The Tragic Beginning of "A Lyrical Thrust Into The (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The MixTape"

My dear esteemed colleagues,

It is with the utmost regret that I sit here typing this on the eve of a new dawn. Things are exploding all around me and it's making my head hurt and my hands shake. I sincerely hope Blac Garner gets his art back without being killed in the process..

But perhaps I shall start this story from the beginning.

It seems that, because of his lack of experience, Blac Garner has had to trust too many people with his project, "A Lyrical Thrust Into The (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape". I believe he has referred to said people as his "many midget minions of Man Research." They have helped him do what he could not on his own. Developing the laboratories of Man Research, mixing and mastering his sound, tweaking the music so that it gives the eardrums a most delectable twang. This freed Blac up to do what he does best.

Create.

And now it seems that, in this final hour of creation, some of the minions, in an effort to perhaps glean more money from the already desperately broke musician's pockets, have stolen the 18 mp3s to "A Lyrical Thrust Into The (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape"!

We should have kept back-up files.

Crazies and gentlewomen, the factory above my head has been turned into a warzone as our Hero battles with the forces of gluttony and selfish pride to retrieve his artwork in time. This battle has quite literally split Man Research into two sides.

The Have-Nots and the Want-Mores.

Goddamnit!...

I'm sorry. It just breaks my fucking heart to have to even tell this story. But it must be done.

Blac Garner was only given the mastered .m4a formatted tracks, with the promise that the mp3s were to come shortly. He has been so busy working on his next project, trusting his minions to successfully carry out their work, that he has neglected to stay on top of them. Granted, he shouldn't have to. A job is a job, especially when money is involved. Perhaps these crooked Want-Mores are so terribly evil because I understand there is a part of them that lives in all of us.

But I digress. I was starting to ramble. And I must finish this before the power goes out.

There is a war going on upstairs. Hopefully Blac Garner can get his mixtape back so that you all will be able to hear it shortly.

Now I will busy myself with the disappointing task of making sure that even if he loses this battle, his story is told.

I am not a man of God. I'd much rather be a man of Me. But in this instance, I will pray on it.

With new fears and new tears in the New Years,

Gideon C. Wildflower

PS-

I have the m4a files. I am unable to upload them to a file sharing site as they are not mp3s or wav files. But I will email them to anyone who responds to this post with their email. Maybe you all can help this man's voice be heard. Thank you in advance. I love all of you.

the flightless bird looks up at the sun

and wonders about the myth of unconditional love

the sun

burns bright in the darkness of space

all life

all planets

look up

and nobody can deny it's brilliance

but the flightless bird looks up and wonders

does the sun ever get lonely

does the sun ever feel compressed by the black

surrounding it

does the sun ever look out

and stare longingly at the other

seemingly tiny stars

does the sun need their warmth

because the universe is a dark and cold place

and the flightless bird wonders

why nobody else wonders

as it does

about the light from the sun

. gideon

Cover Art... Bitches.

I'm super excited. You should be too.

Shout out to all my friends, acquaintances, and enemies who have been talking about this project. You all build me up on the outside. My insides thank you.

Eternally mine,

Blac Garner

PS - Fuck you Gideon.

The Lover/Flying Lotus Project

Hey.
You there.

Hi.

Click this.

Not that.

This.

No, not that either.

This ---> http://www.mediafire.com/?mzv7a7krxobqiig

And download The Lover/Flying Lotus Project.

My personal favorite is Revival(Soul) ... Listen to the album and tell me yours.

Want to know more about the artist?

http://theloverfly.com/ & http://twitter.com/PEACEDANA ... Your welcome

Oh,

last two things...

Thank you Dana, you fine young thing.

and

Excuse me Andrea.

Currently hiding from winter in the basement of secrets,

Blac Garner

For The Parent ...

It does not matter

whether they like you

love you

or hate you

Just be there for them

Because they're going to need someone

to be there for them...

Good luck,

Gideon Wildflower

Existentialism

Gideon Wildflower here.

With one quote.

"When I see the blind & wretched state of man, when I survey the whole universe in its dumbness & man left to himself with no light as though lost in this corner of the universe without knowing who put him there, what he has come to do, what will become of him when he dies, incapable of knowing anything, I am moved to terror, like a man transported in his sleep to some terrifying desert island who wakes up quiet lost with no means of escape. Then I marvel that so wretched a state does not drive people to despair."

--Pascal

And one note.

C.

Peace.

Lovingly Yours

Making this mixtape is killing me.

I have no food and no shelter.

And $130 in my account that's all going into mastering this music.

Dedication will be the death of me.

Gideon would be proud.

With dreams as sustenance,

Blac Garner

Jelly Beans

I spilled my jelly beans on the train today. Everyone laughed. I was not amused. I wanted to eat my jelly beans.

Now I don't have any jelly beans to eat.

Fuck.

My belly screams for jelly beans,

Blac Garner

Dream: A Journey and a Priestess

Hello World of Wonders, Mothers, and Human Mutters.

I had a dream. So I shared it with a muse of mine in Ghana. Now I want to share it with you. Here is the email I sent.

"Shit.

I already forgot how it started. But for some reason I was following something. I can't remember what exactly but I remember that the journey started out on a football field during a game. I just walked off and started following something. Then I got in a chair. My brother was there with me and sat beside me. He was asking me a whole lot of questions like where was I going and why did I leave. I didn't know the answer. I just felt something that told me to go where I was headed. So the two chairs start moving. We travel along the highway, travel along some body of water and then come to a subway. The chairs take us into the train and start moving towards the back of the train. I can feel that my brother is as scared as I am. Moving chairs aren't normal and there are a lot of different people on the train. I remember I stopped by one lady. She was obviously either crazy or homeless. But she smiled at me. She was missing some teeth. And she was reading. She tried to reach across me to get another book that was on my other side but I flinched and she stopped. Then the chair kept moving. At one point I left my brother. The chair got caught up in some wires. I ended up getting off at a stop because I saw two offices. One read priest and the other read priestess. The chair wasn't moving anymore but I wasn't sure if that was because I was supposed to be here or because it had gotten caught up in some wires. I left my brother behind to check the offices. I checked in the priestess office and my "Contemporary Black Poetry" teacher from last semester was in there. I didn't want to go in there. She had given me a C.. I deserved a worse grade but I always got the feeling that she had a little thing for me. She wasn't unattractive for a 40-50 something year old woman. But I didn't want to talk to someone familiar. So I checked the priest office but nobody was in there. I ended up going in the priestess office. She asked me about a textbook that I had "found"... I told her I didn't know what happened to it. Then we started talking about why I was there. I told her a chair had taken me to places where I had murdered people and then onto a train that brought me here. I told her that I wasn't sure if this was the last stop though and I needed her to help me get back on track. She wanted me to prove that I was dealing with an unseen force. I thought that was a waste of time and I didn't expect her to do that. She pulled out a poetry book, covered my eyes, and asked me to recite one of the poems... as a test. The words came to me easily...I had never read the poem and I cannot remember what it said now. Because in the dream I forgot the words immediately once I tried to tell them to her. I couldn't. Then for some reason she had a blindfold on. And she kept changing into this young woman ( about 20 )... I don't know who she was. But I kissed her. She was astonished and asked me never to talk about that with anyone. I either woke up at this point or I can't remember how the dream ended. Have you ever waken up and tried to finish a dream in your conscious thoughts? ... I found myself doing that and all the endings I came up with ended with violence. I don't know why and I don't understand any of it. "

I still don't understand it.

Dreamers made this world,

Blac Garner

A Lyrical Thrust Into The (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape

Fighters, Lovers, and Lickers of Others... Welcome.

Gideon Wildflower speaking.

Our dearly retarded friend, Blac Garner, in a most sincere form of incredible selfishness, may have just created a masterpiece.

I use the term very loosely.

For what is a masterpiece? ... Was the work of Vincent Van Gogh a collection of masterpieces before he received recognition? ... Or did it only become a masterpiece after his post-mortal fame? No, perhaps we should not give the collective that much power. The true power, without a doubt, lies in the individual.

Now, I believe that the human race is in just that. A race. With itself. Trying desperately to catch up to it's geniuses, to it's creators, to it's innovators. Trying desperately to find and define all of those unknown masterpieces.

Intermesting, no?

One could even go as far to say that a masterpiece is defined by it's creator. Not to anyone else, but to himself. For the ego is man's greatest critic.

Now, I was off in my own world finishing my tea while Blac was recording... but I'm pretty sure as he finished he uttered...

"This is a masterpiece."

I looked at him. He was staring at his hands. I found it extremely appropriate at that moment, and from now until infinity, to call this particular project a masterpiece.

But alas, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry ladies and gents. I tend to do that. Too much marijuana.

Our... special... friend, Blac Garner has created a mixtape. I tried desperately to talk him out of it. I pleaded with him, screamed even, "They won't understand you! How can they appreciate the weight of such a full soul when they do everything to run away from their own emptiness." I even tried locking him in the bathroom for a whole month. He just scribbled more songs on the walls... the bastard. And so, it seems he's destined to suffer at the hands of you unworthy fucks. For what can a creator do, but create.

I say all this to say...

"A Lyrical Thrust Into the (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape" by Mr. Blac Garner will be officially released to the public on January 1, 2011. I was there for most of the recording and I must say, you all are in for a treat.

Despite my feelings on showing your soul to people who can't possibly understand, I was impressed. And I am not impressed easily. So while you're thinking on the subject please look inside yourself and ask, "Am I ready?" You might be surprised at the answer you hear.

I pray his efforts help you find your ever so elusive integrity.

And i find it appropriate to end this with a toast. Hold on, let me get my tea. Here we are.

To Hip Hop! And to the MC! The Master Creator! May he live on forever and find his home amongst the stars!

18 years of this shit? ... No Thank You.

hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame. it knew it shouldn't have been fucking with that crazy bitch anyway...

but the pussy..

the pussy was like diamond chains, velour suits, and big houses in the 'burbs.

The pussy was like drug money.

The pussy was like dreams.

Like waking up to a sunrise and seeing your kids off to school in a beautiful neighborhood.

fame's pussy was just that.

fucking famous.

and just like that

hip hop was fucking famous.

had all the little white kids lined up against the window

watching fame drop down to her knees

their little red noses pressed squarely on the panes

the breaths heavy

as they watched fame suck hip hop dry

hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame.

it knew it shouldn't have fucked with that crazy bitch anyway

Something in her eyes looked too much like insecurity

Something in her hair smelled too much like inadequacy

And now...

Something in her womb looks too much like hip hop

so hip hop faked it's own death

the formula's simple

shit get's too fucked

you either run or you die

and hip hop ain't never really been about no death

What do you teach your children about me?

What do you teach your likkle children about me?

The NIGGER is YOU!

"The DropOut's Last Symphony" --Blac Garner

Even in pain, there is a song to be heard..

"The DropOut's Last Symphony" .. by Yours Truly

Letter To A Child Born in Poverty but Made of Dreams

Dear Child Born in Poverty but Made of Dreams,

Be bold. Be selfish.

The road you have to travel will be difficult.

Because the path laid out for you it must be paved,

every single dusky red brick, by your own hand

And I wish that I could say you'll be better for the experience

I wish I could say the children you see that have things handed to them

are going to end up worse off

Because it would make you feel better

it would lessen the load off of your shoulders

But dear sweet child born in poverty but made of dreams

I cannot say for certain if that is so

All I can say with certainty is that

Your path will be so harsh

that

there will be times when you hate everyone for not caring

there will be times when you're hungry enough to sell yourself

there will be times when the world seems to laugh at every motion you make

that fights your own untimely demise

Sweet beautiful child born in poverty but made of dreams

the world will do it's best to break you

But you must fight

You must resist

Because you are

the world's only hope.

Sincerely,

Blac Garner

Untitled II: My Weekend

And the crazy thing is...

This isn't the dopest thing I did all weekend.

I love my life.

Favorite Rappers Pt. Uno

One of my favorite rappers today..

http://twitter.com/YesIamQuESt

And this isn't even on his newest mixtape. Old Shit.

Second Handers

"Yes! And isn't that the root of every despicable action? Not selfishness, but precisely the absence of a self. Look at them. The man who cheats and lies, but preserves a respectable front. He knows himself to be dishonest, but others think he's honest and he derives his self-respect from that, second-hand. The man who takes credit for an achievement which is not his own. He knows himself to be mediocre, but he's great in the eyes of others. The frustrated wretch who professes love for the inferior and clings to those less endowed, in order to establish his own superiority by comparison. The man whose sole aim is to make money. Now I don't see anything evil in a desire to make money. But money is only a means to some end. If a man wants it for a personal purpose -- to invest in his industry, to create, to study, to travel, to enjoy luxury -- he's completely moral. But the men who place money first go much beyond that. Personal luxury is a limited endeavor. What they want is ostentation: to show, to stun, to entertain, to impress others. They're second handers. Look at our so-called cultural endeavors. A lecturer who spouts some borrowed rehash of nothing at all that means nothing at all to him-- and the people who listen and don't give a damn, but sit there in order to tell their friends that they have attended a lecture by a famous name. All second-handers.

...

A truly selfish man cannot be affected by the approval of others. He doesn't need it."

--Ayn Rand, "The Fountainhead"

Man Research

The brainchild of Blac Garner and Vince Hill.

Once we get enough money for equipment that's not shit,

We will shit on your favorite rapper...

But that's not the point.

The point is getting the music out of us because if we dont, we'll go crazy.

Our music is purely selfish.

http://www.youtube.com/manresearchmusic

#Sex&Ego

Man Research-

man, so that we never forget our place in this universe. with all of it's beautiful limitations

research, as the catalyst between science and magic..

#thinkaboutit

The World in My Head Pt. 2

“The people must have a voice!”

Alexander Nelson had to kneel quite a bit to bang his gnarled fist on the desk. He was a tall man but this action made his anger seem small and a little forced. Had the man on the other side of the desk been facing his direction it would have been this action that made his entire argument ineffective. As it stood, it was not. And he did not move his fist.

The cheery mahogany wood stood in defiant contrast to his rather violent motion. In fact, everything in the office of Mr. Pierce Spencer seemed to be mockingly pleasant. The lamp in the corner whispered a dull yellow across the ceiling that reflected onto the simply furnished field of deception below. Three walls opened up to a colossal window that Mr. Spencer often, as he found himself doing now, gazed out of with wonder. Spencer liked to pretend the button on the side of his chair, which he used to call his receptionist, was a remote control that if he wished, he could press and change the channel of his 24 hour view of the New York City skyline. He knew it was that easy. Reminding himself of this made him feel mighty and feeling mighty was of utmost importance to him, though to admit it would’ve made him quite uneasy. The curtains on each side of the window wall were black with white trim. Spencer hated to be too extravagant. He found it distastefully obvious. His desk, though almost as wide as his room, was as simple as the things on it. A silver, translucent paperweight shaped as a pyramid stood calmly on the slightly fluttering sands of paper beneath it. A small radio muttered softly, filling the air with a slight touch of Beethoven. A laptop, a pen, and a small box of tissues all sat patiently in the middle arranged in a fashion that seemed carelessly neat.

Nelson hated it. All of it.

And since his ego would not possibly allow him to see his hatred for himself in these items, he directed all of this energy towards the man sitting in the chair, staring wistfully out the window.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

Spencer said these words slowly as if he could taste each one and regretted not keeping them in his mouth longer. He had not, at one point in the conversation, turned to face his attacker. He received a silent thrill overtly showing that he knew Nelson knew he was beneath him. All those who knew Spencer would describe him as a strange and quiet man. Spencer enjoyed this and he knew all those who knew him were idiots. He enjoyed that as well. He began to stroke his mustache, as he always did when he knew for sure his actions tormented someone.

“Have you not been listening? You cannot shut my newspaper down! We are the only independent source in this part of the city. By destroying us, you are destroying the voice of the people. I warn you Mr. Spencer…”

Nelson stopped talking when Spencer suddenly turned his chair around. As they locked eyes, Nelson could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise to meet his collar. Nelson was not an easily scared man but there was something in the look that Spencer now gave him that made him want to go home, pack his things, and leave for the other side of the world. Recognizing the desperation of easy prey, Spencer slowly clasped his hands together and staring directly through Nelson he began to speak in an even tone, similar to how one would speak to an angry child.

“You seem a little confused, Mr... eh, Nelson is it? In order to have a voice, one must have a mind. The people do not have a mind. They think whatever I want them to think, whenever I want them to think it. They are all totally plugged in to me. I could get it in my head that I want the sky to be pink and by tonight I will have everyone all over the world convinced beyond reason. You think your little shit newspaper matters? The average human being barely spends enough time off of the web to wipe their ass correctly let alone read a fucking paper.” Spencer cocked his head to the side. His lips slowly extended into a wide smile as a look of shocked anger began to spread on Nelson’s face.

“But, you know this already... Yes, I can see that. You understand that I hold more power in the tip of my pinky finger than you will ever have in your entire life. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to stop fighting. Well consider it an early Christmas gift. I’m putting you out of your misery, you blind, spineless twit. You’re no better than the rest of these idiots. Now you’ll be unemployed, just like them.”

Spencer liked watching his words settle amongst the furrows of the now red face of Mr. Nelson. But he turned his chair around anyway.

“You may see yourself out.”

Nelson almost shook with rage as he brought out his .50 cal Magnum.

“Go to hell,” he said.

“I’m looking at it,” replied Spencer.

He said his last words almost whimsically, with a satisfied smile on his face that told the crushing story of the human spirit.

Fuck Wayne's Lying Ass

"The World In My Head" Pt. I

Recently, it seems like everything I do fucks up. I'm fast becoming an habitual and seemingly professional fuck-shit upper, or as I like to call it, fucker-upper (has a nicer ring to it, sounds like something a little kinky, and I am a fan of kinky..even when that bitch ignores my calls).

I've invested my time in shit that's fell through, most of the people I've incorporated in my life don't matter to me and don't give a shit about me... I'm beginning to suspect that secretly they've been plotting my demise.
So..
I'm either on the verge of an epiphany, a breakdown...
Or I'm showing symptoms of schizophrenia.
Either way, something's up.

So I've decided to fall back on my ego. But to the extreme.
Extremego.
Sounds like a Pokemon.
Or the name of Freud's son.
Extremego.
I am God.
That's right you fucks. The creator of all things is....
me.
Now I know what you might be thinking right now... So shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you. You don't matter. I'm God.
I am the creator of all I see, hear, taste.. You know.. sense and shit. There is nobody but me. All of you are merely the creation of my very powerful will and imagination. I was lonely. So, I decided to create you fucks. Now knowing that having puppets would do nothing for my loneliness, I made it so that all of you act seemingly independent of my will. And to convince myself, I made myself forget that I was God. But, in the words of one of my more brilliant creations, I've "misunderestimated" myself. So I've remembered.
Thank God/Me!
Being worried about what you think all the time was getting extremely bothersome. I had to figure out how to live amongst you and matter to you. Now none of that matters. It's like a breast of fresh air, a fuckload off my shoulders.

God smiles on you today.

You see I've been assuming this whole time that I am like you.

I've assumed that because you all die. I, too, will one day die.

But now I have nothing to worry about. Why worry about something that I can never know? ... Something that just doesn't exist to me.

You.

Yep, that's right... Not. At. All.

I'm free. And it feels good. And Yes..

You should be scared.

The Dutch Master Scripts

First I'd like to apologize to my audience for not finishing the #30Days30Poemas movement, I will as soon as time allows..

I've begun memorizing some of my poems for an audition to perform with Saul Williams and Amiri Baraka in the Howard Homecoming Poetry Cipher. The audition is this thursday.. Wish me luck!

This post is dedicated to something different. Last semester, a friend of mine, in true collegiate spirit, passed out a brochure of sorts (more like an essay in the three column brochure form).. It read as follows:

"The African American, excuse me negro female is the (often unknowing but many times aware) ardent ally of the white supremacist campaign to weaken the condition of the 'African' man. She is all too often the virulent, insidious, enemy from within while the overt, vigilant forces attack in concert from without. I am aware that this is a sweeping indictment of 'her' with straight talk. But the salvation of the African man comes from his self-redemption and his total amputation from the (deliberate quotes) Negress and the gangrene decaying of his masculinity that she represents. Now notice I have defined my terms specifically. The African female and the Negro female are 2 separate entities. So do not be alarmed. My position is overwhelmingly grounded in reality. The Negro female makes statements like the following 'Some people gotta sleep with some people just to get money, but why should I sleep with you if I can get money from you otherwise.' The value system of the Negro woman is apparent; avariciously acquisitive, malevolently materialistic, soul drainingly self-interested, and nastily narcissitic. The African woman in her proper form is quite a different creature (regardless of her geographic origins). Most notably she does not believe that a man is only what she can consume of him and from him. He is much more. (He is a MAN) The African man is much more. He is a man with a soul independent of most western norms. He is not defined by the human properties of slavishness and stupidity so well exhibited by the negro man. The negro man and woman should be together so they can destroy themselves in righteous genocide to the benefit of true Africans, the true black people. I tell men that they key is to get grounded in principles. "If a woman does not have solid ethnic ties, don't fuck with her!" It is evident from the divorce rates and the non-marriage statistics amongst negro women. 74% of negro women will never get married. It is their natural fate. They get guys locked up, divorce and despoil them, betray and beguile them. The African woman does not do this (at least not to a single degree in that frequency). The negro woman is often not satisfied to partner with a man. She must imprison or enslave him, or abandon and reject him. She often has no true loyalty to a loyalist; no ethical framework of any worth. She can be said to have pseudohumanity, for she has mind/biology but a very undeveloped soul (as the Jill Scotts' of this hemisphere might have). The problem is that men who acquiesce this are divided by the archaic idea that (all) females are delicate (in this environment). As black people, our men are vulnerable to no avail and no response by and because of our often alleged 'partners', but look at the lock up rates. Black (Negro women) are the parties that get 'niggas' locked up on false charges, despoil them in divorces, and institute or reinforce restraining orders to the satisfaction of the 'other' man, at the expense of our community. Where are our Michelle Obamas that would date us at higher levels even with holes in the floors of our cars? Where are our Assata Shakurs? They have been replaced by T&A dolls, obsessed with conspicuous consumption and machinations of bubble headed popular culture and fashion. These are our wives! Hell no, is what I say! Rebel against the agents the white man has made us think we must breed with and cater to. The Black man of Africa is the head of his home (literally). The American black man cannot speak the same of himself. Why? The answer is that his woman is a mercenary looking out for herself (most) often times. She is sexually disloyal, morally inept, as far as virginity is concerned, naturally inapplicable. She is often a harlot that pretends to be a wife, often to the detriment of a loyal man. In her self interest you can see the areas that she helps the 'other' man demasculate US. She is his partner! But not the true African woman, No! She is the stalwart of her community and the advocate of her man. The 'Negress' wears clothes to entice the sinful nature of a man so that she can engage in her duplicitous prostitution with impunity, because several blank minds in charge of penis' have ratified her. It is time to stop! We must now as Africans embrace women of communal, moral character. My friends, I have a solution. From my extroverted point of view, it's too late for the army of prostitutes of our kind. The values of community are more often than not determined by its women. So 'if a man could f*** a woman in a cardboard box, he wouldn't buy a house!' is true in this paradigm. Negresses love find fabrics, jewelry, luxury and spacious estates. That's how they assess and value a man. An African woman wants good tangibles too, however her first priority is to find a man that is pious, loyal, integral (familial), truthful, and philosophical for she knows that the tangibles will flow from there. She does not believe 'he is' those things is the fundamental difference. So this is the declaration; Any man seeking a good woman should acquire himself a passport and seek the bevy of beauty in Beirut, Dakar, or darker in the Lagosian metropolis of Lagos, the many maidens of mainland or coastal Morocco, or even in Maranhao, Brazil. There are so many more sisters of our lovely race on this planet than the degenerates the white man has produced for us as monopolistic xx chromosomes. 'Seek and you will find', unless you're a male negro in which in that case I encourage you to seek negresses as brides so that your destruction can at least bring about the process of elimination. The African American women of old have long faded from the scene and now all I can try to do is uplift my brothers and (true African) sisters. Any woman who is a true African in her soul, "please treat her right" is my word to my brothers. To the haranguing harlots of Howard, I especially wish that you get what you deserve.

Gratsi Dr. Zero"

Comments and questions are welcome. Let's have some discourse about this matter.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 25

Self-awareness is a bitch

The little man looked into the ocean's reflective guise

He sighed and tossed a rock

disrupting the gaze he held with himself

Yes,

Self-awareness is a bitch

If he looked closely the little man could still see traces of the little boy

He loved that little boy

The little boy knew love

The little boy looked fear in the face

pulled up it's shirt

and gave it the most awesome

raspberry ever..

That little boy was someone to look up to

Now all the little man sees

is ....

a little man,

a little man that made all heads

take a sharp decline

as they sought to make quick eye contact

then turn away with disgust

The little man knew why they looked away

His existence told a story

It told the story of the little boy

And everyone knew of the little boy

They knew him personally

Sometimes he let them call him

Me

See

The little man remembered vividly the day

the little boy died

It was the day he realized

when he imagined

when he perceived

that he was not in the least bit

special

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 24

There is a whirlpool of reality

picking up speed at the

top left corner of my vision

it's slowing sucking the light from

my universe

As darkness begins to swirl

I grab the two nearest objects

and lean back

hoping to slingshot my way

into and through the abyss

I let go realizing that this

would be a sisyphean effort

and rather than let my strength

be overcome by some futile hope against hope

I should merely

grab my knees

holding on to my individual self

for preservation

And let my thoughts circle round

and travel into

the darkness of my ego

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 23

Black man knows

Black man knows white man owns

everything

everything is everything

and everything excludes nothing

Black man knows that white man owns

Black women

He sees it in their weaves

in their perms

in their straighteners

in their make-up

in their inability to wake up and see

black man

as a man

to talk to him

as a man

to love him

as a man

to treat him

as a man

so he beats them

cause he can

Black man knows that white man owns

his own will

to keep the oppressed oppressed

make them worship everything about the oppressor

so

black man lusts after white man's money

black man lusts after all that money

we lust after all that money

you lust after all that money

I lust after all that money

(Goddamnit!I just got an erection)

Black man knows that white man owns

all his brothers

the word brother is like the word revolution

it means nothing now

because everything excludes nothing

Black man sees black man

and steals

and takes and kills and even rapes

Black man knows taht white man owns

his law

Black man has no law

Black man knows that it is criminal to be a black man

Don't let them catch you nigger

Cause then they're putting you behind some physical bars

Black man knows that white man owns

his escape

White man is God.

So we drive around in these God-given

automobiles made up of narcotics

but be careful nigger

if God catches you using his stick shift

he'll send you to places where other black men

stick dicks

up your whole entire asshole

and while the floor is covered with your blood, tears, and shit

black man sees your pain

and it gives him the satisfaction that his wounded huberis

demands

(Goddamnit I just lost my erection)

And you wonder why niggers fuck with automatics instead

It's cause

Black man knows white man owns his music

He hip hops to the tip top

in tune with

sex money drugs

with ballads screamed from 40 caliber lungs

in perfect rhyme in perfect repitition

"please make me like you

please make me like you

make me like you

and maybe you'll like me

the way I fuckin' love you"

Black man knows that white man owns

his youth

His offspring are living contradictions

Literally figurative

So he hides in the front of buses

scared of them

as they reflect his own ignorance

Black man knows white man owns

his hopes

his dreams

his whispers

his screams

Black man knows white man owns everything

and everything excludes nothing

The only escape from everything is death

Black man knows

and it hurts his soul

Black man knows and it hurts his soul

Black man knows and ..

it hurts his soul

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 22

I walked into a strip club

and a good idea

sat in my lap

lips smeared with epiphanies

she danced

the music made me close my eyes

and feel

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 21

Soil becomes sand

when there is no water

Compact

Dry

What does soul become

when it has no water?

I'm sorry

I don't feel like talking to you right now

I am lacking nutrition

Compact

But doesn't the sand feel good when you're

on the cusp of the beach and the water

Dry

You don't have money?

No

It costs 5 dollars at the door

Don't bring 25 quarters

That will be embarrassing

A five dollar bill is much more

Compact

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 20

Haiku

Nothing's more important

than a woman who ain't

scared to show you love

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 19

I want you

to come and fuck me

Push me down to a seated position

Straddle me

and as I seek to find words

silence me with your tongue

Grab my arms

and push them above my head

then undress me with your mouth

Taste every spot you see

Discover if my body tastes the same all over

Whisper in my ear

How much you want me

Fuck my feelings

Fuck my ego

Fuck my past

Become my present

and stroke me to the

boundaries where sex and love meet

Shed your inhibitions

And let me see you

Leave that cold outerwear outside

for the frigid

Tonight

Let's fuck summer

Let's make spring blush

with the way you moan my name

Tell me how much you want me

Tell me what you want to do to me

Then do it

Chain my fantasies to a bed of

chocolate covered wet dreams

Then ride them until the waves themselves get tired

Let's make a safe word

And lock it within the depths of climax

Tell me what to do

Show me how to fuck

My darling Nikki

A submissive woman

never gets what she wants

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 18

"And their eyes change as they learn to see through flames

And their necks crane as they turn to pray for rain.."

Writing prayers on the papyrus of yesterday's dreams

for tomorrow's hopes

we send them down rivers of obscurity

the same rivers which quench the thirst of so many

we pray that perhaps

they shall,

in their misguided lust for that which is liquid,

swallow our ancient texts

these words shall feed their brains variation

putting a halt to the cliche cycle of cool

perhaps we shall give it beginning by giving it an end

as for those who continuously relieve themselves

in our holy water

streams of what they waste

running through our own digestive systems

we await them

with armies set up in the purple fields of disaster

These soldiers have guns that shoot secrets

these secrets have rough hands that pound eardrums

"They say every atom in your body was once a star"

these twisted ladders that send directions in our core were once stellar

Now shackled to jackals

cackling with bright lights

vigorously licking the blood of their hands

so as to get away with the crime

and all I can do is rhyme

all I can do is

rhyme

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 17

On some cool shit...

fingertips play piano on mahogany skin

until you scream the notes

to a symphony of passion

on the inside

you stir

conductor's baton waving

through

air inhaled sharply

as i tickle your eardrum with my tongue

the horn section

blares loudly

bopping left and right

to the rhythm of your hips

swaying like the cool breeze

that the flutes softly whistle in the background

Climax

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 16

I think I've masturbated in every single room in my house

This week would be the first week I haven't missed a class in my 3 years at Howard University

I have a downward curve in my penis and I wish it looked bigger

I'm skinny as fuck and my feet get ashy fast

I wish I had more hair

I want to be famous

I lie to myself way more than I'll ever admit to myself

Everytime I'm about to have sex with a woman I get as nervous as I did my first time

Which by the way was with one of the ugliest women I've ever seen

She bragged about how good she was at oral sex

And it was horrible

I fucked her in a supermarket bathroom

because I didn't want to come to college a virgin

I've been bullied way more times than I care to admit

I'm terrified of physical confrontation

Once when I was in 6th grade

a boy i considered a friend

slapped me

And I cried

That's it, I just cried

There's a man who owes me $80

$80 that I will never see again

because he says he will not pay me

and I'm scared of him

We almost fought

He faked like he was going to hit me

And I jumped

The 10 people there all laughed at me

Some days I just feel like laying in bed

slipping in and out of consciousness until I can't anymore

then get up and write

and make music

This summer a man stole my television

I had let him borrow it and he said it was stolen

But i found out through someone else he still has it

I've made terrible friendship decisions in college

I'm scared more times than I'm not

The proudest moment of my life was scoring a touchdown

when I was on the neighborhood football team

at age 15

Everyone fucked with me cause I was one of the smallest on the team

I caught an interception and ran it 54 yards back for a touchdown

My dad walked in the stadium just in time to see me catch it

I felt like my heart would burst when I past the goal line

It was an amazing feeling because I knew

that nobody expected shit of me

I scored another one before I left that team

Fuck them.

The coach didn't like me

I almost slept with his daughter

She wanted to fuck

I was a virgin and didn't know what to do

And I fell in love with the bitch

I still have feelings for her to this day

I could see myself as a homosexual if i had been raised differently

I've half-assed everything I've ever done

And I won't admit why to myself

I'm terrified of people laughing at me

So i wear an air of false bravado

I lost a full scholarship to Howard University after my freshman year

I'm a poet

I'm an MC

I don't clean up after myself

But...

.......

I seek mastery of myself

And on that road

I must find peace with everything...

All that is me

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 15

As the wind in the night whistles and blows

it carries the echoes of long dead Negro screams

They've seen beyond this reality right before death

with eyes bulged out of sockets

And as their blood soaked progeny

Swift and fleeting is our memory

We swing to the tunes of fantasies

as we distance ourselves from realizations

of just how easily our four limbs become the extension of trees

dipping our nooses in jewels

we hold our chains up to mirrors

and blind our reflections

instinctively we pull away

subconsciously we remain

giving our children their names

we claim it's only for job security

Yes

Pimp our seed out to plantation masters for survival

Teach them to work for another man's dream

A dream which steadily mares our night sky

and in day battles the sun with it's own waves for us to soak in

We sit and let our world spin

into a sad parody of once was

Where love for oneself is just a fad one grows out of once they leave college

Where it's cliche to even say what we were doing before

...brother...

Where image is more important than action

Because action promises no safety while image

allows us to play hide and no seek with our fear

Well, i've seen the future

and it has danger in it's eyes

With passion filled hands it grabbed me by the throat

Leading me, kicking and screaming, into it's library of thought

Opening books across the floor that reflect the nights sky

I stopped moving once the biggest book was laid flat

The north star glowed in reception of my epiphany

I'm going on

And those who wish to follow me may do so

The road is perilous

But if you yell back to the master

I will make sure you die to silence your treacherous shrieks

This is not a game

Let's find freedom

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 14

Observation Room

Daughter of the Nile

Hair hidden behind the fabric

of her self hatred

She wears it down to her shoulders

keeps her mind shielded from her thoughts

Three small dots

on her nose

As she inhales

they dance slowly in my direction

She smiles

her eyes swim softly

stroking in a threesome with my reflection and fuck

they beam movies of her fantasies into mine

She asks me to undress

Smile lopsided, chest heaving

I comply

The ground meets her knees

As she kneels to take measurements of me

Reading them aloud

to the lady in the red shoes

several paces away

she sits and records

I close my eyes

crossing my arms over my chest

Feeling crucified for my blood lust

In my mind I reach for my notepad

Something to help me release these thoughts

before they thrum the air

reaching foreign eardrums at the speed of sound

and rendering me truly naked

"Put on your clothes"

It's over

The lady with the red watch arises from her station and asks me to follow her

I leave the room and walk down this hallway of dreams

Bright lights fade to nothing and reappear as bright lights

Cycles

We enter another room

The tv in the corner displays a flashing face

with two strippers dancing it's eyes

It says nothing

Then says, "Nothing"

A man with a bald spot about his right ear walks in

Staring at me with hate bred by competition

he watches

The lady with the red glasses

sits down with a butterfly needle

she taps my soul until a riveting line appears on its surface

it pulses with life

"Hold still", she tells me

the butterfly needle inserts itself into my essence

Cocooning in my core, it transfers hope into a test tube

and worms its way into my heart

To stay.

I arise to walk away

And as I leave

I realize

I've left my fear behind

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 13

Haiku

The city that never sleeps
blinks with eight bright eyes
and eats all its young.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 12

My fingers

Tapping out the rhythmic misses of my existence

Even as I seek to keep its distance

They spread as roots

searching for sustenance

in this world of excess

But reality escapes me

I am but a dream

seen through the lenses

of many streams

of consciousness

Obviously

something too abstract

to be symbolized

by mortals

And as I walk away

from the doorstep of love

She calls me back

I turn

and her

not knowing what to say

simply places two curved hands together

in the shape of a heart

I smile

and grasp the place

where I've been told mine lies

But my lies stop me from walking to her

And so I proceed on my way

Mind expanding

in compressive manners

Lessening the matter

that amasses in my search

for endarkenment

Love thyself

Love thyself and you will enjoy

the tongue of understanding

As she seeks to suck out

All bad deeds

Taste me.

Lovely how your mind

tickles slowly mine

I find the divine amongst the stars

In awe at how

all my knowledge has been proven wrong

Still strong with persistence

that knocks at the door of mortality

with three bullets to claim its soul

I hold my entire whole with parts that scream

of me

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 11

Calling all

upside down voices

that shake and shiver

remorseless

Calling all

waves that bend light

All hey's that need fright

Calling all

Highs that love lows

All drunkards that stumble on the wine of life

Calling all

beautiful women

who only make up

their mind

Calling all

Wonderful souls who stand still in the rain

Watching pain

wash away

Calling all

Veins that remain unscathed

Calling all

love

Calling all fearless

Calling all

aborted children

who bleed with a death unbirthed

Calling all

fathers

Calling all

mothers

Calling all

Birthers of wonder

Calling all

shudders of pleasure

Calling all

feudal fists

that tremble with the feeling

of poverty

Calling all

lows that love lows because highs are on horizons

Calling all

Visions

All missions

that listen to more than

sounds uttered by human mutters

Calling all

Rainbow traces of sight

All

Souls that stink with the funk of decay

Calling all

People.

The Revolution needs you.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 10

Her supple fingers

echo a come hither

as she walks through a closed door

And this is why I keep my love below

Collision hurts

My judgement at its best

And yet

I follow against

And so

I speak no fiction

As our friction makes fire

This flame speaks names

of goddesses unfulfilled

She loves

and leaves something

as she makes her way into me

Breast feeding infinity

with milk turned sour

by too many dames who played games

But in this minute

In this hour

We become time

Our sexualitys entwine

with mines on top

but her's still more higher

Lovely is her last name

How dare I think to befoul her with mine

And yet

As pilgrim fingers touch pure Africana

Her moan

tells me that she is willing

Her kiss tells me that I am not building this tower in vain

That perhaps one day

Her heavenly heart
I will claim...

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 9

I move my head

The world moves with my vision

And keeps moving when I stop

Back and forth

Until it settles

three seconds two late

a pendulum

Girlish giggles

and weezing coughs

Fire water

fuels my take off

This smoke brings clouds

to level of ground

And turns it into fog

And in this fog

I see shadows of other lost souls

It feels good

Now

For three seconds

As I turn my head

I'm not alone

Surrounded

by girlish giggles

and weezing coughs

please don't stop

I'm so happy

I could spin

I'm the shit

watch me put my face in the toilet

as I vomit away

my depression

seizing the reason for existence

and fucking it with the finger that doesn't give a fuck

When it comes

I swallow

And gargle

to spit this mouthwash

so when I leave this bathroom

again surrounded

by girlish giggles

and weezing coughs

i'll lose interest for anything real

Because reality is pain

So

of course

in an effort for pleasure

I drive myself insane

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 8

Lauren Pt. 1

Life was made for days like these

Amazed at our ease

Old man sees

smiling

he names us his hippies

Recognition that we were high

and free

but what he didn't understand or see

this boy fighting hard to be a man

this woman who sees his beauty

And I

am but a peasant

offered a king's ruby

lovingly fearful of what this offering could do to me

Sometimes I declare

Let us be his hippies!

Let us become the Earth's love child

if only for a while

Let's draw our fears into a smile

if only for a while

Let's devotedly gaze at this

most amorous painting of now

if only for a while

And though

my inadequacies might end

the beginning of

these stirrings of a love affair

Lauren

I will never forget

that perfectly beautiful day

Like the hint of a kiss

it still remains

deeply imprinted on the surface of my mind

Because

Life was made for days like these

Days with you and me

like this

like now

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 7

Suicide

Destined to become the Sisyphus of my generation

Push

Pull

Lift

Strain against these insecurities

Shortcomings naturally bestowed upon me

And for every day I feel I get closer

three months pass where

hope sets

leaving me in the night

where all lights are artificially

Cold.

And so

shivering with the frost of time on my mind

I rest

Weary of staring down my reflection

And fighting the world

Just so I can keep looking

I rest

And yet

This rest

is so very temporarily insignificant

Can I not even remember my sleep state?
Can I not enjoy those precious moments inside my mind?

Alas,

It seems this isn't to be so..

And I feel this enervation settling in

Becoming cozy amongst the muscles of my mental

Feelings pass like shadows through a fog

But I can't seem to shake

this overbearing underlying

sentiment of fatigue...

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 6

Love

Let's get lost in each other tonight

No worries

That's fear talking

Silence that savage beast

And let's explore

Learning more

about

our existence

through each other

with one another

let's find heights

and know lows

and classically grip

this massive balance

with each other's spirit

Let's find love

Tear down this wall

of what ifs

and embrace the beauty

of what is

Let's find

new mes

new yous

Let truth through

Because the truth is

I can get lost in all that is you

And I'm scared of how happy

that could make me

Because once you're gone

I'll be

half

empty

Let's embody spirituality

Create a new religion

just for two

Praying to each other

on knees

tasting truth

Let's kiss skies

and massage the earth

Birth a weightless spaceship

that's crawls through all

Slowly and certainly

never sure of future

but positively blessed

by the gift

of present

Let's present our presence

Till when we imagine our essence

we shake with a message

that's purer

than the darkest black

a mix

of mixtures

get fixed

on

pictures

of upside down birds

who flap in efforts to avoid crashing into the sky

Let's embrace that collision

listen to what others are terrified of missing

Let's evolve

Revolving

around the stupider aspects of this universe

then intellectually grasp our feelings

and tongue them down until they orgasm

squirting epiphanies into our awaiting mouths

and we shall taste

we shall swallow

we shall ingest

the directions

and allow the nutrients to become our skin

Let's mend and blend our minds

Let's become the makers and creators of our time

Floating like the note

on a rhyme

Let's blast through reality

Hug our insanity together

Let's make

Let's destroy

Let's fall

Let's rise

in

Passion.

My Love.

Let our thoughts match our actions

and

with that

we shall

immortalize

Compassion.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 5

Haiku

Dreamers see men in multi-colors

Where lovers don't fall

They hover

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 4

This man knew closets

This man knew closets

Like

winter clothes in the summertime

Like

monsters hiding in the imagination of young children

Like

porn magazines and condoms in shoeboxes

hidden from parents who maintain the illusion

that you're too young to know

right around the time when you've discovered

that you're just old enough

to blow

See

This man knew closets

This man knew closets

because he never knew the lust for a woman's touch

Never pressed for a woman's caress

See

He desired a more masculine approach

And he felt

Shame

Missing the thing

that he thought made him a man

So he hid

See

This man knew closets

And with his shame

Came anger

He clings so tightly to his fantasy of manhood

that he never manages to grasp

adulthood

One day

this man met me

And discovering he likes what he sees

He reacts in the only way he knows how

Confrontation is a pleasantry

when running from self reflection

Anything to avoid

this fight within

And I was blinded

I couldn't see his soul

the core that he blocked so readily with a closed fist

And if I could speak to that man candidly today

I'd tell him

I'm sorry

I'm sorry that I wasn't able to recognize

wasn't able to aid

didn't know what to do

in your struggle for sanity

I'm sorry I helped you hinder your growth

with my own clenched fist

Angry at an anger that made no sense to me

Well it does now

See

This man knew closets

This man knew cold dark fear

And as he ran from himself

he knocked me to the ground

See

His fight

will never be known

Because

He Will Never Admit

To knowing the deep dark shadows

Glowing within his own soul...

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 3

Mmmmmmm...

Running this bath water

Anticipation

It's been a long hour

Painful how the air touches my skin

Even more painful how this truth rubs against my soul

The friction makes me cringe

and beg for fiction

And so I run this bath

Intending to stay as long as life lets me

Finally...

I turn the faucet off

These lies will do just fine

Dipping my leg into them

I feel the warmth

of my own fantasies caress my leg

oh

so gently..

But I'm starting to notice a catch...

The longer I stay in this tub of deceit

The more I

remain

stagnant.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 2

Protection

I sit here

Naked

with my feelings

Tasting.

A bit stale.

They've been locked away far too long.

in a box

labeled

Manhood.

Almost forgot the combination.

30 Days 30 Poemas:: Day 1

So, a friend of mine is writing 30 poems in 30 days and has asked all writers to join her.

Here's Day 1.

"Black Hole"

there's a black hole in the middle of my mind

daily i circle it

eyes wide with something too close to love to be called fear

trying to avoid

this inevitable darkness

inch by inch i get closer

like slow sex

but without the passion

relaxing

only in moments

when drug induced vision

allows me to look and see light

then

i upchuck my fright

and end up right back in the same plight

there's a black hole in the middle of my mind

in it lies the questions of my existence

the blessings I find myself missing

sometimes i listen

and I swear I hear in it

my voice

yelling in a whisper

barely audible

that I have something so powerful

that it can change change.

Choice.

There's a black hole in the middle of my mind

Everytime I get too close

I lose reality

Slipping into uncertainty

Until I find an epiphany to grab onto

and help myself

pull myself out with it

There's a black hole in the middle of my mind

And I would stay on the outskirts all the time

If I wasn't so damn sure

that at the epicenter of that black hole

Lives a

beautiful

sweet

sanity.