making it

There’s no love in winter, you find yourself a shorty, make like chimpanzees
Wake up in the morning, cigarette run, sunny side up and black coffee
Like a lifetime of hiding out, climbing the wall, waiting for summer to come
So you thinking you’re Langston Hughes, gots a blues poem to write
But it takes you all winter long, all you gots is strife, no ink in your pen
Dodging them muses coming at you with snowballs, you ain’t good looking
You done grow a beard deep into your skin, you looking more like a lion
When you ever gonna cut your hair, file them nails or get your shoe shined

Sitting at the bar, you order up Irish coffee, be a man, do the Guinness
Your fingers tremble lifting up the cup, sure shot, your mind’s washed up
Gots a copy of a book by Stanley Crouch, getting ready to read on up
Outside the snow be falling like winter, jungle bunnies curled up in a storm
Every once in a while you lift up your head, if not the window then the t.v.
Weather man pointing at weather map, you wonder why you left the house
So you sip your coffee and read your book, thinking about Charlie Parker

You gonna beat the blues into your system, hide in there ‘til summer come
Waiting for the sun, shoot it up with a gun, until the moon wake you up

Call up them dogs on Malcolm X Boulevard, roast you a red rooster
Keep the coffee tables full of sugar, pour on the loving all night long

In your one bedroom apartment, there is no love; there is no sign of love
You get your groove on surfing the internet, you get your groove on

You max at the Match.coms and E-Harmonies, ain’t no love in a barely legal
So you hide inside that bed with a copy of Kansas City Lightning
Wishing you were Bird, blowing that saxophone, but you sure ain’t

There’s no bird in you, no summer, no spring, just a dose of Harlem winter
When the garbage trucks pass you by, water trickles from your eye
When the wind howls a brand new tune, you can’t wait for June
When the fruits at the market rot, you wish for a brand new pot

On a burning stove, rubbing your fingers, blowing into them
In a bowl you pour, burning hot soup, wishing all was well then

With every snow fall, comes an eye-full, a mountainous peek of ice
To wish a river from rain, to melt the ice, if not sun to turn it into slush

Bros in Euro Central
African American Culture/European Philosophy

Among the black male in the diaspora, African American men govern more so than their counterparts. It's an essence rendered overall in an American economy and popular culture. Much of this confidence stems from a manifestation from poverty and the inner city other than countries around the world.

There is an uncanny affectation unlike those found in black men born and living in Africa or even Jamaica. The link to history is unlike any other, from the slave narrative to literary scholars, the African American male has had the fortune of developing into a variety of ways through which seemingly people outside of America base their growth psychologically.

The persona/personae of the black American male is a combination of a street wise personality, rooted in a conditioning of the male as enslaved and victimized. With relevance to slavery and the civil rights movement, the black male is definable in a variety of ways. The two extremes are the militant views of Malcolm X and the spiritual leadership of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Through out the civil rights movement, many men assumed different roles which became the defining of black culture as a whole. The 50's and 60's hence would be called a time of a grass roots movement. As much as the black male was defined politically, music became a great calling for black spirituality. The black male spirit alongside the persona/personae is a combination of role of father and son, leadership in the family and community. Much of this can be found in the church and grass roots politics as in getting people to vote.

The singularly most important means of affecting the system that is the undermining of black intellectual and economic development is through the political system. Somehow black youth continues to be overwhelmed by music and sports so much that the uprising of President Obama has little effect in how the language in the streets is manipulated to encourage growth intellectually.

As much as the young white male is a prized entity in America, young black boys are given much the same equation in the black community. A lot is said about education and the socio politicizing of his role professionally. The query naturally turns to education and jobs. How does the black male add to the growth of the American economy.

Seemingly hip hop culture serves as a centerpiece for black philosophy and how black culture is viewed around the world. Black export has always been a means of creativity. Popular culture in America has always been influenced by the nature of black musicians and creative types. Jazz singularly was an evolution as well as the blues. Soul music in the 70's revolved around the essence of who and what was black nativity.

A new generation was born once rap culture merged into hip hop. Language spoken on the streets took a turn. Graffiti, break dancing and the lifestyle in places like the Bronx helped create a new black male. This was a point in time when the young black male was attracting a European philosophy, separate from what was the blues and jazz in the fifties. Whereas a Thelonious Monk attracted a certain white quality from his audience and particular African American jazz musicians left for Paris, ethnic graffiti artists and street artists and musicians linked on with white females in creative projects and romantic relationships. The greatest example was Jean Michel Basquiat.

The dichotomy in how the black male attracts the white female is the naturally gifted black artist with a Euro/American education and the streetwise black male centrally from hip hop culture. Fair to say love knows no particular race or color but the extremes in the black male has been depicted over the years. At each and every pivotal point in black American history, the black male was defined by his status.

Currently and culturally, black society is over wrought by unemployment, crime, southern hip hop, hip hop megalomaniacs and internet porn.
The relationships between black men and white women therefore take on a social and economic value. Life in the ghetto will determine who the black man dates. He is more or less going to find partnership in a white woman from the ghetto. With that said white women tend to fetishize black men from the ghetto. Other than that internet porn has set a standard in how young black men view the white female and vice versa.

The white American female will always be attracted to the affectation of the black American male. This patented style and behavior is translated into black music and culture and as an export it is relived around the world.

The European woman is knowingly aware of the cultural status of the black male overall. The relationship between the white woman and the black man becomes a means of sexual empowerment, philosophical communication and the boundaries of forbidden love.

A Baby Airplane, Two Kids in front,
With a Yellow Background

I can judge by the size of your hand you not made for a pistol
But your fingers would fit perfectly in my pocket to pick a dollar
What don’t your baby mama need, she done raise you a baby boy
So you thinking about getting a job, first you gotta get off the streets
That’s where you make your money you say, that’s where you hang
But last Saturday night somebody held you up, took more than just a dime
Talk to Big Poppy, he’s got a sidewalk business, he could fit you for a buck
Might even make you his assistant, he could make you a name for yourself
So what’s keeping you, why you smoking like that, your eyes so red
He likes it when you come over; he smokes you out, you and your boys
Me, I’m the hurting kind, got enough trouble in my suitcase to make a mess
Had nothing to prove that night y’all came over, I was minding my business
Poppy drove me from where I was sitting, had the nerve to pull me in
I could have done without it, but there I was waiting my turn, and it came
I took more than just a drag, I puffed like my life depended on it, it didn’t
Something told me, get outta there, I did, not before I lit that cherry red
He walked in on me, all dazed and confused, asked me if I wanted you out
Of course he told y’all to leave, but that’s when the shit hit the fan, by god
My body would get hot; then it got cold, just like that, hot then cold
Poppy was sick man, you know me when I say this, he coulda been a doctor
So he got me by the sink, I started throwing up, by god I saw pills, yeah pills
He sat me down and started talking, Poppy could talk, never gave a damn
But he was talking me through it, how to breathe and how to focus, by god
I wanted to take a shower but he said no, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea
I swear I saw a baby airplane, two kids in front with a yellow background
I kept focusing on it, plain and simple; I had my eyes on it just like that
Don’t know how I got out of it, but I slept, that night I slept like a baby
Poppy got on without you, but your boys came over, he smoked them out
Just like that, but I learned my lesson, I kept to myself, reading, watching t.v.
I’d hear them talking, laughing out loud, Poppy would give them money
He had his way with me, he rained on me like nails, but he had to move on
Didn’t take long before somebody else moved in, we got robbed, by god
The night before I was up in there alone, to think you could’ve taken my life
Poppy gave you a dollar for your dreams; you had your hand in my pocket