Sunday, March 30, 2014

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.

Friday, March 28, 2014

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

On a Cross-town Bus, a Time was when

We were busing time when trouble took us through white owned businesses
Fighting to make our voices felt, we were driven from one point to the other

Assembled in greater parts of America, for we had something to say,
We wanted to be heard, we were spit upon because of the color of our skin

So we rode in them buses, sat in groups singing, crying because we knew
We wanted a change, change was gonna come but we had to fight to change

We had to take our troubles to the streets, arm in arm, we built an army
A million men strong, we came from all corners of America, we had arrived
Our time was now, there was no one who was gonna stop us, not then

What a man am I, black African, sitting in the back of cross town buses
Watching the world with these eyes, imagined a man raped as I slept
Sat in a room of many men gambling, holed up for days on end

With these eyes, I see man made buildings, man made men, man made cars
The sun sweeps over them with a hint of sky, I see the color blue, light blue
So brightly lit, wishing I was by the ocean, I could be free from captivity

This blue and white carriage, trapped, I am one among many, destined
For we are arriving from where we have come, time is gonna get us there

Who are these creatures of man, some sitting, some standing, bags in hand
I am cornered, in this corner I sit, perhaps catching my breath like a boxer
I am broken, felt so much, wanted so much, damn if any one should stop me

Unlike a man, black skin, bald, bushy haired, rasta, I can talk to most people
I can share with words what most cannot say, here on this bus I have dared
Young white school girls, street wise Hispanicas, older white gentlemen

A heart so young with a troubled mind, they wear on me like wet sand
Waiters from Italy, who wish I join them for dinner, they beckon; what fun
Sitting in the middle of the bus on the toughest day, I find joy, memorable

A British family of five, finding friendship in me, if for a moment, we talk
What if anything do I have in common, I have fought off a man with blade
Worshiped by neighborhood boys who called me nice, I have been tested

Imagining day turn to night, sitting beside a woman head against the window
What would I say, she is beautiful, a professional, from a place so far away
On this guided path I have no mission, but to get home, a place to stay

We fought for our name on these buses, a time so long ago, we drove around
We were on our way, to places where we marched, sat at counters to protest

On this bus I gained fame, a free man, able to speak with pride among many
Those who never knew my name, but with a look in the eye they knew

What man sat before them, born of faith and wisdom, for I could see
As far as the bus would take me, I would arrive, new and free

Set foot on the pavement, walk along, my back facing
It is a ride lived moments at a time

Forgotten, until we hop on again
Sit with men of men, couples

Redeemed from when
We closed our eyes

Just to see how far
Our minds traveled

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Black Pussy versus White Cunt

In Harlem, NYC, the streets are filled with black women with buxomous bodies, thick thighs, heavy breasted, big bottoms or the young fierce girls, streetwise, hard around the edges. The dichotomy in size is an example nonetheless but the query is more so the socio-politicizing of the black woman in terms of culture, the economy, religion and sexuality.

Culturally the black woman is rooted in slave culture. As much as the slave is mostly viewed through masculine realms, the female slave has served her time as well. The visionary aspect in modern terms would be Trinidadian and Jamaican women who tend to children of well to do white upper class families. It almost seems as a form of enslavement, whereby not much can be said for their intelligence and knowledge. All is left up to their motherliness and endearment. If anything at all the role they play is that of the maid.

As a child I was tended to by young black women from the villages who came to the city in search of education. They were maids. I viewed them as sexual vixens. To this day they have been the only means of pure element in my perception of black women as sexual creatures.

The role of the black female as mother is universal. Knowingly she nurtures. Her body in terms of its physical stature is a conduit for reproduction. This perhaps is deemed as controversial in its perception as to the girth and breasts of the black woman. Poetically I used a term the "gargantuan nipple" as a statuesque symbol from which we as children of the world suck from.

What then are the elements of the physicality of black women and that of white women?

Naturally the black girl is more likely to be born with "thickness" what a white girl would assume with obesity. This is purely a summation and a controversial one at that. These images have become relevant with the popularity of hip hop culture. Back in the 80's with videos from artists stemming from Oakland, California and other parts of the West Coast, black girls with big hips were featured as bodacious. 70's Pam Grier is the only other black female that comes to mind. With the the success of hip hop, music videos continued to feature these wild women who "twerked" their way through popular culture.

Twerking has its roots as far back as popular African music with the likes of Fela, the Nigerian musician and his female dancers. This sexually suggestive rocking and rolling of the body, especially the buttocks, is an example of the black female as more sexually potent. The black female has a sexual nature that comes from the barracks of a jungle where animals mate. Perhaps this instinct stems from that.

The black vulva or "black pussy" is a muscle or sex organ that operates based on its relevance to diet and health. Subjectively black women have been known to be more aggressive sexually. It's more so the sentiment of two black people making love as an example of sex in its most native sense than the black female as a sexual animal. But in comparing the notion of a black woman or the taste of a black woman sexually as compared with the white female, the black pussy maybe judged by a higher caloric and cholesterol content. The scent of sweat on a black woman is relative to the smell of her pussy. Hence the masculine black male and the feminine black female mate naturally based on their histories.

The white cunt is considered pure and neutral almost like water. It's overall history reverts back to colonialism. The blonde white female is safe, protected by an economy, advertism, politics, Catholicism. The only notion or perspective where the sexual identity of a black woman mimics a white woman's is self identity. The person or personae is crucial in every case. The individual carries with her an identity which is personal to the self. This is a means of maturity from the beginning and how it meets its end.

Sexually a person matures based on knowledge of sex through sexual partners and conferring with other women, be it friends, family or even doctors. The mating process is based on instinct. The instinctive prowess is based on the person's identity, a result rooted in psychology and other means like genetics.

As a result black pussy meets its beginning and end as reproductive. Whereas the black vulva, the muscle is as a means of controversially speaking promiscuous. This promiscuity is more pertaining to economic status and lack of education.

White cunt is a manifestation of advertising and has a commercial status. Once this is is removed the white female is drawn to the very same notion of promiscuity in this our age of internet porn.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Murder at a Brooklyn Hall

Making love to Ella with our eyes, on this night of a Brooklyn orgy
Star struck; watch as we rattle tables and chairs, calling out Goddess
Sister rock and roll, maim us, rope our throats one by one to the ceiling
We are dieing from the music, electric instruments, modern day sex toys
Dance the snake dance, microphone cord around your ballerina body
Sweat, seethe, send sensations plunging deep inside, clitoria, cuntus
Female divine, angels fall here upon us, hiding behind amplified walls
Outside boys pose like fire, they become purchasable, selling their souls
White fish, she coils into me, our fingers form into one, love symbol
Boyfriends, beside the bar, labeling themselves available, why now
Before us is spectacle, voice superior, watch her lose it, come completely
Her words are poetry, she confesses, brunette hair falling over face
Desire, he desires her, calls out her name, aroma of him, so desperate
Long haired and bearded, beer bombed, stray hobo, Whitman mysteriso
Alone in his allure, that bottle stature left empty, broken, he whispers
Drummer crashes, freakish sound goes off amidst the clutter, spinning
Beat down this heat, paradiddles paranoia, slam the snare drum down
Rhythmic fetish, feed the bang along, gong, thunder among the ruins
Stage delirium, light flashes in red hue, oh beautiful madam, seizure
Trip around until you fall, breath of a cat catching furs, heart’s beating
Pull yourself along the pole, stand again, redeem yourself, you are gold
Reason we came, this evening has no end; we shall murder ourselves again

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Baby Don’t Cry, Let Lucinda Pick Up
Where you left off

Baby don’t cry, let Lucinda pick up where you let off, let her sing the blues
Let her croon about losing her man, getting stoned after drinking too much

It’s another Saturday night; outside they’re walking up and down Bedford
Some kitchen cupboard runway show out in Bushwick, watch them stray

Sachet, hook a hand around a girl, hands in pocket, big leather boots and all
Others are looking for love, inside lavender bars, they hang, drinking lime

A clock on the wall tells the time, time to leave when drunk, time for loving
Unshaven boys, bearded and slackened, rip stories about modern dead beats

A hundred Ginsbergs with one Marilyn Monroe, sitting by the bar waiting
Charm away stranger, let love live inside that bottle, pour away, make it

Summon the green ghosts of an Irish pub; waste away the whiskey in a cup
Lying on the sofa I hear Lucinda, this sour wine of a Saturday night come all

Rain on me again your white water, eyes that have soaked up soap scum
I’d wash dirty dishes but I’m numb, I could feel water dripping from above

Is it Sangria from the Mexicano, he’s done his share of banging pots tonight
It’s been a while since, he has stopped yelling; his bed has stopped creaking

So I’ll wait on your tacos and beans; make like nothing had ever happened
In this dark room, I walk a country mile; in circles we hurt each other so

We don’t talk, the only voice that separates us is Lucinda’s, let her sing
Let her be the reason why we’ll quit worrying, sit down make a meal of this

I can’t see your face from here, all I hear is the clanking; I’ll sit beside you
Look upon your face; see the mountain stream of tears wash down like fear

Sunday, March 02, 2014

Shooting Selfies in a Park on Bushwick Night

Shooting selfies in a park on Bushwick night, this is our abracadabra
Camera in hand, we are gorillas, coo coo ka choo, waddling under bullet sky

King Kong with gas face, Lulu happy go lucky in mini skirt, alarm me
From open windows music fills the air, strike the band, Sun Ra intergalactic

Bedside cage on green grass, rock and roll woman scowl, rig this machine
Wild woman from Wongo, cannibals pulling flesh with teeth, surrender

Googling word “ubiquitous,” prospectus anthropomorphous, gang green
Feast or famine, who are vegetarians among us, they eat autumn’s leaves

We gather at pa-pop-pizzeria, ooga-goo-ga-goo, walls cream colored
People mouths open kill pepperoni pies, blood thirsty, drink from fountains

Animal gossip, beating wives with leg bone, radio song called Layla
She comes from under knife, new skin, bone-thin, face like Russian girl

Out by race track, profile selfie, his fingers imitate shot gun pointing
His target, dildo dyke from Bedford , she mimics inflatable sex doll