The Immigrant

I’ve always known lands to be unstable

and rootless as that of water lilies

walking with tippies and a three piece

searching for that for which I have no recollection

I am the orphan who could not remember the stories of his father

The percussionist who seamlessly transitions between rhythmic compilations

with no recollection of how those compositions were birthed,

I become wildly staccato

I tried to build homes in stable lands,

but these stable hands produce structures weaker

than that of a table stand.

the tales that stand more piercing are those

that piece together the journey of a lonely traveler,

forever piecing together the memories of when he existed,

remembering to remember things that today are foreign … distant

things like…

the folds in the crevices of his cheeks,

followed by a burst of air being exhaled,

exposing his pearls, leading him to smile.

things like…

running endlessly as if there were no tomorrow,

and today was the continuation of yesterday,

and the days where in love with each other.

that they wove intimate conversations of poetic love

i can remember these things as if they were molasses,

slowly thinned upon the lapses of time,

leaving sweet aftertaste as that relax the mind

my mind finds time to be still and contemplate the sweetness

of past memories

and in regards to friends…

well… they can only narrate the fragmented stories,

that store the essence of my being, which is always fleeting,

because consistency is a bleeding vein that awakens reflection,

and reflection serves nothing more but to provoke tension,

reconstructing fragments that gain their beauty only in the passing

i am but a wind that makes speak the wind-chimes,

awakening the monotonous word rhymes,

flowing with times,

yet far from engraving memorial signs,

for i am

only in the passing,

my past aligns my present,

haunting with memories of when i existed in time,

musings of when i made my home in rhymes,

etched in intricate word schemes that danced between the lines

my memories now fading with every moment

once valuable now worth less than a pair of dimes

I dropped dimes off the dome

and i danced in flat lines,

that left my universe speechless like deaf mines

calling me to a place where i was at home as the abstract line.

a place where i belonged to a texture of my own,

where i was not the immigrant,

but the son of moments lived without regrets.

I was sold to a sick European by a rich African battlin'Middle Passages,
I can't go back again Battlin' years of denied history,
lies and mysteriesWives with misty eyes
watchin' their husbands be beaten viciously
Battle in the wilderness of North America
Run by the river, only stoppin' to pray chased by predators
Terrorists with etiquette who vote and kill their president
Their capacity for evil so evident and prevalent
Ain't no hesitation involved, a nation dissolved
While we sit back waitin' to evolve
Those who would trade in their freedom
For their protection deserve neither."

Talib Kweli - Going Hard

Jule 23, 2009

"When we lower our expectations of life to avoid the pain of disapointment, we forfit part of the image of God in us. To accept crime and poilitical corruption because they have always been part of society is to give up too easily. Yes, it will spare us much anguish and frustration, but at what cost? To become less attached to my children, less ambitious about my work becuase life is unfair and unpredictable immunizes me against the pain but also serves to rob me of great hope and great joy."
Kushner, H-When All You've ever Wanted Isn't Enough, pg. 92

I've spent most of my life creating a self that has learned to be free from emotional pain and disappointment. As one growns in the midst of an unstable childhood, constantly moving and having to adapt, this skill proves to be quite handy. One learns in time to quickly evaluate one's enviroment and mold to it without causing any disturbance. I have come to expect less, want less, as an exchange for hurting less. The expression, "it's ok, don't worry about it..." when relationships fail me, expectations fall through, has been heavily greased with the oitment of defense mechanisms. Even thought it lingers in my mind I have learned to not feel, not cry, not show any signs of dependability or expectations, so that I may live and be free from pain. The only problem is that there is no boundary between those feelings we chose to numb and those we nurture for growth. They all die with time. It is a kind of lepresy, that numbs, deteriorates, and eventualy falls off. As well as I have lerned to protect myself, I have also dimished my strength to love, feel, laugh, be genuine, enjoy the simple things, and accept that which is good and bad within me. My fulfillment is manifested in accomplishments, which is always short lived. The carrot at the end of a stick.
Maybe I ought to revist my defenses, the filters that allow me to engage. Maybe, I should just take it all in, at least I am not pulling the weed and the flower at the same time. Maybe, to truly love and live one has to walk through the valley of death to know to be awakened to life is. Maybe...

Unfinished

The wilderness is the exodus of the soul
The metamorphosis of the mind
The entrapment of the self

In the uneasiness of the mind I run from me
I run from what I think of me
The bareness of who I am
The essence in the silhouette
The finite and beyond
The notes in the rhythm
For it is easier to explore than inplore

Will Not Be Televised

The revolution will not be televised,
For to be televised is to engage in the mainstream apathy,
Then gift wrapped in glittery gowns of commercialization,
Then handed as a promotional bribery for the corporations.
Thus, stripping it from its originators,
THE PEOPLE.

Muting their voices,
As if the absence of verses stagnates the melodic synchronization of notes.
But a determined people is disturbed by the determination of their extermination,
Encountered in their exploitation,
Carefully gagging their internal patience,
To see the day in which the reign of liberation covers the land,
And their voices echo,
“No more subordinate relations”

The revolution is the pen for those who seek to rewrite the script of history
His Story
The script of injustice
The script of oppression
The script of classism
The script that reads before us, “all man are created equal”
Yet we are told to follow the footsteps of our forefathers
Servants, cooks, field hands, and less than’s...
But we think otherwise.

The revolution is the pen that transforms the invisible extra to the protagonist
The thorn of justice in the bosom of inequality
The myriad of colors kissing the silver screen
A nightmare for the muted conscious
A dream for the resurrected soul
Screaming
“Rise Up!!!”

Rise up ye that has decomposed in the acid of societal adaptation,
Rise up ye that contents with the scraps from the table of impossibility,
Rise up ye that has been stripped from all his innovations and imaginations,
Rise up and proudly embrace the prophetic proclamations,
That is birthed in the soul of the maladjusted.
Rise Up - for we are entering a new land,
Flowing with milk and honey,
Flowing with peace and prosperity,
Justice, truth, and Freedom.

The Revolution will not be televised,
For the revolution will be lead by the wise,
It will not be televised.
It will not be televised.
It will not be televised.
No, but it will take place before your eyes

The Essence

I am…
A mixture of a broken past,
Path of rigorous toils passed unto me,
Procreator of an unmatched destiny
Fruit of a harvested soul and wisdom of that, which is old,
Molded from calluses, refined in the crevices,
Birthed in solitude, so my soul in tune may speak.

I am…
Reminded of my peoples forced insecurities,
That I may learn to find my place amongst the marginalized,
And speak of marginal lies,
In exchange granting a tune to escape from your reality
While in reality my soul is forced to mourn in silence.
Knowing that my harmony is constructed not by the fast pace of your drum beats
Refusing the reiterations of my indigenous stories,
Claiming they have no place in your allegories,
Continue to speed the metronome in order to disturb the rhythmic flow of my folklores,
Inviting me to your leftovers,
Hoping dementia quickly sets over my newly formed consciousness
That I may abandon my traditional “foolishness”

To embrace your polishness,
Which to you is the genesis of my exodus to humanity.
But my proximity to the divinity, arouses all that is beautiful within me,

And as you protrude in the vicinity,
I become the indispensable other,
Part of the “other than,”
Redefining “on the other hand”
Speaking trice tongues twicely savored in a single revolution of change

I am…
The drum beats of the sun,
Orchestrating the cyclical birth of existence.
The cosmos likens its constellation to my wisdom ,
And speak seasons into fruition.
I am the indispensable reason in the mastery process of existence.


I am…
The spirit of, Kwameh Nkrumah, Douglas, Guevara, Cabral, Ghandi, Malcom, Martin, Tubman, Turner, Freira, Tutu, Mandela, Biko, Romero, and Marley.
I am love, justice, wisdom, equality, and Freedom
freedom, FREEDOM.

I am…
The restless spirit that is labeled maladjusted,
For only justice may adjust this fragmented tear in the ideological loop seduced by the trustless.
The juxtaposition of that which is, can, and will be,
Calling forth a pragmatic extension in the question of, “Will Thee?”
Reflection that perturbs the encounter with oneself
The wind in the conversation, concocting words into existence,
I am the articulation for the conglomerate of thoughts existing intrinsically.

I was,
I am,
I will Always be,
The consciousness of liberation.