chipping off the old block (a father's day reflection)

chip 1.

my heart is senseless
it makes as much sense
as driving 5 hours
on father's day
for a 15 minute visit
to gaze into the eyes
of the man whose seed
became my becoming
only to recognize
how little we know about each other
how cliche' conversations have become:
"how's basketball?
you liftin?
which boy is it now?"
i want to get beneath the surface
of words
reveal the sincerity of our silence
for what we are perhaps both
afraid to admit:
I may be more like him
than i'd like to be.

just hours later
i do not remember
the soft of his hug
for all the ways he raised us tough
his kisses came closest
to resolving the neglect.
among the sweetest memories
of my boyhood
was having people see "rev." and "coach"
kiss the same lil boy
he said tackled either
"like a sissy" or "too mean"
I could never find the in-between
i still do not know when and where
his molding began
or when it will end.

chip 2.

i had hoped pops
would relish my trip
as brave
me sacrificing time sandwiched between
work and work
just so he can be reminded
I've still got the chisel of his mask.
I had hoped pops
would understand
my drive
as flowing from the same well of passion
that has made him fall to fast
scratch dirt in the knee-scrapes
trying to clean them off
and perhaps
my thick muscularity and baritone
are evidence enough
that I'm still a tough cookie
if often and ironically
an unhappy gay

I'd hoped he would think more
of the sentiment i wrote in the card
than the modest monetary token
he ripped the envelope to claim
but he left the card and broken envelope
in the back seat
money gone
the clash of hallmark cliche'
with poetry I wrote
as insecurely as
the wear and tear of our
guydance

chip 3.

i wanted to leave something behind
but he left it carelessly discarded
so I have taken it back with me
like the image of him
across from me at McDonalds
post 60 salt and pepper masculinity,
still cocky and fearless
like I'm sometimes not sure
I will get to live to be:
confident in spite of emo-clutter
left behind
and people trying to forgive
a lovingly foolish heart

like the nervous drive
i will blame on transmission issues
hands shaking in route
I still went to meet the man
insecure that i am enough,
some approximation
of whatever will make him proud
so I am not certain that i will ever
live down the ways
I'm second born
root rusted and cornfed like him
hands not as hardened
though thick with the wrestle
of heartquakes
and heavy breaths

chip 4.

i shared with him
evidence of the ways my heart has become
clumsy, like his has been known to be
and he smiled
teeth not as bright as his aura:
"YOU A WEST
a chip off the old block"
I'm not sure I found it funny
but I suppose
he is right

because i will continue
to drive hours
for the possibility of 15 minutes of love
will continue to fall as hard
as dominos are slapped
on cardboard tables
i'll continue to seek
the man i am becoming
till i can look in the mirror,
like I look at my father
and say with full resolve
"you did ahhite!"

Foolish Heart

For being the source of HIS, my tears will find no resolve in the sheets that catch them, only through him, who from the day I met him, has been my most beloved; my most perfect friend.

Shakespeare's Othello, before he took the blade to his heart did say:
"you must speak of one who loved not wisely, but too well"

if I have never understood this quote I have taught for years, I do now. There is a song for this feeling... My heart will archive a compilation for this fall. When my cherished one finds the heart to come to my aid, forgive the errors of my heart's ways, I may be given permission, only then, to forgive my foolish heart. Others will have to forgive the quiet, the blank stare, the prospect that I may beg pain's permission (again) to write poems. My pen fails me as my heart has. And perhaps there is reason for it all... Maybe someday it'll all make sense.
______________________

Foolish Heart First appeared on Street Talk
(Columbia Records 39334)
1984 Street Talk Tunes, April Music Inc & Random Notes)
(Steve Perry, Randy Goodrum)

I need a love that grows
I don't want it unless I know
With each passing hour
Someone somehow
Will be there
Ready to share

I need a love that's strong
I'm so tired of being alone
But will my lonely heart
Play the part
Of the fool again
Before I begin

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore

Feelin' that feelin' again
I'm playin' a game I can't win
Love's knockin' on the door
Of my heart once more
Think I'll let her in
Before I begin

Foolish Heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

(keyboard solo)

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Oh foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

Foolish, foolish heart
Foolish heart

Brave Soul Collective

"Brothas Gonna Work it Out, Brothas gonna work it out". The time and circumstances call for courage when, as my Brave Soul compadre Erik Chambers says, "silence is more toxic than the virus itself".  

check out the Brave Soul Collective:

www.washblade.com/2006/5-26/locallife/feature/group.cfm

www.bravesoulcollective.org

coming to Brave Souls near you!

20001

this soil that always drawls me
back
i prepare to leave (again)
having found
its Southern charm
forgiven its ostentatious pretense
longed for more of its lure and magic
this second time around

i leave wondering
why I always wander back
down alphabet streets
across checkerboard blocks
where yuppies and niggaz
ignore the shortening distance
between what it was, is
and will be: D.C.

and it be
that pit stop on the way to
my next somewhere
shifting as i stir
most beautiful
when it's not trying to be
the ruse of bling
cradled in asphalt

this place where
artists are professionals
(on the side)
and vice versa
to make ends make sense
will always be home to me
though being so close
to the powers that run the world
can run one mad or away

still I will miss
these same streets where
i first affirmed
there were others here
drawn to the possibility of finding
(people like) themselves
and it seems I have always left
this blues alley
frustrated with the ways it failed
to be a place that would hold
more than
a few bitter-sweet memoires
but some of the most cherished ones
I have
are here:
The birthday present I got at 33,
Front Porches, Fireplaces
all the dances between them
captivating the prospect
of being cherished
like I will always cherish
this place where i tried...
and learned what it meant to be
cherished

will miss its
wireless coffee shop cubicles
where i've dredged inspiration
to write wrongs
overstand the lessons they provide
erect museums with the open journals
that are my pulse and cure

and i have waited the weight of human traffic
at this vast intersection of America
where states collide at red lights
and freaks come out at night
for a taste of freedom


a taste linked to
my palate's insistence
to mambo my chicken til it drips
to be the black-clack go-go
I'm unlikely to feel
(quite the same)
anywhere else

and like these poems
trapped in my fingers
that have become songs,
my blakkboy blues
are rooted here
so i remember there are places
i have never wanted to leave
for fear of being forgotten
and there is a place
i have always preferred to leave
to return to

I'm moving to Chicago in JULY and it's all HIS Fault!!!

I'm moving to Chicago in July and it's all HIS fault!!! Seriously... I am very happy. And for those who know me, you know that distance or space between has never broken the intensity of our connectedness. Congratulate! It's what I've waited for. Please read the poem below.  

Sum Total

(for Bryan Christopher Smith)

he is
sum total of everything
I have already written
on loving
ask me how I know
and sense
the assurance of a mother
who recognizes
the scent and twinkle
of her first born
when multitudes of tots
dart their brashness
past first day of school
exit bells
run out be claimed
by air and expectancy
and find their most beloved
who claims
with the extension of arms
and with reciprocal knowingness:
that one is mine

he is my sum total
the embodiment
of brilliant possibility
and claiming that everything
that could be
is here and ready to become
this present moment:
the exchange of rings
a commitment ceremony
mappings of deferred dreams
the topography of shared tomorrows
the fulfillment of landscape,
of this home we've been building
all our lives
perhaps unknowingly
through the ware and tear
of past heart-hurt

i am his sum total
something more firm
than visionary volitions
and realizing too late
that it was never meant
for anyone
to believe in love
alone
that faith must be shared
and so when really real?
we wake with the confidence
that every plus and minus
every approximation of perfection
each exponent of faith
seeming to subtract
hopes to increase love itself,
the probability of a lifetime
have been waiting
for now

so for the first time
we do not adore this way alone
do not claim and write
and dream
we've found it
alone
do not fall too fast alone
ask me how i know?
and I'll tell you to call him
look at him
speak with him
hear the passion-tremor
of a man as bold
as any challenge or caution
that this is not real
or will not work out
has not been given time enough
look at him
see in his eyes
anything that suggests
everything he has worked for
every pain he has endured
is not the calculus
of his most lucid dream
of a lifetime with his sum total

ask him how he knows
i am good for him so soon?
he'll ask
if you get anything different
from me
beyond the symmetry of knowing
true loves will always follow their hearts
so our families and friends
will have to get over themselves
overcome their precautions and anxiety
and understand
there are dreamers
who keep dreams hostage to fear
and those who damn the dream
and do the damn thing

in this case
we found each other
so celebrate that with us
ask him how he knows
ask him if this poem
is nothing less
than my vow of faith
to be, stay, abide
with nothing less
than the sum-total
of all past belief
that I am worthy of the best things
and am finally realizing
that at the end of the day
I am one who wants to know
I was brave enough to brave the risk
again
that I will never "do me" differently

and
those who know me
simply know
go’head, ask them how they know
and they'll say
"that damn boy is at it again"
with a smile as gracious
as the one I hold
in the presence of my sum-total

First Fresh Cut in Years!

was cool being felt on and pampered. something sensual about the barber chair!



What happened to that boy?!?! 

hymn'm: remembering my first voice

the voice. after some ten years of emceein' and spoken wordin, i'm getting comfortable again with my first chords-- thick with the baritone tones rolling across deacon pews on sunday, hearty wails that reflect something beyond the words...which is why the hymn was often most profound in the hummin. dig? lately I've been doing a lot more singing. I've heard from some that my singing voice is stronger than my voice as an emcee-- certainly more distinct. some don't feel the "grit" and expect the edges of this Arkansas root-croon to conform to perfectionist edits that deemphasize the spirit. It's like if Mary always had perfect pitch, she'd be like so many other mediocre R&B singas.... and not Mary....imperfectly soulful....which is life, right?

let's be honest, there are, at this juncture in our hip hop soundscape, few people who don't sound like anyone else... but on occassion, there's something distinct. As I approach doing work for the follow up to "Songs from Red Dirt", new city (DC, not the Bay), new landscape and new inspirations, I'm drawing more upon song than boom- bap ciphers deciphering meaning (or meaninglessness).... but i digress. i've been waking lately with songs, not raps on the mind... maybe it's age. maybe the rap is something i associate with DDC and there are too few rap faggots in DC to keep that guttaral ego-thurst dome'n. I do freestyle a lot more, but the idea of writing rhymes outside of compatriots who are doing the same.... it's just been harder here in DC. I'm excited about DDC's forthcoming "On Some Other"... but I've been holding back on my own "next shit" because I'm not sure what people expect: I rap, I sing, I'm a poet. My raps will probably never be jack-jill but a bit cryptic (with a penchant for word-play and innuendo), my spoken word is probably even more (multi)layered.... but this voice?... it's the most country biscuit part of me: bone bare, thick and corn-fed like I like my men or wimmins, spiritual like catching the holy ghost channelin GOD through your own chords.

So what's next? I'm not sure. I'm travelling, performing and singing a lot still. I'm drawing upon some new inspirations: fertile ground, amy winehouse, valencia robinson... and basking in the shine of some staples: carleen anderson, omar, lewis taylor, bilal, eric roberson, and of course some classic heads: Stevie Wonder, Donnie Hathaway, Marvin Gaye, Barry White, etc...

Interestingly, recently there have been a few voices I've heard that have stopped me dead in my tracks....sang hymn'ms for me (thanks ry).... woke me up to my inner church boy (thanks christian nelson and sol edler)... and I'm thankful these men were brave enough to sing for me, have me indulge the ways I reflect in it.... soulful, strong, and free. I've gigin with KUKU tonight and feel like singing. I may feel inspired to throw a rhyme in ...who knows how the flow gone go? but whatever comes of my forthcoming project "Boondock Boombap"...it'll most certainly be all of the above. feel me. definitively.

peep: www.reddirt.biz and the calendar for a croon near you.

hope is a man i was blessed to know

for stephen miller
January 22, 1954 - March 21, 2006

If there if softness
between the rocks and hard places
If there are unanswered questions
rolling into our tears
then we must know
God's grace is purposeful
then we know what it means
for someone to hold
your intentions, hopes,
aspirations, dreams
as if THEIR very livelihood
depended on YOUR blessing
so rare are such exemplars of
unselfishness
of the stuff we need to survive
so we gotta know
the substance of things not seen
is sometimes wrapped in flesh
we gotta know that the magnificence of spirit
is our softness in hard times

few men dare to dream
and believe as my friend did
stephen resurrected my hopes
for a future...
still beating the odds
so i remember that he did
remember
the gleam and pitch of his aura
recall the irony
of his tedious perfectionism
remember how delicate his palate was
for soul food smells from the kitchen
remember that his activism
was not acted, but lived

so when we find ourselves
losing sight of the soft between boulders
between mountains
we must remember
peace in the valley
the respite for our rejuvenation
Because hope is a man I was blessed to know

stephen's memory, like so many who've gone before
is that cushion
reminding
of the many things to be thankful for
the many reasons to smile
even when the hurt is so close and thick
even when we selfishly rebuke
the creator's design
we remember his smile
remember the beauty of what it meant
to believe in blessings.

honey, suckle, kiss

(because i forget sometimes, how sweet it is)

1.

some times
this heart beatz
for more time
to appreciate
night lullabies
roster crows
the puzzle of limbs
reminding
we are meant to wake this way
"sweet dreams are made of this"
pull gently
drip sweetness
remember its naturalness
do not deny your palate
this joy

sometimes i swagger sonnets
stroke bics across white sheets
be the 14 bar rhythmic stanza breaker
drunk on life
so hungry for love
the belly rumbles
when i sense its scent
thick like country kitchens
heavenly heavy
like the magnetic drawl
of what some southern tongues
whisper to their lovers
after a full kiss

and at the periphery
of a next daze:
there is my dreaming
and all the things
i make so
because i dare to dream
amazing supernatural things
like the loving i have yet to taste
back
and i surrender
to the faith
that it tastes sweet
tastes like a first honeysuckle kiss
my tongue has forgotten

2.

when i listen
deeply
when i feel for remembering
honey, suckle, kissin
spirit say:

"remember being product of
dream keepers
conjure womyn
moon shiners
lay hands on hands
make love as often and rarely
as love is made
and love makes you
tighten the grip on joy itself
until it submits"

"remember them parts
that need to be touched
treasure trails
neck backs
crevices of joints
that lure palms
tongues
seeking honeysuckle magic
and some body lookin
to share so sweet a secret
everybody knows"

"remember the hunger
remember you will starve if you
forget the recipe for smiles
eye-embraces and lip-licks
flirtations
ex-files and future rituals"


3.

so now
when joyful
when i humm deeply
spirit is sayin:

"overcome overcoming
wake more often
singing and bare
thick skin softened
by nightsweats
made while love making
remember to make love"

"see eye witness accounts
that treasure
what it means to be cherished:
870 area code-calls
blushing-back
the kind of simple sweetness
that defies category
the careless unprotectedness
of falling"

"do the kind of writing
done with eyes
the poetry of word-fails
when intentions step in
smile
wink
(even in a mirror)
and recognize
the most beautifulist thing
in this world
is all that joy
waiting to be believed in
prayed for
eyes tight
palm 2 palm
and believing
God answers prayers"

"remember that first
honey suckle kiss
back when you trusted it would be good
before you knew it was
remember to trust
especially when you forget to"

always already alright

"we can see the glass as half full or half empty....or we can break the glass altogether stressing about it. there's water enough to sustain us."

(yeah...i wrote it... pretty interesting ain't it? still trying to make sense of what precisely i meant when writing it. sometimes I'm guided to say things and the full comprehension is for some future understanding. Discuss...)

Going, going, gone…?

I’ve learned quite well how to be good to me
Alongside trying to be good to you
The hot and cold of you I strain to see
rhythms I tolerate when shine blacks blue
So should I seem to be desensitized
Not care about the way your passion wails
And you gaze in the depths of these brown eyes
And see a man who does not care we failed
Who does not long to live with confidence
The joy we share will stay beyond a day
Who dispossessed of language, my words bent
No longer wants a complement who’ll stay
Be sure if one day that’s the man you see
that I’m a poet, without poetry

"Wake Up, Mr. West...."

"Known to some as 25, others as Mr. West" 

poem for him

stump a poet with a poem
in order to make him write
love songs
when his lungs have become
too frail
for his wail
breathe ink into his pencils
make permanent
what has seemed so temporary:
the outline of anything
that would hold his body
better than pillows have held him
or his longing(s)

hold up these insecurities
in stanzas.
they, unlike mirrors,
reveal tears he cannot cry
break any delusions
that he is getting his best
with evidence
that he could be loved better
held closer
holding himself well enough
to accept
nothing less
than the fullness he dreams
should be in his arms
tonight

offer a he-art
as poetic as the crumple
between one fold
and the next poem
the next reading
the next possibility
of dreams coming true

pen the actuality
of his being loved
truly
so much that touch
happens between letters
impresses itself in the breaks
between breaths
when his own words
fail to resolve
his readiness to be loved
right now

held by more
than just your song for him
held like a pen
hungry for paper
or light
that never burns out
help him through moments
when dreams are written
in the thick of dark
in the density of lonely nights
when he cannot pretend
pillow fluffing
the shape of his cuddle
is sufficient

supplement his void
with comfort-words
so perfect
he will edit his next poems
more carefully
than he has offered his heart

and after you have echoed
his next breath
the only reply
he can muster
may be silence
but he is so grateful
for the offering
of poetry
for him

stump a poet with a poem
in order to make him write
love songs
and he will find the courage
to sing again

Happy Valentines Day (I guess)...

hmmmm. I've enjoyed the chocolate and reminding people that I love them. I suppose this day forces it, forces one to remember the necessity or hearing that you're loved, the value of saying it, the crude inadequacy of its devaluation most other days of the year... a few times I wanted to say "bah humbug"... but remembered that's another grossly commodified holiday. Maybe i got bit by the valentines bugg. Maybe this is one of the few times that I'm actually pretty optimistic about doing it right.

hey... i'm gushy all the time. when I'm not playful or silly, I'm not at my best. So I've been soaking up a lot these days: gaining some perspective on what it means to love patiently, some insight on some of my baggage, and more hopefullness that something magical is not just due me, but evidenced in ways I sometimes fail to see.

I've got great loving friends. I heard from ButtaFlySoul and Solas (two of my homies from DDC). They both offered bear huggs, though through voicemail songs and text messages. If I ever lose sight of how graciously them fools love me, I need to be slapped. "sometimes my focus is so locus I'm loco", I have said.

and yeah... I enjoyed a weekend getaway with my sweetie, and he even offered a hugg and kiss today. And a few other people (among them strangers) somehow found the need to tell me that I'm half-cute. One was a crack-head starbucks woman who I graciously referred to as the official starbucks hostess, to which she replied: "so why I gotta be the starbucks hoe,.... wit'sho phyne seff". "but I said hostess".... I then corrected.... after which she whispered: "i know... i just dropped the "stess" to see what you'd say". Gosh, I really needed that...

i suppose life is pretty good. (and that tomorrow, or the next day, when I forget that, I'll have this damn blog to read).

Front Porch at Mocha Hut on First Friday: Free!!!

(click on image in order to enlarge)


Come on Out to the Porch on Friday. Features are wordsmith and Spoken Word exemplar 13 of Nazareth and What-can't-a-sista-do?, emceeing/poet/bass-playin, singin J Scales. And sure.... I'll do a lil somethin, somethin too. Open mic from 8:15 - 9:15. Get there early in order to sign up.  

fragile

(for shawty)

ripped down bedroom-warning:
"fragile:
handle with care."
no one dreams in here
but me
hearing voices of ghosts past:
"fuck hard,
stay soft enough to fall into"

and everytime
I look at the leather left
that i've only worn as dress-up
I think:
what a fragile fucker
preferring cuddles
over slings
a wedding over a whip
and perhaps
I will someday
have them both
embody this oxymoron,
this rough pleasure
I offer to everyone
but myself

i think
maybe only I
can love me best
hurt me better
than anyone else
be my own best daddy
and prodigal son
be master to this slave
who longs so for love
i may choke
on my last breath
pleading for it

maybe i'll grow numb
from teasing
this dialectic
i've never found in a complement
turn to mirrors
and see a brown, stocky
cruxifix nigga
blow him a kiss
and with the most crude
thug baritone
I can quiet...
whisper to him
in this room
where no one dreams
but me:
"hardened:
handle with care."

eye feel/heart sight

my heart is a lens
snapshots when love come around
each beat a new pulse

a bridge between it
and memories i'm building
blood rush when i dream

picture silouettes
held just like a shadow-dance
photo lullabies

pinch me so i see
everything it's capturing
clearer than my sight

my eyes have heart beat
a beating intensity
sensing I am love(d)

About Brokeback Mountain

so i went to see Brokeback Mountain, directed by Ang Lee.... twice. Beautifully done! Not since "Hotel Rwanda" can I think of a movie has stuck with me in the way that this one has, lingering in my thoughts this new year. Brokeback dredged up some pretty profound thinking about love: unrequited, at first sight, to do or not to do, how to do.... and timing. As I am certified "sprung" these days, it made me think about how much we take for granted certain freedoms to express love the way we choose. Born in a different country or at a different time with the same emotional orientations, I may have died or been killed for being one who dared to dream of a life companionship, and found stubborn courage to make it so.

Clearly, this story about two "straight" cowboys who fall in love with each other during a summer sheep-keeping job is a testimony of a society that could not tolerate romantic love between men. Indeed one of the men could not even imagine such a possibility. But I was more interested in the dreamer-- the one who imagined the possibility in the the face of its relative impossibility. There was something extremely moving and divine about that. And in 2005, while light years ahead of the '60's and '70's in rural Wyoming, it's not uncommon for men to find it no less challenging (impossible even) to imagine the possibility of romantic love with another man. Considering the relative cultural shifts, one wonders if some are just endowed with courage to "go for" their happiness against all odds, versus those whose fates run parallel with whatever is deemed socially normative.

So yes... i'm a dreamer. I plotted my way out of rural Arkansas to open up the possibility for loving the way God made me to love. I still fight to maintain faith in that possibility. Certainly, things are easier today... but there are challenges still. While I know my family loves me, I'm not certain that they would honor my legacy in ways that truly respect my contributions to society. I would hope they would honor whomever I chose to love as if they were my wife, but I'm still learning to gain confidence in that. My relationship and openness with my father has helped tremendously.

That Ennis character allowed his fear to consume him. Many will say that he had no other option... but there are always options, even if it's a bad choice between the rock and the hard place. There is vast evidence that people in places similar to the context of the film took the risk to follow their dreams or heart's content. Indeed, some must have died for that love. And so I love in the way I do today as a way of honoring them, honoring myself, and yes...honoring God. Kudos to Jack (Nasty) Twist and his real-life parallels, for paving a way for my own brilliant possibilities.

Brokeback Mountain, beyond being among the most beautifully tragic love stories I've seen, made me generally more appreciative for having the courage to follow my convictions. I'm grateful for a soceity that while, not resolved in its affirmation of the ways some of us choose to love, at least struggles with the issue. I try to imagine if the circumstances were different, if I would find the courage to imagine, the resolve to be steadfast, the faith to believe that love conquers all. I hope to be a light whose courage shines hope on many who need only to see people striving for the life they feel they deserve. Our constitutional principles of "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" are things we have to fight to secure and maintain. They have never and will never simply be given to any of us.

New Beginnings!

How ya like me now?!