At a Loft Party in Soho, I stare at a David Hockney Painting

Russian bath house, sophisticated women bathe men, egg yolk and water
Black Elvis holds court at a country club playing guitar, country blues
Where would he call home, Washington Square or streets of Nashville
At night he dreams of Las Vegas, classical Mona Lisa and her muse Matteo
Dance to Joy Division. Sweat seeps into her skin as she forms a pirouette
Wonder why there’s no money in art, would he be curator at a gallery
Round up no name graffiti artists put them up in Chelsea’s Marlborough
Blood he had shed, was it for fame, uploading street fights on social media
As if he were soldier who went to war, spraying machine guns, tagging names
Brooklyn born black painters who vacation Germany, paint still-life in the Bronx
Open a bottle of champagne; celebrate celebrity skin, all who call yourself art stars
Began with palette knife, now in the afterlife, where do you find your significant other
Do you match at Match.com, what would be your opening line, Shakespeare sonnet
Or let the words flow like an MC Snoop Dog, imitating style and vice of Viggo Schnabel
Cougars waltz in like German Kokoshckas dressed in bathing suits sipping Manhattans
A black Jew in a Wes Anderson film, if not African American punk in a Jim Jarmusch
Speak a mother tongue, Mandarin, read David Foster Wallace in a Hong Kong hotel
Gather thoughts as Buddhist, at night crown yourself Catholic, leave behind a cross
What crimes have you committed, do you project as a Hollywood leading man
Or inject cum into condoms? Making love in the ghetto would leave a man breathless
She stops to post status on Facebook. What would she say, was it good for her
As it was for you, maybe whisper philosophy in her ear, turn her into sex muse

Inflatable Doll, Sex Scenes and Negritude Novels

Sensation and sensational are two powerful "S" words, derivative of that other "S" word. Satchmo uprising, skies buttered with blue butter. Gothic blues, British blues, blue guitars, Johnny Marr with The Smiths.

I was a sensation, my life was sensational. Like electric wire chords running through my body I was lit up. Pleasure came in a novel called Rat. White upper class entitlement. Intellectual wars among drugged men from transitional housing and Mondo New Yorkers clashing over banging of doors, child abuse, drunken soliloquys after midnight.

Cocktails and conversations. Canadian art kingpin conference for a Modern Art Museum executive, video aficionado climbs black men in her Brooklyn boudoir. Selfie nation, photographic portraits on a bed. Word pimp mounted virtual ghost while bi-sexual art fiend breathed him from sexual vibes penetrating cracks in the walls.

Hyper to hypo. My brain was chat room. Girls were go-go. Facebook. It started with a poke. Demure, she sat by window on a snowy day listening to Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, visiting Vanessa Beecroft show rooms, smoking Marlborough Lights wearing Victoria Secret.

Virtual to vulva. Sensual, no knife for bone. Blood within the veins. From the Galleria, sexual philosophy over vodka and gin while mixed races clash regurgitating art romp discussions about gender and identity. Paintings exhibited were Middle America social critiques.

Disintegration. Barflies drenched in thought, liquor smells, spills, broken shot glasses, I seduced her into coming home. Seven year celibacy. Oral lessons she learned modeling for a gay sculptor. If pleasure were sensations from pins and needles her teeth were made of tiny nails.

Morning after, bathing in a cupboard size bath tub, our bodies collide. Monsters from David Cronenberg. Naked lunch. Alien sex, two Japanese cars humping. Interracial seduction, white flesh, black skin choreography by Betsy Johnson, dizzy ditz doing cartwheels postmodernist sex positions. Long Dong Silver, prosthetic for prick Africa Baam Baataa bumrushing a shiest.

Words of an urban cultural scientist, black bodies hung after dusk. Wives, daughters, lovers watched, wondered with sad eyes. Roped up onto a tree, bodies hanging left to die. Indeed they asked why. Husbands, sons out in the fields. White madams on beds dreamt of black men, flexing muscles, standing legs apart, gritting white teeth.

She came from ancestors of white blues mamas, talked scum into men who failed at love. Pointed rifles in the faces of those who dare come home after dark. A mother took on corporations, company of men, head chief, conducted conferences, ordered them to drive bleeding bodies in ambulances to hospitals. Sometimes she took the wheels and drove. One woman show, mother Nightingale.

She had become that, tough-talking, hip shaking, white ass, mama looker, running the department of one of the most important art houses. She loved her men, black men, told stories about the size of them. An inspiration for art. So they stood, huge imaginations of cocks sculpted standing, decorating her apartment.

What god was I to come along change her mind on what she thought was love. Black Jesus, love messiah, poet threat, a man understood minds of Caucasian girls, sat with them in the light. White light poured over naked bodies. That love had died made him vulnerable. Black girls he knew had been left behind to braid hair of other black girls.

She made him King, watched him lose his crown. An undertaking. Black royal robed in gold waltzing through the streets of Greenpoint. Coffee fiends in coffee houses stressed at his sight. Could he be Kafka. Was she Dora Maar. Or was she Dorothy in this Land of Oz.

She took him to New Hampshire to see mountain men, long-haired bearded men. Over the highways onto beaches, intervention on what was a city boy roped in by yellow tape, prison gates, government lines. He tasted salt water, walked her through neighborhoods where white folk stood and stared.

In her mother’s guest room they made love. Overlooking darkness, bears, no barbed wire, she coiled and cooed. She knew it was the last love she would give. Like an axe to the head. Bludgeoned and buried. A mask on the wall. Black male blow up dolls standing tall.

Suicide Chiaroscuro

Mistook you for a fig. Fug. Was it me that bronze statue?
Painterly walls house works from an Iowa Walt Whitman.
Gasoline theft. He sucked my breath from Rolly cigarette.
Boys rougher than rats.Blonde slither, smooth chick, butter skin.
Loose cuffs on your wrists.Slip me a number. I run from gallery
Mucks making art out of cop kills. Legs stalk the Eastern grid
To empty pockets, pristine NYU girls lined up between 1st and A
Night wounds, rope scar around neck, he pulls at gold chains
Martinis with former Rauschenberg acquaintance, Dominican threat
Braids his hair, accompanies middle aged Park Avenue widows
Whitney before meat packing district when B was for Biennial
Butcher Finnegan’s Wake, spread her legs, recall Vivian Darkbloom
Oh Vivian in a Testament tee-shirt first row Vulgar Display of Power
Killing Brooklyn Sharky, took on three Saint Nicholas hoods no knife
Power outage, Soho went dark; I talked two interns into giving blow
China Town alley way where Somalis get high near Taco Bell joint
Locksmith surreptitiously unlocks door while we chain smoke Camels
Mitsubishi Outlander backseat doors open bipolar narco catcalls
He snickers gives the middle finger to Betty wanting her, grabs crotch
She spits, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last dick on earth
Upstairs Ricardo challenged me into fighting for a dollar, mouth off
He dated Shalom he says, I read a Canadian chick Margaret Atwood
Tying up Narcissister look-alike I would wear a mask gloves handy
Prettiest thing a man could ever do is wax poetic French kissing
Wordsworth, explaining Brit poetry she has a go at Alexander Pope
Sometimes I speak with an accent makes for particularly freaky time
Fake blues, would you cry if you heard Howling Wolf’s doppelganger?
Laughing Hyena plays harmonica prevents himself from stammering
Discourse after main course, soft shell crab with Village Voice writer
New York politics, gonzo journalism, mad men cut diamonds here
Jewish women play down a trick, businessmen suited for cunnilingus
Cold December apartments, missionary positions on unmade beds
There was a time when the air was vodka heavy tonic water wet
Rain poured over streets, living dangerously mob man’s dictatorship
Listening to jazz, Smalls, brunette aphrodisiac, famous blue raincoat
Let cocaine fiends laugh, our evening resembles an Eastwood flick
American cinema holds weight especially Altmans and Cassavetes
Night a Kenyan Canadian Dorothy Dandridge type accompanied me
Sidney Poitier in the veins, Shadows, Gena Rowlands, NYC angel
East Asian restaurant’s newness under blue light lamenting love
Afro political romance, black conscience tormented by white thought
These hipster rebels exchange philosophical verses semiotic bullets
This age queer culture, I carried her over to bed imperialistic violence
Dropped her forcefully taking of isolated land. Loins becoming Haiti
Tormented, sorority abuse, boys counted cancerous tumors on skin
Banged on call buttocks to bruise, lost innocence, who’s your daddy?
Love convicts crash cars picking up strangers, blameless femmes
World made apocalyptic, art sensations carried out as murder wish
Lebanese art whores give head, American curators play Coltrane
When Yizthak Rabin died Israeli artists painted canvases with blood
Where are the Mark Kostabis, probably getting Banksy autographs
Inside a hideous hotel I graffiti the walls, shoot myself, wait for fame

Ass Love, Sacrificing of Brooklyn Video Artist

Art anxiety - Black Marquis de Sade painting muses
He undresses actresses in Episcopalian under rooms
Sexual hysteria - voyeuristic Italian homo meditating
Virtual copulation, African philosopher, Polish model
Subliminal paranoia, fainting, sight of a fetish goddess
She mirrors him, his head explodes from Kierkegaard
At her Williamsburg address sculpted six feet dildos
Mexican neighbor, romantic parasitic lover screaming
Francis Bacon pose,camera elevated over Moroccan bed
Nights when their caravan wandered Ashanti forests
Machete between teeth, painted skin, blood shot eyes
Back woods held captive, chained to mango trees
New Hampshire woman, mother Guggenheim weeping
Talking drums, trumpets bleat, baritone saxophones moan
Smoke builds towards malicious sky, Adowa dancers emerge
Standing Kumasi chief, cult member, surveys the underworld
Thieves wearing masks spears in hand present goat’s head
Bonfire burning at midnight, lions roam, cheetahs, hyenas
Young girls blinded with white cloth, boys dragged by feet
Sacrifice to Gods, mountainous men rage, Cocteau’s wrath
Brooklyn agoraphobia, Abolitas masquerade as dope dealers
Barbarians at whiskey bar beating dead horse drink bourbon
Resembling Bette Midler, ass love, ship captain christening
Bang champagne bottle against derriere, bubbles bursting
Tormented titillation, grips the mattress, head against pillow
Cringes, hot breath emanate tight lungs, clenched fists shake
Boat ride through the Caspian Sea, background urban music
Vultures wait ashore, prepare for massacre, vicious claws
Sink into perspiring flesh, psychotic screech, blood red water
Bodies torn apart float, slashed breasts, scarred male torso
Morning sunshine welcomes them rotting over river beds

"I'll Be Your Mirror"
Approximation of White Beauty/Black Ego

I sat with Suzanne Mallouk, late lover of artist Jean Michel Basquiat at an opening party for Irish author Emer Martin's first published novel, Breakfast in Babylon. I had met Suzanne at Hunter College where Emer Martin and I were classmates in a Novel Writing class.

It was an early evening in Spring. Suzanne was sitting outside the college in a circular seating area for students. She wore a short sleeve shirt with grey stripes folded at the edges, blue denim and sneakers. The atmosphere surrounding the school had acquired darkness with light emanating from glass windows of the school building as a source of light.

Suzanne's countenance, muted by the dark, emerged from shadows. There was a gentle breeze in the air. I carefully approached and sat next to her. She let out a heavy sigh. I immediately saw it as a chance to say something. I told her everything will be alright. She looked at me and smiled.

From then on we fell into conversation. She took required courses in the science department. I kept the flow of our dialogue, told her about my experience at Hunter. I certainly didn't know who she was or had any knowledge of her role in history.

Out of the blue she asked me if I had heard of Jean Michel Basquiat. I said yes. She immediately responded, saying she had been JMB's lover. I studied her carefully, made an imprint of her face on my conscience. I proceeded further by asking about their relationship.

She didn't go into any particular details. She loved him and was honored to have met him. It wasn't a confession of who they were to each other, rather a proclamation of one's love for someone, a tragic figure at a time when the world was spinning out of control.

I had been invited to take part in a reading organized by the Writing Department. I told Suzanne about the Novel Writing class, how happy I was taking the course. She accompanied me to a building half a block away where students and professors had gathered.

There wasn't much of a wait as Suzanne and I sat next to each other feeling the energy. Readers were called and one after the other they went up on stage and read from a poem or story. When I heard my name I walked up, stood before the crowd and introduced myself. I read from my novel in progress, a scene at a Halloween party. The revelry among the characters brought joy to my heart.

This was how I met Suzanne Mallouk, a night which included a subway ride down to the East Village, a stop at the door to her famous apartment building on first and first and ended up at Baby Jakes diner for drinks of Whiskey Sour.

I sat with Suzanne at Emer Martin's opening relishing in her company, a path from her apartment, people stopping us, saying hello to her, walking with her arm overlapping mine, her head on my shoulder.

In the glow of the room she grew jealous each time a girl, classmates of mine, came by and said hello. She told me how Basquiat called her Venus, reminded me of that famous JMB painting called Venus versus Madonna, of the two girls fighting after Madonna had made a pass at Jean Michel.

Venus! Like Nico of the Velvet Underground. Venus, the fairest beauty. Basquiat saw in Suzanne that exotic face, Picasso eyes and ruby red lips. She was also known as Ruby, It Art Girl.

What does the black male see in white beauty?

It's an acute curse, philosophical aestheticizing of beauty, post colonial exacerbation, academic enlightenment, middle to upper class entitlement, porno-orgiastic-sex drive, status symbol.

I was born Ghanaian in the city of Accra, raised within the culture of immediate and extended family. Young maids from the villages took care of me and enlightened in me the notion of libido. These heated exchanges were protracted among the neighborhood girls and classmates.

All this came to pass when along with my mother and brothers we moved to New York. I soon discovered the models in my mother's Italian catalogues, centerfolds in my father's adult magazines, porn actresses on cable television.

At the local school my aura was sapped by blue eyed, blonde girls. The devastating process weakened me. I was faced with culture shock, a stranger among the African American community, admired by Puerto Ricans, regarded as a fetish symbol to whites.

My plight grew to high-school where I was held in high esteem, propelled into a breakdown, found myself through School of Visual Art and community colleges, ended up at Hunter College, where I earned a degree in Creative Writing, matured within a literary and rock and roll conscience, met my first art model, a white girl from Brooklyn who affected me as European, Venus, much like the European lovers and friends I had acquired.

The hot decade of the 90's inspired the muse, girls I brought into my art for music, art and theater to one day cast for a play, a room completely filled with black actors, their handsomeness and beauty. To direct a black girl, lead actress, the majesty in her thick Nubian hair, caramel skin, her face, ethnic, lips, not far off from some of the other girls, dark skinned, ebony, long limbs, curvaceous hips.

Circumstance found me in the art gallery world. A time when the virtual conscience was made present in chat rooms and social media, I discovered a virtual muse, a British woman who brought me philosophy and dialogue on art and gender politics.

That curse! Lucid white, antagonistic, theoretic! For ten years to this date positioned to think, prognosticate, philosophize on beauty, gender and identity.

These ten years endured an evolution from the stress of housing, juggling art and madness, seduction and celibacy, escaping death.

To then discover the urban beauty, street girl, drug addict, homeless, prostitute, derelict. To feel love from a stranger, potential criminal. To be wanted for being different.

Intellect and beauty promoted as white, a damage to the conscience of a black artist.

Unless he does a necessary intervention he finds himself lost, self-predicament, self-query, a walking question mark.

Fetishizing of the Black Male
Sex God/Rock and Roll Icon

The black male as an intellect, pimp and thug creates an allure he benefits from for survival. Among a society of black men he pontificates on politics of the day, from daily gossip to sociopolitical concerns, his thoughts on education, employment, family, church, crime and money.

His levels of philosophy varies. These conversations are expressed as individuals on the street or those with a college background. There are no qualifications for class or diversity alone as the black male approaches discourse steeped in self - promotion, confidence, success, love of community or at times total harangue.

As an intellect the black male is philosopher. Given his role as someone versed in street culture, he is a visionary on the "hustle." This carries over to his day to day living.

Black intellectuals in general are professionals, educators and artists. They approach philosophy based on degrees of education and experience within popular culture, international affairs and genetics.

The pimp is an innate quality within the black male. He takes on this role to further his libido as lover, family man or street hustler. It is rooted in the social maneuverability of the black male and his association with women. It can be conducted as a power game whereby the black male uses women to make money or makes money to further sexual exploitation.

Black male as thug is controversial. It can border in areas such as survival on the streets or operation as business man.

The black man is aware of how he is viewed both by other blacks and those in society. The thug does not totally qualify him as criminal. It is a mindset, how he defends himself from potential crime or the perspectives of law and order, how police officers perceive black men.

Indiscriminately black men are judged and called thugs. This something that stems from a white society that perceives black men as potential criminals.

Fetishizing of the black male perhaps has its origin in slavery, buying and selling of the slave. It is out rightly racist and inhuman.

The black male is looked at as a physical specimen, revered for his musculature, thought of as having enlarged sex organs. This is crucial in the lynching of black men through out history.

White men are perceived to be jealous of his sexual prowess. White women somehow lust after him.

There are many aspects behind how the black man is fetishized. As a lover the black male is given appraisal. He is depicted in adult films as having an exaggerated sex organ. It is the most sensationalized view of the black man.

Melanin in the black man gives an aura to his skin. The color can be identified as stark ebony and high yellow. The various types of skin color is the basis for black on black racism and how they gain an advantage or are at a loss when they climb the social strata.

The perception of black male beauty can be found in his role as actor in movies, from the command and stature of Paul Robeson to the street wise charm of Richard Roundtree in Shaft.

Blaxploitation as a movie genre gave black actors a chance to display the aspects of the black allure mentioned previously as thug and pimp. This notion is crucial in the universal appeal of the black male in popular culture.

As athletes black men display athleticism and physical power. They express examples of wit and grace in playing different sports, from basketball to football, baseball to tennis.

In sports such as boxing, athletes like Jack Johnson, Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali gained political reward in how they represented blacks as a race in society.

Politically the black male has achieved ultimate representation in the election of Barrack Obama as President. Typically the black male was represented by leaders in the Civil Rights movement. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X along with many other figures helped further the rights of blacks.

As preacher he is known for his sermons. He plays a pivotal role in how he handles his congregation, this borders the dialogue between a pastor and his community and how he manages order and disorder within the community.

Political activism in the modern day can be found in the "Black Lives Matter" movement. Their purpose is bringing an awareness to the treatment of blacks, both men and women, by the police.

Rock and roll and music in general gave the black male a resonance as a sex god and icon. Early on blues musicians like Robert Johnson were given authority as men who dealt with illusions of the devil. It carried over to the musical wizardry of Ike Turner and Chuck Berry, later followed by Jimi Hendrix and the more modern world, Lenny Kravitz.

Rap and Hip Hop culture brought a street wise view of black men to the mainstream. It was and is an ongoing trend where white men and women live out their fantasy through black people.

The internet and social media has brought a whole new depiction of black men and how they live. Most of it represents black men as treacherous, violent and money hungry in the postings of videos depicting black men committing crime and engaging in fights.

News reports both on television and online during the recent uprising and protests concerning the killing of blacks by the police has left a discoloration of the universal representation of blacks in the peace movement. Much of this has been left for discussion as to the role of black youth, black crime and imprisonment.

The prison system has left a mark on the progressiveness of black men. One is left to wonder how does the black man further his original appeal and aura as a modernist.

Unemployment, crime and lack of education has regressed the potentiality of the black male.

Questions arise as to who and what are we becoming and where are we going.

Spiritual Awakening
Manifestation of the Sexual Psyche

Who and what is God?

That is the question I have had to answer for myself. But nearing the evaluation of this query, I am not at odds. I do realize I come from love (the emotional and physical act that birthed me). The detailing of God as spirit is in the committing of one's self to the expression of love, both for the individual and others, for we are a universal community. There are standards set within the understanding of our roles as humans.

Together we are flawed. We depend on each other to prop ourselves up in a political system and a cultural society. Circumstances allow for some to hold superiority above others, doctors, presidents, governors, mayors, CEO's. Even parenting requires an upper-hand whereby the male and female figure suggestively procreate and in doing so are relied upon to raise their children.

Principally mother's and fathers are blessed with the spirit of love. It's necessary to protect the family circle. Then again love is the balancing of hatred and jealousy along with affection and desire. Opposing forces of love and hate are necessary to qualify us as followers of a higher conscience. The ability to seek reckoning and approval. These are the reasons why we come to places of worship, mosques, churches and temples.

I was introduced to the church as a young boy by my mother. There are no representations of my baptism as in photographs. But I have fond recollections of times when my mother and I drove into town to attend church. In the country of Ghana where I was born, I shared a special relationship with my mother, although I had three brothers, was taken care of by young maids and lived for times on end with my aunts, uncles and cousins on my grandmother's compound.

On Sundays, I got dressed and accompanied my mother to church. The building itself was surrounded by sand. I struggled to walk on it in my platform shoes. My mother held my hand and brought me inside where I was amazed by the altar, pews and glowing luminescence. I have faint recollections of the church service, much the same for my attempts at prayer, kneeling down, clasping my hands, closing my eyes to pray.

At that age I had an innocent understanding of God and religion. I embraced the physical activity of going to church as precious moments to be with my mother, similar to driving to the market or school. But somehow it had more of a holy resonance. Circumstance surrounding the sermon and communion were giveaways as to why we were there. We were believers. Notion of a higher calling and purpose was made clear.

Certainly the idea of dressing up, watching as members of the congregation also wore their best clothes, I saw this as a ceremony. It was a ritual which became ingrained on my conscience that every Sunday we were supposed to praise God. It more or less lifted my spirits. As I grew to become more rooted in the experience, I soon started Sunday School. In the company of other children my age, we learned about scripture from the Bible. It was here I shared an awareness of Jesus as the son of God.

At this stage the narrative of Joseph and the virgin Mary and how she gave birth to Christ was standard. There other examples as in Moses and the parting of the Red Sea, the brothers Cane and Able, Jesus and the turning of water to wine and the feeding of throngs with six pieces of fish and loaves of bread.

These excerpts from the Bible were meant to inspire us and challenge our understanding of God and his followers. It created a feeling of clarity in our minds and hearts. As children and followers of God, we were blessed with a newer and bold conscience. I believe this to be the purpose of the church, to create in us a newness, a cleansing of the spirit each week. As far as organized religion and Catholicism, there is a politicizing of what is expected of us, whether it's abstaining from premarital sex or thoughts against abortion.

My practice and faith in God continued when my mother and me along with my brothers came to join my father here in New York. I soon afterwards entered Catholic school. I was taught by nuns in uniforms and we the students wore white shirts with ties and grey slacks for the boys and plaid skirts and white tops for the girls respectively.

Back in the city of Accra, I was educated at the Royal Preparatory. We wore bright red shirts and khaki shorts for the boys and orange red dresses for the girls. There was a cause for discipline as the headmaster whipped students who came in late to assembly and the teachers soaked canes in buckets of water and were free to whip the students as an act of discipline.

The means of creating respect in me and my brothers were examples my parents set in our everyday lives. Going to a Catholic grammar school I learned of a code, how to respect authority, carry with me the notion of God as a superior being. We were taught to bow our heads at the mention of Jesus and I even remember bowing my head each time I walked by the church at school. This time was pivotal in the continuation of my experience with God as the sole provider of a higher conscience.

I continued studies at a parochial high-school where we were taught by several priests and pastors among the teaching staff. Here we were required to wear blazers and ties. In retrospect I see how my education was a combination of following an orderly and systematic lifestyle with the love of self and community.

In recent days to weeks my love of God and that sense of a higher conscience has increased in me. I read from a book on experiencing God everyday. I am more present at church. Somehow I commit to channeling of prayer and having a proverbial conversation with God. This alone has set a path of meditation and link to my higher conscientious self. It has paid dividends in my love for self, family and reintroduction to friends.

There's a changed dynamic in how people who have known me view and accept me. Some embrace the difference. Others are in awe of the presence of God in me and revert to dark behavior such as psychically channeling evil themes. This has been playing itself out in my family. Much like what is expected of me as a man of love, it's my goal to uphold the feeling of growth and experience and further it by forgiving, hoping the worth of love and identity is enough.

Circumstantially, my sexual psyche has evolved. I come from a past where I defined the woman as an object of desire for my sexual drive as well as creative potential. I spent decades making art based on my personal definition of the female. It played itself out in my theatrical pieces and fine art work. My principal definition of who I was an artist was based on my collaboration with muses, musicians, actresses and models.

My sexual behavior stemmed from these parameters. It encouraged a neurosis in me which had built over time through pornography. Currently I am exorcising these feelings. They are taking on the adventures of friendship and love. I have seen the chronology of my bouts with love mature from my love for my mother, first sexual experiences, growth as lover, friend and mentor to the moments when I exuded power in my sexual neurosis based on sexual conquests and unsafe behavior to now positioning myself to generate love, not from the virtual detraction as in my past relationships with virtual women but those involved in my life as people and friends.

In my thought process I view the act of making love as fueled with passion not angst. My fantasies are ever evolving. I channel images of women I desire driven by my conscience not so much articulated through pornography and sexual vixens. I am encouraging thoughts on love.

I commit to family and friendship. I desire women. It's understood as an existence not a neurosis. I am able to conduct myself on human terms not drawn to animalistic behavior.

My hopes now are that with the conditioning of my love of God and commitment to serving him, I will continue to have a deeper meaning and understanding of love, whether it's expressed in a romantic relationship, in the setting of family, society at large or by delving into my conscience and finding my worth as a follower and servant of God.

Art Girls in Cafes want more than just Coffee

The girl was feather weight - intoxicated fly that afternoon we met at Zidos
Sure had it coming, wouldn’t let up but the walls were burning with gossip
Musculars and seventeens painting their lips from the stain of coffee cups
Perpetual interrogation, no I was not god, I only wrote for an art magazine
Please get off my rocks I will not serve you here or any place next to Siam

She took out a cell phone expecting my phone number, information please
Girl wanted it right there, some unexpected copulation in her dirty white jeans
I’m good for small talk, can get the words out without all that braggadocio
So why in hell did I get the willies – this girl somehow pinning me to the counter
Letting me in on her itinerary, whacked out Dorothy Parker high on caffeine

Went over to her studio in Chelsea, an abandoned building where artists camped
You would’ve thought it was a film by Terry Gilliam, each room was a hell hole
But then again there were geniuses here, call it Andy Warhol’s warehouse
Old men sitting in shades messing with the point and shoot, winking at you
Dizzy girls holding the proverbial wine in a plastic cup, walking in and out

In a sense this was heaven for artists, a place where wannabes had died and gone
Come to be with the sons and daughters of makeup artists and obstetricians
I entered the war zone from the dark streets, made my way through a crowd
I found her crouched like a pet dog, almost as if she was feeding from a bowl
The paintings before me had potential but she was such a pest like rotting candy

There were guests in the room; of course she had to have made offers to others
If she was supposed to get her due, she must have kanoodled more than me
Isn’t that what they do, get high hopes from executives they give head to
The more I stayed the more I felt I was at a bad orgy where people stood still
Without any charisma, thinking they were actually made of something special

A slim, tall and tender long haired girl popped in have a look see, she was an artist
Dragged me into her studio, the lights were brighter here, girls were friendlier
Almost appeared I had walked into the Playboy mansion, hotness everywhere
The girl was Southern; she had that down home hospitality all about the place
Offered me blue cheese, red wine and grapes, falling on a sofa, legs crossed

Across from me, I found what I had come to see, a girl who had no pomposity
Was friendly not because she wanted something, if I had it to give I would
I liked watching her, the way she took her time to talk, made use of her hands
It wasn’t going to be a one off; I could have found that in the laughing girls
In the company of this girl we were back at the café ordering Frappuccino’s

Among the Middle Class, a French Couple waits for their Dime Bag

Orange Jamaican dude grizzly charm came calling often at night
House of a French couple we passed time playing miniature hoops
Resident artist, thing that became him most was the way he goofed
Guerilla boy stretched canvases inside his apartment on Murray Hill
There we were last of the Heaven cool, café kids kvetching like insects
Macho mayhem giving weight to defense, the origin of Abdul-Jabbar
How he slid and slashed gave a facial to any member of the middle class
Self-made, ego a go-go, passed out business cards to wallet heads
All because he had it in him, small time Confucius waiting on customers
In the company of Blondie and Francois laughter was heart medicine
Money passed through their living room and on walls with paintings
Most evenings we philosophized about art, me and the Graffiti Tag Thief
His collage work was his claim to fame, drank vodka martinis by rule
The Jamaican would knock three times on the door, they let him in
Do the dirty deed; a dime bag was the usual no questions asked
He waited a while; perhaps it was courtesy, home unlike any other
The street sensibility, smell of musk, rasta bound atop his ponytail
Thin as a limb, rocking that Rolling Stones tongue, red yellow tee shirt
He was America, Jamerican, black skin, wolf eyes, scar on his cheek
If silence could kill, under the light above he was razor sharp knife

Parasitic Panhandler of Drugs

Some call it hedonism, breaking jaw or inserting knife
If my five hundred wives before me how would I be potent
Cash in the savages; they are torn by awesome weather
Calf crunch, bite skin, leave taste of blood on tongue
Warm to the touch, engines running, gasoline burning
In the hours of god I assume all attention on me
Numbered as one, rain water boils under my feet
All hail the nincompoop, high on dementia ovens
Paint these walls with semen, leave a devil doll
He walks possessed, parasitic panhandler of drugs
Dot the dirty eye; we are evil thieves crash landing
On uneven streets marching with suicide potential
No bed fetching stranger, sleep whore monger is safe
Call it parricide, hemmed at skirt, a mother weeping
Dreaming days dog gone away, strange demonology
Carpenter fingers house my ego on your upper shelf
Cradle bottom of desire, mattress bending this bodice
Woman machine beat music into me, rock the pony
Heave hatred at my hoof, I deserve dismemberment
Drink up this night’s policing, handcuffed, tormented
Work the taser, I am becoming notorious, thug threat
Teach your sons not to beg, there are hoodlums here
Waiting for a chance, a chance for wild initiations

Illustrator of Words

Over backwards in time, an even mind where color assumes shape
A child finger painting, possessed activity emanating from dreams
Drama, friction leads to mother, begotten by father, made eccentric
Complications amount, therefore presumable as a gift from heavens
If not understood, consummated during sessions and hellish seasons
Who are the people positioned on the art wall – what religion is this
Orgy of politics on which they stand; most profound disciplinary action
Academia is not our savior; those fortunate speak with that eloquence
On Parisian verandas overlooking a city landscape – respirer, expirez
Language, an orifice needs penetrating, pleasure yourself Picassos
Dangling participles - opposite sex is everything that means everything
Come find rooms within that leisure where you contemplate your future
Shout out Hosanna, she sits on a chair, she becomes the chair, paint her
Denominations, apprentices and muses, visions under which we become
Curators, know – it – all’s, high acumen gathering information for fun
Some say we are doomed, how can a person high on whimsy succeed
Much a child who pretends, designating ourselves uncanny, creative
Laughing at the loony bin, kindergarten critters running around in circles
Ever witnessed chefs gathered dressed in white on a chain smoking binge
That is photography, birds on a wire, crime scene, couple at a train station
If ever filmmakers were god, assigned each a nation, capitalists will recede
Art activists, cultural workers, we turn our attention to the color wheel
As the earth spins, dance, not everyone wants to be illustrator of words

Of an aging Rock and Roller, Women tell tales by the Sea

Night washing – seaweed woven into locks of women by the beach
Come to cleanse red capes left behind, a life once was glamorous
On stage he brought under control thousands there to see him croon
Show them sweet persuasion King Pleasure, oh you groomed chanteur
With a jerk of your hips, thrust your pelvis into the oncoming smoke

Fiery wind, this is California where girls come to die, awaken soldier
Musical marine, lead your band members across the imaginary sea
While background singers harmonize, watch them sway back and forth
This rhythm, this decadence mothers warned us about, now explode
Canonize, call upon false prophets, gypsies fall at your feet, lurching

Stars were all aligned this evening, these groupies washed shirt to shirt
Soapsuds undressed dirt from cotton of clothes, rhinestone and leather
Lonesome women came to remember him, not long ago he did damage
For all that he was, began resurfacing their conscience, memory sensational
Beds full of dirty virgins, wormed their way across carpets, wall to wall

The pageantry had begun, who was this messiah, lover how you dared
Touched flesh, smelling, a kind best described as milk, newest unborn
Channeled them through rapture; made love with your voice as you sang
Drank up Manchester, blood in fights you have fought, men you courted
Brought them home as thieves, held the night hostage, broke into homes

That was your youth, raven hair, tattoo skull, smashed guitars, set them afire
As the ocean meets the shore, the girls rinse water from clothes, hum along
Rush of waves crash against rocks, against the years, knew him untouchable
Where do the aged ones go when masters of ceremony call for the show
Laugh lines claim faces that were supple, now plastic, surgery pending

He walks gardens a little slower, unrecognizable in darkened shades
Come grizzly, strum the acoustic, sing a song from your previous life
Make children follow you barefoot in the sand, live long into infinity
Claim authority for all rockers come before you, it is only a beginning
There will be love; there will be love when they all ask for an encore

Concerto for Last Days on Earth

The city was underwater - if it were alcohol, policemen and firemen would be off-duty
Was it whiskey that made you thirst, drug dealers out on bail unhinging bones from sockets

Breathe into me, breath of Cicero; call up a bartender’s decadent beauty at happy hour
Millennial masquerade - I have come to claim my right, this is the future, order to disorder

Unearth the vampires from your bosom, caked bats flinging from your nipples – is this desire
Do you cork the medicine bottle to keep me from suicide, insert image of a cello player in heat

Water pours, indeed it does, where it reaches a crescendo, I will find the ocean at war
Salute, fire once to approach, aim to kill; these ships have known many battles, adrift at sea

Sell me a concoction, a deadly dose of disillusionment – with your Irish accent let it be known
Wise whores street - selling their wares, half - hearted breasts, caramel – colored skin

We have come to cause a commotion, we have come to ridicule – this is the door to the basement
Husbands and wives do damage here- on water beds they prepare themselves for harassment

Message from sergeant to doctor – I’ve taken enough bullets, this is where I beg for forgiveness
Spread me evenly on a mattress, lay a hand on my forehead – he hears the voice of an operatic diva

Somewhere, a nightmare far away and near, night songs are written by apoplectic composers
Mob men hide explosives in walls of tenement housing soon to explode – will film credits roll

Will the junks embark on a threat or treat, sharpened incisors, bite the luncheon meat; draw blood
The color blood, paper white, stretched canvas for art’s sake, painting portraits of Richelieu

God-king, for all that I am, where do I bury my personas, now that I’m emerging, less psychological
Anthropological, I raise you a skeleton for flesh, cheers to that, perhaps a shot of camphor and codeine

Excess is all; fat bottomed shoes, disco dresses, whereas the nurses bring them in as they overdose
Clit to skin; cut cutting, severing ties with family, at day’s end they gather on bridges to march

Occupation, hurler of bricks, fire starter, bomb throwing truant, scattering when the sirens wail
Is this not the end, rather a beginning, a condition, an affliction which requires necessary attention

It is your homogeny; I come from a field of storms, hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, sand dunes
Any river junction will welcome you, standing tall in your soldier suit, army green, no weapons needed

Go where the boys go, I have adoration for cabaret girls, star-lit, awe struck, counting pennies
At Broadway’s end, they peel off their clothes, walk barefoot onto stage and rehearse monologues

Time has come, indeed a time to form closure, operate on ourselves in the hot hours of our homes
In surgical masks we raise wine glasses, read from manuals - how to apply pressure to broken hearts

Bells will sound for emergency; EMT’s stand defibrillators in hand, preparing for conclusion to a scene
Two lovers climaxing – is it their bodies they’ll bring to ward, must they resuscitate them for tomorrow

Scandinavian Blue Blonde

Oh who are you Scandinavian blue blonde sitting among pajama parties?
Under this circled sun alone in dark glasses mid riff top belly button piercing
Eyes abound all that I see is it Nico in purple dress smashing a tambourine

Shadows at night cigarette lighter flickers he reads a poem by Robert Lowell
Raging darkness people do pass under subway leaving behind their histories
Lessons learned they were told we come from Melville beneath the ocean

Cities left undiscovered share among us your bones and fossils palm reader
Redeem me from this future I cannot afford - I refuse to be anthropological
Oh rescuer of lost poets Munch goddess how you saw into my vocabulary

I dream classical Mona Lisa before my eyes is Romeo’s blue blonde Juliet
Much the same a dream rock and roll each time she sits alone Norwegian
Eyes abound all that I see is it super model Rosie Vela - her music machine

Oh who are you Czechoslovakian teenager imitating Jim Morrison groupie?
Through my eye camera lens I am voyeur – you brush your hair with fingers
Turn your cheek three fourths in profile summon the photographer’s flash

One day when students gathered at leisure I found myself in her company
I had been watching her in wonder not knowing the sound of her voice
She spoke ever softly confessing she was just a typical girl from Brooklyn

That accent ever should reveal what had eluded me all this time I marveled
Fell into conversation within this ceremony of strangers and familiar birds
Circling as if choreographed with whimsy - exceptional natural expectation

Cultural Disease/White Paranoia
Ethnicity and the Will to Love

Who is the black male? What is his role in society? How far have we come from slavery to the point where he establishes himself as modernist, conscious and an intellectual? Are we driven by a prison system which furthers his plight as criminal? What role does the police play in conquering any notion he has of himself as human? Are race and gender issues therefore applicable in certifying how we relate to each other within communities both black and white, lesbian and gay?

How are we defined by ethnicity --- ?

In the East Village of New York City in the late 70's urban life was a mish mash of locals who had relocated from other places in the Midwest of the United States or other countries and set up camp for what was a combination of low life and artists. Among them were the Latinos and Blacks who later spearheaded a drug and crime culture.

Could it be then said that this was a neighborhood governed by ethnicity? What was an identification of a racial group were places like Harlem or the Bronx where mostly a diverse group of Blacks and Latinos lived. Places like Washington Heights which has been inhabited by Dominicans over the years.

I am not privy to the idea of Russians, Italians or Polish living in Brighton Beach and Bensonhurst in Brooklyn where most of these ethnic groups are centered. Certainly Queens, New York has the most diverse group of ethnicity anywhere in New York, especially known for it's Greek culture.

I ponder the thought of ethnicity in my life. I was born and raised Ghanaian in the city of Accra. My father is Fante and my mother is Ga. I identified mostly with my mother since my father traveled for work and had been living in the United States. Culturally I was raised by maids from the villages and got my education at the Royal Preparatory. I also lived on my grandmother's compound where I went through growing pains getting scorned by my elders.

The notion of being African always had a tint of foreignness to it. My particular maid often spoke about Bollywood movies she had scene as well as American movies imported into the country. My aunt also was a go-go dancer in Sweden and she brought home ABBA records. I do recall our white American neighbor at the Airport Flats as well as a Dutch girl at school.

The sentiment of being African was encouraged by the food I ate and the language of Ga which I spoke. There was the entity of living in Ghana having my relatives, uncles, aunts and cousins all living with me. But all of this was taken away when I moved to New York. At the age of ten I hadn't developed a full identity. I was a pre teen with a sense of faith and courage but I was heading into an unknown situation which I welcomed with excitement.

But once I was situated I quickly became aware of cultural differences. I sensed that I was different from my classmates. There were very few blacks. And those I was introduced to did very little to recognize me as a friend. The ones who showed respect were whites and Latinos. And thusly there has always been this divergence between who I was as a black boy in America and who my friends were.

At that young age I grew accustomed to the media and pop culture. I quickly became aware of television programming, cartoons and eventually cable pornography. I reacted to the perceptions of white characters in television shows. As much as I enjoyed black comedies, I grew to hate the maid we had brought along to New York. Her presence as an uneducated black woman with bad skin and an afro disturbed me. There was a particular television show called Different Strokes about a white father who had adopted two black children. This show was one of the many I watched as a young boy.

Increasingly the societal white disease became more pragmatic in me where I would close my eyes when the two black characters appeared on the television screen. I had no idea why this was. I hadn't and couldn't draw a conclusion for myself. At the same time I was having issues with eating. I had a Latin classmate and neighborhood friend who was obese. Circumstantially my parents thought I was afraid I would turn out like him. But I think it was deeper than that. It was a combination of the cultural disease I was experiencing.

My parents sent me and my three younger brothers to an all boys parochial high-school. I was quick to make friends with some Black Americans but I identified more with the white classmates who listened to the same music I did and watched the same movies. With the commercialization and birth of rap and hip hop culture I was able to gain an advantage. I became aware of popular hip hop acts and I experienced this culture not through people, friends or classmates but through the media, television shows, magazines and the radio.

And so my development and relationship to the status quo that was black nation and politics was through a social and cultural experiment. In retrospect I identified myself as black based on my role as a child of two African parents and experiencing hip hop culture in all its relevance. But at the same time there was a resistance, not forcefully but through maturity.

I started studying at the School of Visual Arts. While there I was introduced to semiotics and French literature. I studied texts by several French philosophers. My love for language grew strong. Roland Barthes' book Image, Music, Text was like a bible. And so I had grown distant to black philosophy. What was slavery texts and books by black authors was foreign to me. The suggestion of being an artist also brought about European ideologies central to the artists we studied.

At another college, Hunter College, I was introduced to the philosophy of Negritude, which made available several novels I read by African authors. At this point I was undergoing a circumstance of finding my African identity. I began reading Kwame Nkrumah's biography. And when my youngest brother committed suicide I changed my Christian name of Arnold to my birth name of Kofi. I began exploring my talent of poetry, recalling memories from Ghana and writing about them. At this time I wrote my unpublished novel, Gorilla Head, about an African who lives in New York, undergoes a cultural transition and eventually gets one lucky chance to visit his homeland.

All the while I was making transitions through my personal life. All of whom I identified with were white American or European. It wasn't until I laid eyes on a Ghanaian girl while studying at Visual Arts did I question my love for white girls. It took us ten years to start our romance but it was well worth it. She was my only black lover and to this date I recall our brief four months together as she died of an aneurysm. Otherwise my love affairs have always been with Europeans and white Americans.

There were moments when I would see an African girl and I would recollect moments when I was studying at the Royal Preparatory. I was surrounded by some beautiful Ghanaian girls or my particular neighbor at the Airport Flats who had an attraction for me. Throughout my experience in New York I was consistent in my thinking and influences from art and philosophy and music. My friends were white and my influences were white.

I had met with a priest and gotten advise in finding living space. I had suffered a great depression times before and was in therapy. He suggested I could use this as an advantage to find housing. This became a circumstance that changed my life forever. I spent ten years living in transitional housing with uneducated, street types. This was a life lesson as I saw a side of New York I had not imagined. My middle class lifestyle was turned upside down. I was consistently faced with dangerous situations. But I was building a reputation. I was gaining credibility.

I have found my own living space in a black neighborhood. When I did I was inspired to do another social and cultural experiment on myself. I started writing poems in the black voice. It was perhaps cliché as I wrote in the jive Black American language, at times street, at times inspired by the blues. This sentiment also brought me back home to my family where I made amends with my younger brother. Our relationship, his along with my parents, inspires the very little recognition I have to ethnicity left in my life.

I eat the African cuisine and I speak the language of Ga. I also serve as a link to friends of my parents and other family members.

My current status is a reflection on ideas that pertain to art and philosophy, creativity and spirituality. The cult of my being and person is that of a person who has lived an extreme life. My roots are consistent with my strength in self identity and repairing the wounded soul. Granted there has been help along the way from psychologists, psychiatrists, priests and family members.

I don't answer to a particular ethnicity. My life identity is philosophical. As a black man my roots are African. I identify with Black Americans, Latinos and others of an indigenous background. But given the circumstances of my life I am compelled to live it through my creative visions.

Once I accept the freedom to be myself and not feel compelled to socio-politicize my life, I will be able to find a balance of love which overwhelms everything and everyone.

At heart and in my mind I am black. But I come from the notion of love. I am a creative being.

That is the message. The will to love.

The Mother/Son Fascination
From Disowning the Self to Self-Proclamation

There is a grave process society propels in undermining the emotional and mental growth of people. The most informal way occurs through pop culture as not every one is initiated in universities and colleges. The idea of schooling is a notion governed by loans and is not merely inspired by the will to learn. That element has much more to do with upbringing within the familial construct of mother, father or the rearing of the child through what one would call a "village."

Living in the city of Accra, country of Ghana where I was born and raised, both my parents were professionals. I went through the traditional process of studying at grade schools and eventually the Royal Preparatory School which was more or less like an academy. We studied under the tutelage of teachers who wore white shirts with ties and tailored slacks along with polished dress shoes. Our uniforms were orange shirts and khaki shorts for the boys and red starched cotton dresses for the girls. We were often met by a headmaster at assembly each morning. Those who came in late were whipped with a cane. This very brutal act was common among the teachers in various classes of study.

I wasn't enamored by a varying culture separate from my notion of home, maids who took care of me, neighbors at our established flat, extended family and relatives, life as a student at the Royal Preparatory, whereby we were picked up after school, my cousins and I, by a bus called Neoplan which had a rather psychedelic design, multicolored, modern, almost futuristic in its display. This gave us a certain advantage above everybody else, classmates who came to class barefoot, exchanged afro combs, misbehaved in class, illustrating images of (soccer) football players in a game of football, our intramural games on the compound and the particular girls I fantasized about, two tall African girls I remember so well and a fair skinned girl named Cecilia.

It was at a time when I was too young and certainly too shy to have approached these girls. Alternatively I lived on my grandmother's compound with my male and female cousins and my uncles. Any notion of sexuality I had was instigated by a neighbor at the flats who had a thing for me and acted promiscuously when she saw me, removing her underwear at one point when my mother and I came passing by. I spent several months living on my grandmother's compound before me, my brothers and mother were to leave for New York. So my cousins were able to have an influence on me. We slept in the same room and the same sheets. There were often moments of sexual arousal as we lay together and groped. These activities were accentuated when they would bring me into my grandmother's closet and spread their wombs for me to look at. It was here then I noticed that pungent particualr smell of the uterus.

This means of symbiosis was also accentuated by the relationship I had with my mother. I accompanied her every where. She introduced me to organized religion by bringing me to church and she often drove me to the market and to school. In retrospect I feel my mother possessed me. It's a circumstance where two innately attractive people have foresight and intelligence, their beauty is a sign of strength and power. I feel my mother and me have a similar conscientious view of life made up of darkness and light. This very combination overwhelms our disposition to the point of amazing creativity.

Having moved to New York and living here in the late seventies as a young boy, the dynamics of the female object circumstantially in my life had to do with my mother as a psuedo-housewife and professional, an uneducated maid we brought along and the first caucasian female I had feelings for. My mother impeded my growth emotionally with girls because I honored her, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever known and I was her first born child. We shared a conscience of love, beauty and death, a philosophical determination which would be explored later in her nocturnal dreams and my propensity for French literatuire and entry into a dark depression. I had a talent for drawing nude figures inspired by my father's adult magazines. The maid interfered with my behavior and kept me from enjoying this fantasy. It was also the advent of cable pornography and mother on several occasions promptly kept me from watching these late night televison programs.

At this point I had lost the emotional and intellectual compatability with the black female. I had left Ghana and here in New York City my conscience was manifesting through a web of sexual images with white females and my female classmates in school were white. It made me grossly dislike the maid. I found her to be dispicable, her uneven dark skin, bushy afro and musculature. It was all because society had subconsciously influenced me to dislike the black female and choose the white female.

I went on to sudy at an all boys parochial high-school where I once met a black girl at a dance. What started off as casual flirting on the telephone and would lead to dating all came to an end when I once saw her after school and I didn't know how to react. I casually walked her by in confusion not knowing was it because she was black or was it my awkwardness with girls. There was another circumstance when I was with a black girl in a group alongside a friend and his girlfriend at her house. The black girl and I were alone but soon afterwards I became uncomfortable, once again not knowing if this behavior was because she was black or if I didn't know how to play the game with girls.

I lost my virginity during college to an Italian girl from Milano. It began a continuous cycle where I befriended or had affiars with caucasian girls. It was steeped in my conscience and love for music, art, drama, television and pop culture in general. My friends were all caucasian. The only notion I had of my black self was through my family. Three circumstances that changed me were meeting a Kenyan girl whose beauty floored me, falling in love with a Ghanaian girl and befriending a Ghanaian artist.

Othere than that the complex of being different from Black Americans was always apparent. I lived in transitional housing among other blacks for ten years. It was a neccesary intevention. I have also recently done a social experiment on my myself, writing poetry with an internal black voice. There always is the dichotomy of being able to write from a black perspective but lacking the ability to perform the work with a black conscience. This has always been my complex of being an eduacted black African having spent time living among uneducated blacks.

Living in a black neighborhood I have grown to encourage a black conscience along with my philosophical thought. I have a black friend and another indigenous female acquaintance. I am able to shield myself from the influx of a caucasian influence in my psychology and intellect. Although I am not a militant black person I have found a balance between living a life as an African and as a profound thinker of multiple philosophical languages in the virtual sense and as a prolific speaker of the Ga, African language, making me well-rounded and not broken as a black person but matured with integrity.

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On her Left Breast was Tattoo

On her left breast was tattoo under green leafed trees she parted her blouse
Garden of this French cafe on Lexington Avenue I had brought some girls
Looking through glass window onto streets their backs facing I saw delight
Well to do mongers menu in hand as I greeted waitresses with a ca va ca va
Brooklyn girls rule I breathe them - who am I Johnny Cash made me king
Oh how my eyes followed her around the roundabout wherever she came

Was a glorious afternoon when we dismembered our chatter to friendship
What had I found among these pigeons – beggars banquet love supreme
A forest ceremony lay central could it be Botticelli kept goddesses here

White skinned pink moisture an air of jubilee any rocker would beg for
In this stature I made it known no nonsense – should I ever be perverted
Win her away from the wretched blond coiffeured punks chain smoking
Chokers on their necks black boots black lipstick black dye leather pants
She had been alone then but soon taken away by waves of golden gossip

Pop popular – tall and stark making gestures with her body – oh sexing
Electric muse waiting on cafeteria boys who did everything not touching
With words hot mouths breaking wind shooting the sure shit hipsters do
Puss in my vein watching like clockwork at all hours I made interventions

I walked her down Park Avenue walk ways in her futuristic trench coat
Brigitte Bardot from Bensonhurst stick figure chalk marked pastel doll
Breathtaking view on steps of Metropolitan Museum this art kingdom

Call me the African Godard – call me the African Truffaut – oh shout
Let these fortuned figures wearing Calvin Kleins hail me as Koslowskie
So then for all girls who wiped me off their tongues I chose her as model
Never once did a woman sit before me while I took turn with tight fingers

Oh this particular act – oh this sweet surrender beats any Brooklyn orgy

On her left breast was tattoo dark skies looming light fell on her breast
Half parted supple gothic - what memories I have of the bra she wore
Could she possibly have tormented me again – not in that French café
Music so swell sugar sweet cappuccino I brought these lavender girls
What was seduction dreamt up in circles I painted portraits on paper

Once were Guapita, Queen of Sheeba


Once were guapita, heralded Spanish Lolita,

In your state of undress you channeled El Negro

Those hot afternoons wondering what to do

Lie on an unmade bed, make like a temptress

Elizabeth Taylor as the Queen of Sheeba

Your eyes were foxes’ burning with desire

Blue bikini, fantasy for sailors out at sea

What men, fists of stone, come knocking

Father figure, blood brotherhood, El Tio

A guapito calling far from San Nicolas

His breath, wheat bread in brown paper bag

Warm coffee in the rain, smoking cigarette

Did you ever make love without touching

Not each other but the hot body weather

Blew wind into his ear, called him Papito

Ghosts of mamitas and senoritas from history

Past lovers, past lives, glowing in a moment

If not by candle light, bright night glistening

Smoke rising from these streets, your mouth

Unlike that of chicas on Bronx bound No. 2

Dry skin, their Papa Gatos standing cocksure

Your face, classical music, Hollywood allure

Bettie Page, Betty Boop, dancing the hula hoop

Wet tongue shouting out, Mija, come to mama

On the same bed, you curl with beauty sleeping

                   I was brought up on Queen’s English
                           Damn if I Sound Like Gorilla           

I was brought up on Queen’s English damn if I sound like gorilla

Black jive I was cursed ‘cause I couldn’t hang with Black American jive

Copped a British accent when I was outed as a European Afro Negro
Chump change chimpanzee mocking “the” language Elizabeth built

I had never heard of Shakespeare. Under what circumstance did I hold court?

Escape artist. Black Houdini. Turning over metaphors. Flowers in Autumn

Poem I wrote about Falklands War jocks with paper in hand read out loud

Words I had written for them it was music Chaupin from an African muse

Glory be the Puerto Rican Latina graceful dark haired mamita waist high

Mustachioed breasts bulging from Catholic uniform back facing beauty

Mother Mary silhouette counting Rosary beads weary of bloody knives

Cutting into meat Kitchen Contessa - Oh dear brother neighborhood gangs
Waging war baseball bats in hand collapsing on basketball courts dieing   

In stairwells they gathered flashed blades compared fists took charge

The girls how they ogled - The girls how they popped pink bubble gum

Hid in corners talking sweet – Giggled to themselves the boys they’d meet

Young Guapitos gigolos at the age of fourteen called upon themselves

To service housewives nookie in the afternoon inside housing projects

Girl Gang Three - Spanglo American chicas Italian American princess

Dominatrix of the courtyard where virgins skipped rope played dodge ball
Who were they then these sluts pinching asses gossiped during classes
Followed me home one day scattered along the streets enraged laughing

Oh darling molested – was it mother who raped your mind from sexuality

Did Daddy Darling protect you warn you watching cable television porn

On that veranda I stuck an Ever Ready battery in Regina’s underwear

Playing house in that moment I was doctor delivering baby battery baby
Ever was a moment I did recall why I became this – this animal it was that

Delusion – Oh bother me with your life drug polluted air planes leaving

From the backyard I watched never knowing I would sit among mayhem
White girl – Destroyer – I play philosophy for pussy – watch me work

An afterglow black boy surrounded by white flesh blonde hair blue eyes

Smell of skin purer than yolk – scented sweat possessing my every breath

Who was I to these ghetto Pre Raphaelites – oh black brother with no sister
Black girls in their hip hugging jeans mocked you dared call you strange
Poor puppet of God what face do you show them now – art intellectual

Come of age among crack whores prostitutes – the future is what you saw

World where drug addicts home-made gangstas become friend and foe

For it was Park Avenue doctors Las Vegas psychiatrists Harlem nurses

When the sky opened earth collapsed –

For it was Teachers at the art schools English Professors literary bimbos

When mother was my little purple pill –

Black Botticelli girls from villages afar came to town called you prince
On overturned sunny pavements bathed you before grandmother figure
With middleweight fingers it was love – Lux soap seeped skin it was love
Here boroughs become cities - these ebony girls throw pity on my shadow
A world within where nuance is a white girl reading Barthes on the subway
What becomes of a black philosopher – I rule with words! I paint with words!     
Need I kill my ghost shed blood prove my heritage – I come from Kings!

Neurotic – this perverted thinker seduced by pale faced Eastern Europeans

Androgyny – white boys come calling suave in their wife beaters and shorts
Accompany dear sons daughters of Klimt Kokoschka I am not wanted here
Greenpoint where the Polish girls serve coffee wait their turn at Chelsea bars
Art stars on Van Gogh evening she glared at the sight – what sorrow are you
It was me that terrible tear – she knew that dark light recognizable as love
Brought down from a tower golden blossom an axe taken to trees in autumn

As the gorillas go so do I – walk the miles from Brooklyn to the Bronx Zoo

Behind cages we watch worlds go by – fortunate balloons that reach the sky
White men in white suits inject us with serum – listening as we enunciate
Speaking the white man’s English – that street vernacular becomes me now
My inner walls have housed many brawls opened themselves for inspection
If I did murder language of Elizabeth throw me back among wolves of night
Along some dark streets a word is never spoken it is the mind that wounds