Oldies

 

I know that its been a lil while...but i just got a full-time job. (thanks God.) I love the people that I work with. I love the driving and interacting with people. I have a lot in my head to expound on but so lil time as of now..but I was in the mood to post some of my oldies during my oxford days--so here it goes.....

my southern (un)comfort

walkin' along lush trees lynch GREEN-- while listening to al Green..
wonderin' how time slips away in the New Orleans nights while
Andrew Jackson battles against Katrina and government racism by FEMA
and every New Deal that deals us out like playin' cards at the Bush Binion,
winnin' like Gold and Moneymaker--cashin in like King Cotton:

Ride on King Cotton---No man can not hinder thee..
Ride on King Cotton ride on no man can not hinder thee...
No man can not hinder thee....
No man can not hinder thee...
No man..

Not even JFK, RFK, KFC, FBI, CSI, BBC, NBC, MTV, BET--
blind belligerent bastards of capitalism--but I---

I see you--- conflicted son-of-a bitch...
confused and fatherless postbellum,
miscegenated with the bloods of lost poets and singers and killers and
bastardized heroes tainted by the stars and bars and claws
of raven-black jim crow furthermore...

I see you my child... walkin' along the country fields and city lights in
starless midnights of an ominous peace and a serene dead debauchery that
time and southern comfort can't comfort:
WOUNDS that years months and seconds can't stitch--
TEARS...rivers can't meander to the delta of forgetfulness...
BODIES confederates can't raise--unionites can't burn--and americans can't ignore with their i-pods...
SOULS that tradition can't appease or destroy with its money or alphabet....

on this lonely southern night, i walk on the roads of a forgotten conscious and see the new plots for our immortal grove of amnesia: our Beloved Dead--our new covered masses: they may as well be the phantoms that they've feared their whole lives. let us honor our Beloved Living Southern Gentlemen and Women....
for my South--
our South--
this new South--
will Never Rise at all..

living history dies in monuments....

...........................

angry black man

wallkin' in the rain...
this nappy afrogeriperm with twists phantoms the sidewalks..
slicing out your minds and not your wrists 'cuz that's the easy way out to the back and not to the front of the widening road of destructing uncle jemina and aunt ben in the fields of corporate american metropolis....

boss, i's be fuckin' this bullshit status quo
my ful bright eyes can see the world clearer
than any ozark smokin' that bark or maybe those that only inhaled--
cheated themselves of separating from the mainstream of compassionate conservative warhawks who dip themselves in the gourd of
foreign blood and gold water--who claim themselves as the mighty Right..

and
I use my Right to cleanse myself
daily from such propagandic build-up...
collecting my daily deaths under my
friendly fiery strokes of consciousness--
my consciousness --letting
me know that I am one of protoclay models of complicated
motherfuckers who drink from the Mississippi like a dog--
carrying my trumpet wielding a blue in bitches brew that is
hopefully more than any white Bulldog, Rebel, and Trojan can chew...