more than mud

so... we own a bookstore now, hunh?

2011-09-10T20:20:00.002-04:00

been a busy last 4 months since my last regular post. found out in mid-april that my part-time gig at local landmark Morgan Adam Books was coming to an end - that the owner was closing up shop to concentrate on her other iconic business venture, Sqecial Media (the local head-shop). i was bummed a bit, because the bookstore was in my neighborhood and only a 15 minute walk away... ...well, damn. now i was probably gonna hafta find transportation not just for any potential new gig but just to be able to get out and SEARCH for a new gig ( "hey Crys, how much is a bus-pass anyway?" ). but leave it to Yard-Sale-Queen-Crys herself to never pass up an opportunity, so she says to me: "i've always wanted to own a bookstore - what about you?" i think i just kinda shrugged at first, not thinking she was fully serious about it, but then i saw her eyes beginning to light up some and i knew it was more than a hypothesis or passing fancy... ...did i wanna co-own a bookstore? ...did i?!?!?
well... i was finna be unemployed anyway, sooooo... "yeah, baby, sounds great!"

and in that moment, a wild hair gave birth to a wild fig....

...Morgan Adams Books closed its doors for the last time on May 16 and then a little over a month later, June 20, 2011: THE WILD FIG BOOKS is up and running.

we're hitting our 10th week... i think we'll be able to afford paying me a regular salary, oh say, Christmas... ...2015!

:)

i think i'm back...

2011-08-15T13:08:00.002-04:00

...sorry, i shudna left you.

gone tumblr...

2011-05-04T03:47:00.001-04:00

i've pretty much abandoned this blog for the time being, posting to my tumblr account instead. i wouldn't worry about it too much, i've left blogger before and yet we always seem to end up once again in each other's arms...

'the hero with an african face' by clyde w. ford

2011-02-10T00:49:00.000-05:00

the advantage to working in a used-book store is that i get the chance to claim dibs on any interesting books that the community brings in to us. it's rewarding to have materials cross my path, as a writer and visual artist, that i might not otherwise have known about - works that have fueled my poetry, collages and personal philosophy. monday, i had a book enter into my awareness that intellectually validates my diaphanous points of view. that book is Clyde W. Ford's

THE HERO WITH AN AFRICAN FACE

this book is jockeying to become my new personal bible (at least in equal tandem with Brother Ishmael Reed's novel 'Mumbo Jumbo' - or possibly, Reed's book is my old testament and Ford's is my new one).

i've only read a few pages today and it has already become a valuable creative resource. in it, Ford addresses the historical and cultural value of Africa's much-ignored mythological narratives, refusing to lump the entire CONTINENT and its people under one banner, the one modern historians use when reducing hundreds of independent cultures into one manageable stereotype.

this book is a blessing; its inspiring and i am indebted to its author for fueling ghosts that haunt my creativity.

romancing the (soap)stone)... part 3

2011-02-08T00:28:00.001-05:00

okay, down to the bone / what i do best (but not really anuff of!)

the 1980's is often considered "the Golden Age" of black consciousness - meaning so many of our creatives had or were building artistic platforms based on the foundations of the previous generation; there was a burgeoning sense of community and cultural aesthetic. pan-africanism was being extremely promoted through every outlet of black media (print, sound, sight) and was crossing over into mainstream thought and philosophies. educators were demanding afro-centric programs, rappers were chanting 'back to africa' as a way of improving our then-current social and political standings, african-inspired fashions were beginning to dominate our sense of style (african medallions instead of thick gold chains, kofis and crowns on our heads, abstract / geometrical designs dominated our hair styles, etc) - this "Golden Age" was the mainstreaming of the Black Arts Movement, building on the philosophies of black literature, politics and visual art. it was really a glorious feeling - there were negatives and growing pains, but such is to be expected whenever a counter-cultural phenomenon actively begins becoming more selective in what sustains it.

the system was beginning to tilt too much to one side for the comfort for all within the collective boundaries, this is how you know there is some sense of empowerment at stake for those within or on the periphery of such an event; so critiques came forth (with good intentions and detrimental ones) and said "we were wrong for romanticizing africa." this wasnt just an over-correction, this was a capsizing.

some of our most cultural creatives were alienated, some simply backed down, others took positions within the mainstream arenas hoping to eat the beast from inside the belly to out. name-calling ensued; cultural momentums fizzled. i distinctly remember the mid-90's feeling as if we were all walking in a haze of morphine - or 'cognac' and 'sticky icky', themes that were heavily featured in our surviving art-forms (mainly rap music), not merely 'urbanized' but now art-forms that glorified the trappings of a stylized ghetto. black folks weren't going back to africa. we were going back to asphalt, back to "the hood".

and now, a decade and a half later, when talking to the youth on the streets all you sense is detachment.

a whole generation was lost to "the white-t-shirt movement" - traditional black media failed staying relevant in a digital era while masters of the digital era heavily regulated cultural stereotypes in order to generate digital income. on television, radio and the internet our aesthetics are more rooted in "gangsta-gangsta" more-so than "i have a dream", "by any means necessary", and "the revolution will not be televised" combined!

now, the above page is taken from the 1973 edition of kenneth clark's "civilisation" - and i seriously doubt that most historians or art historians would openly agree with such assessments, but i also doubt that many of those same historians would privately feel any different than what was stated. greek and roman cultures are heavily lionized on every level of world education and entertainment, from disney to the louvre. the institutionalizing of the hellenistic aesthetic is what empowers all the branches of western society; there are other aesthetic branches of culture, but none as ideologically entrenched in everyday thought as what the west has enshrined around the globe.

dont get me wrong - this isnt a full-out rejection of all things western, or white... Crystal swears up and down that there is more than one victorian woman in my african ancestry - and i cant deny it, i enjoy a lot of that time frame, artistically / not socially.

all i'm saying is (insert artist statement here) :

that a people without control of the mythologies (oral or visual) that preceded them is not

respected as a world people and thus lacks the cultural influences beyond what is allowed them.

we must once again romanticize everything about us / granting new power to our old slogans:

black IS beautiful... and more importantly than that, black is canonical.

romancing the (soap)stone... part 2

2011-02-07T09:46:00.002-05:00

i've been waiting for the right moment to finish the (incomplete) thought began in part 1 of this posting; i had danced around what i was wanting to get at and before i knew it i had run out of time... it'll probably happen again and then this once-intended stand-alone blog entry will become a series with a life of its own and me playing dr. frankenstein attempting to keep it from discovering too much about itself.

at my core, i'm a villainous man. we just started watching the tv show 'heroes' (almost good, but mostly so boring) on netflix - i find myself always rooting for Sylar. the last couple of episodes (the middle of season 3) are dealing with the theme of "catalyst"... transformative events that get labeled as having "game-changing" effects. you often hear that word "game-changer" on talk shows featuring one-party-punditry where policies and political candidates are being championed... but just a few days ago i overheard Crystal use that word during a phone conversation she was having. later that day Bill Maher said to someone on his panel "if i hear that word [game-changer] one more time i'm gonna pfnkasdfipaeaefabne...." or something like that, i wasnt fully paying attention.

but "catalyst"... yes.

transformation tends to be at the heart of my creativity, as it is with most creative-types, so i'm particularly drawn to those phrasings when other folks are discussing them, whether political, social, artistic, literary or whatever the subject may be... i'm drawn in.

the catalyst for me to finish this attempted blog-thought came at me, again, by way of conversations Crystal was having with a friend. it concerned the poem "The Change" by Tony Hoagland in which he describes the uneasy demise of (some!) white privilege / perspective / authoritative might. Images of an increasingly empowered Blackness threaten the status quo and his poem reflects the shifting social response of many whites. It's a pretty good poem. it does depict a strong prejudice against Blackness in general and the black female athlete in particular, but its all within context - white fear, angst and ignorance are exposed at the expense of black stereotyping - neither aspect is particularly flattering, to whites or to blacks, but the resulting message is this: white folks had better get used to this assault to their personal mythologies; these black folks aint bullshittin'...

the lead black character in the poem, Vondella Aphrodite, represents exactly what i mean when i talk about my 'abstrack africana' aesthetic - how we must mythologize our own black images, praise them and hold them on high / above all 'normal' things - making our stories of us canonical, something to be romanticized about and shot at by those hating to see us, as a whole, rise up above the limitations society pre-determines us to have.

(will be back shortly with part 3 - fatboy hasta go punch the clock!)

ancestral voices...

2011-02-01T07:19:00.000-05:00

new poem...

2011-01-21T15:55:00.000-05:00

Amandla County Folksong
- for Crys.

by a beautiful birthright
i was born the peasant-boy for this pixel era - the 300
pound pauper onscreen at 72 dpi; the daydreamer behind
the Poro mask. i’ve always lean’d into book-learning,
it reinforces what stargazing has reveal’d: that above all,
to not revel in you should be avoid’d. i watch you as you
wii / my dark eyes peering at you between pages, line
counts, stanza breaks. your black skin pierces the night
like the Eye Of God, his insights ignited and me with
a perspiration of pot-liquor & blues, thick & combustible.
this desire-daub sizzles, drop’d into sly-look’s molten oil.
i see you in all your glory, there is Genesis in your dance
steps. by what Igbo spell does the dry air between us resist
retardants, awaiting the aflamation of kiss / the necessary
ablution of spit against skin / the abscission of tongue
against tongue? in the belly of my head i hunger you. at
your touch a willing skin hisses steam. we two are drench’d
instantaneously; my poems are a song for the Auset in you
with Shango’s palms entangl’d in the thickets at her nape,
plying between shoulder blades, collarbones & thighs. but
i am but a pauper and you are pokeweeds & the perfection
of onyx. Bennu rebuilds his nest within my breath for you.
the synthetic sugar i use in coffee helps me to stir up
the myth, my black poems sandwich’d between the diabetic
breads of my aesthetic: i lay my plates before you / on your
lap, at your feet. i only want to un-famish you and ‘tho i am
half a loaf of a man i am made of no loose chaff, this recipe-me
is sacred & golden & carnal, in this vein i am cosmic. and from
my open paws i give you this crust, the crevices & the crests;
my all & all. i crumble solstice where you are somber, solemn,
in need of solace - by right of a beautiful birth, i beg you,
QueenMother, to eat of me.

help me get the body in the trunk...

2011-01-19T09:34:00.000-05:00

my bs bio bo

2011-01-13T22:27:00.001-05:00

the tale-end of my pdf chapbook...

shovelin’ dirt, my bullshit autobiographical body odor
(a Q and A session between a fool and his Orishas... or maybe a dream)

...

Elegbara: so... you’re gonna put all this shit off on us, hunh? the delusions,
        the hallucinations, your penchant for bourbon poured over ice cream,
        your OCD, the    typos... you’re saying all of that is our fault?

brothadirt: (undecipherable mumbling)

Jesus: excuse me, but could you please lean into the microphone when answering.
        thank you.

brothadirt: (over feedback from fumbling, making adjustments to the mic)
        -ammit, i SAID yes! you hear me now? whuuh... whuuh...

brothadirt's son Jordan, who lived 4 hours in 1988: daddy, please... dont blow into the mic.
        i swair you have no home-training sometimes. embarrassin’.

Elegbara: brothadirt, elaborate.

brothadirt: “elaborate.”     “elaborate.”     “e... l... a... b...”

Yemoja: sir, this is not a spelling bee. Elegba was asking you to explain yourself.

brothadirt: oh. okay. gotcha. you know, i’ve been up all night making last minute edits
        anshit. working on art. its kinda hard to concentrate at times. plus,
        i see that Coyolxauhqui is watching one life to live and i’m trying not to
        hear what’s happenin’ between Sammy and EJ... i have tivo and i’m wantin’ to
        watch this later on when i get home.

Sun Ra: i pegged you as a young and the restless type of guy...

brothadirt: yes, i was raised young and restless. but after i met Crystal i converted.

(Sun Ra nods and Coyolxauhqui cuts the sound down)

(brothadirt continues)

brothadirt: “elaborate” - well, you all know what haunts me, but for the purposes of
        establishing this on record, i’ll recant my testimony...

Yemoja: you mean “reiterate”... surely you’re not wanting to ‘disavow’ yourself.
        and sir, could you please refrain from rolling your eyes. please.

brothadirt: sista, you KNOW i would never be that disrespectful to you; if it comes
        across that way then please forgive me. i’ve got these moles around my
        eyes and sometimes they itch. i was merely stretching my brow-muscles
        trying to scratch my lids without touching my face. that make sense?
        but you’re right... i didnt mean ‘recant’.
        (googles for the correct definition of ‘reiterate’ on his blackberry)
        okay...
        well. i was born in louisville. kentucky.

Sun Ra: I OBJECT! you only think you were born in louisville, kentucky. but you,
        my child, are a son of saturn. continue.

brothadirt: never been to saturn. but i’ve heard nice things. we always talkabout
        retiring there someday. but i’ve been working part-time in a used-book
        store since i moved to lexington, so, i think ‘retirement’ and ‘quitting’
        will be one-and-the-same. i do think my moon was in saturn when i was
        born, if that’s any consolation. but i’m jus’ guessing at that right now.

        uh, i ramble. you all know that.
        i have no problem with yall prodding me to get the answers you want.
        i have a movie-date with Crystal when she gets home and i sorely need
        to shower and put some smellgood on.

Fela Kuti: rambling is beautiful. it’s okay for your stage presence to carry on and on
        for days at a time.

Elegbara: (shakes head... sighs... drops head into palms, turns to some of the blues
        men on the panel for support)

(Junior Kimbrough just shrugs. Muddy Waters is smoking reefer and drinking
        champaign and defers to John Lee Hooker, himself drinking a beer;
        John Lee looks up, taps cigarette ashes into a tray, then waves his the
        back of his hand in brothadirt’s general direction.)

John Lee: uh... boogie on, children.

brothadirt: yes... yes. i will. thank you sir for your eloquence. let me just say how         much
        i deeply admire tonight’s entire panel.
        (nods to Romare, Ahmose of Egypt’s 18th Dynasty, Lucille Clifton,
        and the other honored Egungun held in high esteem)

        let me start at the beginning:
        my government name is ronald davis.
        in keeping to the time honored tradition of my african, native american
        and hip-hop-emcee ancestors, i changed my name to ‘upfromsumdirt’
        taking from an old poem i wrote in which i figuratively said
        “i’m up from some dirt, like a pyramid.”
        back when i was starting to truly come into my own natural voice
        as a descendent-looking-in of the black arts movement.

        (grabs mic, stands up, motions to the background singers to cue up)

dirt continues:
as you all know and i’m REITERATING (thumbs up sign to sistaYemoja) i’m haunted by africa-america’s lack in mythological narrative. i cant imagine sitting down to tuck my grandchildren into bed telling them origin-stories that begin with
“and the heaven’s opened up, a gang-plank descended, and out stepped america’s black-assed-children-of-God in chains and shackles.” (shudders)
every child needs to know they come from somewhere magical. mythological. my own motto has been for years “a people without the science to turn their folktales into tradition are not respected by the world at large as an empowered people or a culture to be recognized, worthy of romanticism.” i mean, sometimes i dont say it like that... the words change at times, but that’s the gist of it. i just added ‘romanticism’, but yeah. that.

so as an artist, i’m always attempting to fill in the void - not the definitive historical stuff, because others are already doing so. my job as a black creative (and i have to be “a black creative” because there is still a need for us to champion an honorable black aesthetic. the art and sciences we create are still lumped under the label of second-hand-citizenry, we still tend to draw from the european classics while ignoring the vast volumes of africa’s and africa-america’s largely ignored narratives. black bookstores are gone. black newspapers have bitten the dust. our black magazines are owned by non-black foreigners and this is truly acceptable under america’s assimilated lifestyle.
a lifestyle that is based on universal-liberalism (in vision, not in practice) that is still based on the traditions of those who only know ‘black art’ by way of the media, grade school, and/or stereotype-as-the-easy-answer.

Granmama Lizzie: all this talkn is makin’ my stomach hurt. yall niggas are gonna mess         around and make me late for bingo, shit.

still dirt: i mean, even black folks hold these common beliefs about their own culture, because it is something that is fed to us from our t.v. sets and internet connections, not something that is raised organically within our own homes... so we shrug and say, “well, if they say this is how black people™ are on t.v., then who am i to say otherwise. and where are those visibly acknowledging an alternative or counter- position?” the internet is cool, but the information existing on it is transient and always in flux as information is transferred from one-cool-website-to-the-next-one.
then it all fizzles, begins again. momentums are lost. the calvary only comes for ‘the assimilated us’ and never for those of us attempting to master the serious-concept.
and when it does swing low to carry us, it is never to the homes we recognize or hope for. in this extra-digital era, the most lasting truth is the one you can touch and hold.
america holds onto its cellphones more than anything else. you can maintain an informed culture this way, but its difficult, in my opinion, to achieve an academic culture using digital technology as our reference guides.

Jam Master Jay: so what is your position on the state of hiphop these days? can you
        elaborate about the disappearance of the urban dj in rap culture?

brothadirt: man, now you’re askin me to say sumshit. i aint got that kinda time. this is
        a chapbook, afterall. i’m already nearing 30 pages and my internet
        provider says i’m dangerously close to going over the bandwidth levels
        previously authorized.     but yeah, hiphop sucks, fareal.

Elegbara: you tip the scales at 270 pounds with your fat ass... you still claiming to be a
        vegetarian? my concerns are incredulous.

brothadirt: i’ll have words with you later out back.

Elegbara: dont bring a knife, you know how i roll. so if your ‘words’ for me dont
        begin with “you know, i was way out of line” then we might be talkn’
        ‘final words’ here. you hear me?

brothadirt: yes, suh. i hear you.

Elegbara: it wasnt even a question.

Zora: gentlemen, mind the testosterone levels, please. the warning signal is flashing.

(both parties suck their teeth)

Father Ptah: i think this is a good time to end this meeting. let’s adjourn until
        tomorrow and then resume the interro, the interview, tomorrow between
        9 and 10. (slams gavel)

(Elegbara pulls upfromsumdirt aside, his rough hand clasping harshly the nape of brothadirt’s neck)

Elegbara: i got my eye on you fatboy.

brothadirt: i wouldnt have it any other way...

Elegbara: as it should be.

• by law, they exchange dap. cellphones begin whirling; laptops are booted up;
everyone retreats to their own respective shadows...

Elegbara stops in his tracks, turns and hollers back in dirt’s direction... wants to know
if Granmama Lizzie is seein’ anybody. thinks twice about it/waves dirt off...
        Penumbra-Prime decides to handle his interests hisself.

Elegbara: hey, sistaLizzie... you need a ride to bingo? i got camels... or a cadillac,
        if that’s what you’d prefer. i can take you where you want, i got keys.
        i know a good place for catfish. i know a place where the coffee is good.
        everywhere i go i get a real good reception.... join me sista,
            jus’ join me.

romancing the (soap)stone... part 1

2011-01-10T08:29:00.004-05:00

(i'm a hermit by nature, so thank Olodumare this 'internet' thingie is good at
hiding wizards behind curtains! and now, once again, i throw the switch...)

adolescence was burdensome to me, the whole 'coming of age' thing while having both feet planted in culturally parallel worlds. the one, the so-called 'mainstream america' - you already know it, the one where (hold on, let me read it straight from the sociologist's textbook) "chirrens of all races and ethnic backgrounds mix, mingle and melt into an amalgam of theoretically patriotic pastes while maintaining the universally exploitative standards that help categorize this great american nation!"

high school epitomized that exact ideal: let's segregate the "top" scholastic talent (i.e, "non-threatening-looking") of black children in our school system from the core group of black students we cant identify with and place them for the duration of their high school experience within the classroom of "top" white students (i.e, also "non-threatening-looking", but smattered with the "popular-pretty" and the "popular-dumb jock" - those best suited to take full scholastic advantage of the "studious uncool")... this meant that i was the only black guy, along with 4 black girls, in my classroom for the entire four years (the "excel program" was an experimental program - no need in placing more than one 'gifted' black male into a study group, not until we know exactly what they are capable of!)...

and you would THINK that having access to 4 intelligent sistas would be the ideal situation for a young man growing into his own, but you'd be dead wrong! blame the dumb jocks allowed to infiltrate our pavlovian setting. popular dumb white jocks have popular dumb black jock friends... if there is a dumb jock in your current professional group he exists only as a conduit for the dumb jocks on the outside to come raid the cookie jar as they "convince" you its for the common good (meaning, none of your stupid geek business!). a single black nerd cant compete against jock-osmosis... it's a brutal system based on wins-and-losses, not a grading curve... meanwhile, its me hanging out with the 'big-bang-theory-prototypes' - we speak D&D quite fluently, draw our own comic books and write poems about killing our chem teacher. outside of my white male excel-program constituents, i am not considered "a catch", on any level... and then, after 4 years of high school camaraderie, your closest white friends think you're all cool enough with each other that one of them can start telling 'nigga jokes' - to be fair, george carlin and richard pryor were the comedic icons at that time. that doesnt excuse them and it effectively ended any sense of friendship i thought was built up, but we had all grew up watching george jefferson shout 'honkie' into the faces of his 'friends' over a laugh track. plus eddie murphy had emerged onto the scene, becoming the most famous by exploiting the 'nigga stereotypes' - buckwheat, the ghetto mr. rogers, black panther parodies, etc... the pendulum got stuck in its swing between 'angry black men' and 'shuckin and jivin black men'... the early 1980's was all about the angry-shuckin-and-jivin black man. supposedly far enough removed from the civil rights era to as not be offended by the social equivalent of racism's second-hand smoke.

but i wasnt that cool and i knew there was still a need for politics; that 'empowerment' offered other options. the power to let you laugh wholehearted at the stereotype of me is important, but its not the first one a person dreams about, wakes up wanting and jots down at the top of his notepad.

in the meantime, Jes Grew (google it!) was changing the attire of the Black Arts Movement - hip hop channeled the spirit of the creative-oppressed and i found a new focus for my energies. if 'mainstream america' was the stepping stone for my left foot, then this unappreciated new black artform was the groundswell for my right. Africa Bambaataa held equal stage with Kraftwerk and Art of Noise... Basquiat exemplified what most alienated black creatives was going through, this simultaneous struggle for identity and non-identity. we were the Pfunk mantra played out, of freedom being free of the need for being free...

we didnt muse about freedom, about sharing the front seats of public transportation trying to prove the point of how non-threatening we could be... our dream wasnt for freedom. it was for an identity free of the identity america had planned for us. our parents were the ones who had dreamed of working at ford and general electric, of providing greater opportunities than they had... but it was our generation that had sat back to ask: but what was so wrong with the laundry mat you owned all to your self? only in america, because of the need for black people to escape from deep-rooted segregation, was the need to work for one's self considered a social sin... this is the point in american history where the prospects of "freedom" actually became a set-back.

lit-crush (menage-a-trois) of the month

2011-01-06T16:47:00.005-05:00

"Assimilate; don't be assimilated." - Léopold Sédar Senghor

Senghor (1906-2001), a Senegalese poet, the country's first president, and an absolute Francophile, maintained early on that the best way to support and protect one's indigenous origins, especially for Africans, was by using contemporary (European) methods, or 'the master's tools' as referred to by James Baldwin, to canonize the legacy of your people and NOT by using those methods to dismantle one's culture, rebuilding some Euro-nized facsimile in its place. i've been in serious 'black empowerment' discussions where this point is missed or mistakenly appropriated as an act of oppression... i've had to 'dumb-down' the talking points to this: "if you stole the colt-45 of your oppressor to gain your freedom you wouldnt doubt your own motives by suggesting that an american made gun invalidates that freedom - it's how you use it, what you do with it that matters the most."
- that same theory holds true if your weapon of choice is the inkpen or the paintbrush. the world is moving forward, making advances - with or without us - and our narratives ARE going to be told and preserved, the only question is who will be the curator of such narratives: those who are native to those narratives or those who are only out to catalog stories and art, interpreting the meanings however they see fit? we, as black creatives, must curate our own work; validate what has the most 'authenticity' so that outsiders will fully understand what our value systems are.

love who you are. understand where you come from. let these understandings be the cornerstone of the art, philosophies and sciences that you create, just as other cultures (European, Asian, Carib, etc) have done; just as Africa had always done prior to colonization - tell your tales without flinching, let your own tongue be triumphant in the way it organizes your stories. use what embodies the contemporary in your own times, this is the only way for you to achieve relevance beyond your own era.

Senghor did this successfully, utilizing the written word to canonize his African-ness in France, in Senegal, and on the world stage. such work leaves a lasting impression on me... and as poetry editor for Mythium, it's one of the main things i look for in submissions: finely ~~crafted~~ nuanced work with distinguishable, cultural undertones.

nuanced, not annoying or the nuisance of self-indulgent hubris.

i often credit Haki Madhubuti's book earthquakes and sunrise missions as being "my literary bible". my sister Karen gave me a copy for my 21st birthday and his work inspired my creativity and the new way in which i approached writing. before then i was Chuck D Lite, writing angry, black-conscious poetry rants. Haki's book gave me focus and a better understanding of what it means to craft your work. although i was familiar with Gwen Brooks, Gil Scott-Heron, Sonia Sanchez, the Last Poets and tons of other Black Arts Movement writers, it was the tone of Haki's work that influenced me the most and made me want to be a writer instead of merely being a black poetry fan. he was writing black poems FOR black people to heal to, not black poems to strictly poke in the eyes of our oppressors...

from him i fell into the works of Lucille Clifton; her poem "if i stand in my window" is my all time favorite above every other poem ever written on the face of the earth! it's such a short piece and yet it has metaphor, self-love, AND oppressor eye-poke ability all in one... embodies craft and depth and is the epitome of Senghor's philosophy of "assimilate; don't be assimilated."

but Senghor, Madhubuti, and Clifton are not the subject for this 'lit-crush menage-a-trois entry... no.
it's Senghor, Ishmael Reed and Nikky Finney...

i'm late coming to fully appreciate the works of Senghor, having only become familiar with his work in the past couple of years - but his sincerity to his craft and subject matter mirror what i would gratefully love to emulate in my own writing.

i first read Ishmael Reed's poetry back when i was too young to appreciate it and he didnt re-enter my consciousness until after i had read his novel, Mumbo Jumbo, about 15 years ago... that book is now my second bible! in my most creative moments i am channeling the spirits of Papa LaBas, Jes Grew and the Mumbo Jumbo Kathedral... it grounds my space-age sensibilities in the root-works of African culture as seen through the eyes of a black man raised on speed racer, sanford and son, mantronix, and saturday morning cartoons, pre-cable tv era. not just Black America, Ishmael Reed steered me toward the importance of romanticizing one's own heritage in order to canonize your own art. "I Am a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra" is a poetry classic... his work should be taught everywhere!
but only by educators who 'get it', but sadly - it seems - our teachers leap from Langston Hughes to Maya Angelou to fill-in well-advertised contemporary-black poet-of-the-moment here. maybe Audre Lorde. Gwen Brooks. Rita Dove... ...the on-the-surface classics, but seldom those below the radar who had or have been writing exceptional work for a mighty long time. their names might be mentioned, but is their work being thoroughly discussed in a classroom setting? i dont know... i'd be happy to hear about such literary programs.

my first encounter with Nikky Finney's work happened in 2001, when i stumbled across her poem, "Assam", in the Step Into A World anthology - in that piece, she writes about a maternal figure "steeping" in the ocean as if a teabag. i'm HORRIBLE with names, so me being a very visual person that single bit of imagery has haunted me since i first read it! i remember everything by way of imagery... and emotion. (and since my copy of the anthology, misappropriated from a library ((a complete accident i swear!)) is missing, i'm not even sure that the title 'assam' is even correct and its one of my top five poems ever; thank you google, for what sounds like the correct title!)

((to be 100% transparent, i still have to refer to Lucille Clifton's work to correctly remember the title for "if i stand in my window" where she is actually standing in her window in the poem! - memory, BAD!))

(((i've had people quote my own work to me while i waited for them to tell me who the author was!)))

back to the point: A BLACK WOMAN WADES INTO THE SEA, FLAVORS THE ENTIRE OCEAN!

- that's dope.

Finney's poetry has taught me the importance of physically honoring our people, not abstractly or in attempts to recreate the personal mythologies that haunt me, but of immediate flesh and blood bonds - something i have never mastered and more than likely never will. i've had a son die, a nephew survive being in the second world trade tower when the plane hit, the passing of my father who i still have unresolved issues... and nothing i have ever attempted poetically has done justice (to me) in those events. i'm incapable of writing personal narratives that involve my loved ones, with the exception of 'being in love' poems - i can wax poetic about Crystal's effects on me all day! but to write about Crystal as a whole person outside of my affection for her would be a task, because i remain unable to fully encapsulate her womanhood, her country background, her afrocentric tendencies, or her feminist nature adequately. as a writer i know its not a necessity, that its even an impossibility to fully portray someone accurately in all dimensions of their being in a single poem (or even in a group of poems)...

i might incorporate icons famous to me in my work, but for the above reason, i could never be "a persona poet" - not that i lack the skill. i lack the nerve. i can write about me, Sun Ra, and Olodumare in a stolen Jeep driving drunk to a knife fight at the Source Awards, but to take a page from Sonny Blount's actual life to place solely into verse? i could never do it. not without space aliens and a craps game entering the picture...

but when i do attempt to write about something personal, it's Nikky Finney's work that first comes to mind... she has a very humanistic approach in her writing - her characters are tangible, not because they put on shoes and walk - but because her writing makes me feel its subject's toes protruding from their socks within those shoes... her poetry reflects Senghor's approach: not only do i feel her South Carolinian heritage, it also feels authentically 'black' - a rarity in an age where the current philosophy of black writers suggests we aggrandize the dysfunctional in order to be seen as "progressive"...

i'm not opposed to the exaggerated or the cinematic in our poetry, but there's this 'twitter-effect' going on in literature where common, everyday happenings are placed into verse with little poetic device, and yet we are expected to assume that something poetic is riding underneath - the cinematic assumed.

but that's another issue...

Léopold Sédar Senghor
Ishmael Reed
Nikky Finney

"assimilate... don't be assimilated!"

the death of olympia (work in progress)

2010-12-30T01:34:00.003-05:00

- after edouard manet's olympia, oil on canvas. (image below)

you have slaved, my sweet queen, toiling
at the feet of empire, your heels to the fire
but "negress", you are my nation. you, my
love, are my 'lady of the room', my odalisque
in apron and sack-cloth / more flora than
the emperors will ever secure for themselves...

soul by soul, scar removes scar / touch us,
tar-like; in embrace black is ablute / we are
soot and silk in joyful longing.

olympia? she can only lay there, wanting figs
and breeding bedbugs / she cries in her sleep
and mourns like vesuvius, her smothered
lamentations flowing into pillow / poor her.
you rub her down, my dark sage, in rosemary
and thyme but she is thistle in our eyes.

you tend to the care of her abject porcelain,
basting breasts and ass in the plumes of
privilege, this pot roast of a woman marinated
by your hands, awaits rotisserie. change her
bedpans then turn her on the spit... line
her torso and thighs with russets and celery...
do not bruise the flower in her hair
or the apple in her mouth!

braise her skin in sandalwood and rose
petals staring at her blemishes until she
blushes, mistaking evil-eye for infatuation...

"mistress, your nightgown." bow, your
brow low hiding the contempt for having
to wait hand and foot on this frail pitiful
thing, but hope for solidarity. maybe
she'll understand, acknowledging
the sisterhood-of-servitude binding
you both. hope for smiles but if
she snarls, well, well then...

remember, queen, the cure for rabies / you've
been bitten by much better breeds and she too
will soon recede, as all do, into the compost of
concubines. and to that end, hemlock is kept in
secret cupboards in the kitchen; signal the cook
by singing "the king and rook have castled, so
pawn takes queen." then return to your mistress,
the heirloom wasting away in the room-for-whores,
with plums piled high and pillowed about goblets
of wine / just smile and nod... bow, brow low.
purge her clean with midnight paregorics.
whisper spells to the fair maiden

"forgive me, O, Olympia, but
i have no more life to lien you."

soften the blow, her sheets a shroud. then
clean the cottons; smooth the linens. you've
always allowed her kindness. she is figurehead,
but you rule the roost and very few will think
you, darkie, to be so devious... dismiss her with
care then come quickly home / embrace me,
i will halo you because - scar removes scar.

behind our walls of thatch and tin, we two
usurp the throne; courtesans of the dust...
mouth-to-mouth we are magna carta
- magenta / black magic.

jesters always bray in awe at finely dyed
plumage, but every peacock has a claw
to cleave and to cut, to have and to hold...
that is why i adulate you. head bowed, eyes
closed, lips to palm: i worship you; all
of these poems are your pedestal;
not just adore...

...idolatry.

"amphoric merit badge" - a rough, but not as rough draft...

2010-12-11T19:39:00.006-05:00

"Bum stiggedy bum stiggedy bum, hon, I got the old pa-rum-pum-pum-pum
But I can fe-fi-fo-fum, diddly-bum, here I come"
- das efx, they want efx

"....in spite all of the bullshit we on our back starin at the stars above
Talkin bout what we gonna be when we grow up
I said what you wanna be, she said, Alive
It made me think for a minute, then looked in her eyes"
- outkast, da art of story telling pt. 1

1.
imacs are buried in the backyard
covered in the composts of childhood:
evel knievel action figures, 4 x-men
comic books (issues 135 - 138), one
of daddy's rusty ass pocketknives, a torn
tape of brother malcolm's "i was in
the house last night when the bomb
went off" speech stored in P.E.'s
"it takes a nation of millions to hold
us back" clear cassette case - ancient
analogs, all catalogued during my mid-
to late-teens; each one an heirloom for
ascension. an atari joystick broken
after joining the boy scouts; a red, black,
and green african medallion purchased
from alphonso's head shop at 15th and
broadway; my entire elementary school
hot wheels collection re-coated in mama's
maybelline fingernail polish / plum red.
i am primed for power; 100% anabiotical.

2.
exegeses marks the spot: the knick-knacks
of an ex-colored/negro/black/afro'd african
boy born and raised on the soils of america;
these spoils of war. the homes of my great-
great-(great?)-grandfather were looted; legacies,
languages, and the learning of familial
trades - all lost. i've lived my whole life as
the industrial pollution of hate, a hard history
to cope with. "shit, nigga, get over it." was
stamped on birth certificate. but if jack kevorkian
was black they would have sat back in stereotypical
understanding, the way he "devalues life" chalked
up to the flowcharts of his nature; blame it on
phrenology, not as the after effects of racism.
patty hearst would have never made it to folklore
as an african. too bad 'symbiosis' wasnt invented
until 1974.

3.
i packed all the compost down, $3000 imac
included; disgusted drawing circles around
myself picking a peck of pixels out of concentric
philosophies. a pack of cmyk-colored hellhounds
nipping at my heels; candy-colored crayons
in my cigarette box as a self-appointed samo©
substitute anointing african spirits at 72dpi. my
desktop apple a bag of beans growing totems
instead of beanstalks. this is how a 21st century
houngan connects to the ethernet. we transmogrify
technology or we die. but pass or fail, we still
come out the 'other side' in much better shape
than how we arrived.

4.
examinations in the spiritual side
has always been our science;
"thank god i was born a smart-ass."
is an african-american slogan.

5.
my poems hide behind Poro masks, "africadabra"
written in reams on lumumba carson's mythical
shroud hidden beneath the tongue, an ndebele temple.
words have a torso of driftwood, orbital bones cast
in cowries, words with afros carved from soapstone
standing tall like an afrocentric skyscraper in shell-toes,
no shoestrings (all poem lacks is 8 square feet of
linoleum and a jvc boombox strapped to its shoulder).
i am a god of life; a walking / talking ossuary. not
"hidden" as in you're not allowed to see but "hidden"
as in get up off your ass / come and find me.

6.
i'm johnnie conqueroo growing guedes from
an apple seed. i pray at the knee of forgotten
equations, but i'm not an atheist... ...this is
amethysticism - a purple reign empowered
from a borrowed bandwidth. "rich?" no.
i am witch, bitch. damballah wedo hazed me
as a rookie; baron saturday sat and watched
over me as goddess asase spun gospel on
the ones and twos...

7.
my merit badge is earned. i've join'd the club.
i'm in the guild. the written word pays my dues;
my voice drifts up from the vévés drawn in cornstarch
on the kitchen floor. there is hip hop and polynomials
in my poetry. i'm a psychopomp with kentucky
tendencies... lean unto my shoulder, my collarbone
is keystone for a bucolic cosmology, my portmanteau
is neon, Chukwu is common denominator for nommo
and numen and there is rainbow to my gravitational
collapse. Petey Wheatstraw breaks bread with Unoka
in prose... Achebe and Octavia hold congress to my
confessions / in poems i am Roy G. Biv in dreadlocks;
i'm polychromatic with my caul and response. in black
words i am supernal, a supernumerarian and there is
nympholepsy in my black-on-black praise-songs.

8.
relax, child.

pawpaw has you now. allow me to
induce nutation; it wont hurt you.
i am paregoric - i taste bad; but you'll
learn to like it. my vespers rubbed
into your chest and my hooks in your
nose, your eyes open / your eyes close.
a camphoric ghost-story my words.
it's all about the blowing of smoke;
the way a writer purses his lips and
makes a bottle bellow, his breath
breaking wind in passing, releasing
the djinn from the jug, birthing
laureates from mush-fakers and
dervish-fakirs, every word an ovary,
every thought an opening.

i stumbled into black lit / fell into
insemination; this composite poem
a pimp and a parable - this is the part
you pay the fee and enter / enter;
pretentious or extra-celestial, there
is no winter here. here be dragons -
i'm houngan from a black cocoon.

8.
the babalawo in a b-boy stance.

"woman with small ankles" (poem)

2010-12-05T05:06:00.010-05:00

"woman with small ankles

kneading wheat-gluten"

- 18x11

historical fiction & mythology on poster board

2010 - sold!

(for crystal)
...

ah, if only i knew with highest surety
that a son of osiris had created jazz, then
i could claim your stance the world's most
elegant musical composition. or if sun ra
had turned ascension into t-shirts
i would silkscreen you across the bluegrass.
i'd be an advocate. your acolyte seeing
your dark face in the bark of white poplars,
be the first man in a line a block long / a throng
of worshipers and well-wishers come to lay
offerings at your roots, sing songs of your grace.
if you are ceo of unseen beauty then consider me
an intern. your initiate. initialize the program of me.
i'm already chief-squatter in charge of
your crawlspaces. i am damp. covered in dew
and your mosses. i draw the celestial heavens
in your soot and seitan droppings...
i paint you in coal and cornbread on canvas,
draw you in coal and water colors on the sidewalk
for the daughters-of-zora to hopscotch on.
you are my creator and i collage you, your distracting
visage hangs in my hallowed halls, your facebook
avatar is framed in glass on my temple walls;
this aesthetic of you lining the shadows of my life
like pedro bell's signature art style on a pfunk
album cover; your country smile my hardcore jolly.

and i love you.
i love you more.

you are my ideal for an abstract africana;
my prototype for an african space program
in payless heels / a sande priestess storing
the nile delta in a goodwill purse - i orbit all of you.
you give good gravity (and your meatless gravies
are also good!) my language crawls into your lap;
you are not my mama. you are my motherboard.
i offer you cupboards, this canvas-me the pantry
for your absolute womanhood.

the "black artist vs. artist who happens to be black" argument...

2010-12-03T20:44:00.001-05:00

there's a(nother) "being a black artist vs. being an artist who happens to be black" discussion going
on at black art in america. i think we spend too much time discussing this issue, only because it
never seems to lead to a fulfilling conclusion one way or the other... people, for their own various
reasons, are often entrenched in their beliefs (and even their lack-of-beliefs) concerning the matter.
BAIA is good because it brings many artists together who otherwise would not or may not have been
aware of one another. every generation seems to have this discussion. at some point i'd like to see us
focus more on our collectively individualistic destinations as opposed to our walking in circles
while debating which of us has the most recent cultural thesaurus.

click the link above to view the discussion in its entirety; the following is my latest response:

the ideologies of 'blackness' are always shifting/changing - colored, negro, black, afro, african, universal, etc - and in the wake of us traveling toward a more complete self-definition or running away from full-time labels with part-time social impact, how does an artist make his/her craft remain 'relevant' to transient, cultural philosophies? to be relevant means we have to direct our work towards a fixed ideal. a focal point. and in this 21st century focal points seem to be the last of our concerns.

i fully admit to being jaded. i firmly consider myself a black artist. i seriously attempt to make work that expands the definition of pan-africanism more than it attempts to redefine it. being 'black' is a tribal belief for me, the art and literature i create are my rites of passage into that tradition. i'm 'a race man'. for me, discussing 'blackness' equates to comparing the differences between 2 floods 50 years apart: "yeah, the water was really deep last year, but you shoulda seen the flood in 1962! that was a flood!" a flood is a natural action. the only thing that changes during floods is a person's proximity to them - the closer you are at that moment the more detailed your views about it. "blackness" is the same way. either we choose to be right up on it / in the middle of it or we paddle away, trusting that the natural calamities of higher ground will be more kind to us. i've used that analogy before and someone suggested that maybe a flood is akin to a baptism... it can be, but that's a romanticism of the problem. reality sometimes hurts too much to view it with kindness. this is a reason why many of us are so divided about what it means and doesnt mean to carry the label of being a black artist.

when we romanticize being black then a certain portion of our people, still bearing scars and in search of healing, will flinch, still stuck on the very real things that has happened to them as a result of racism, histories of being disenfranchised, and the ugliness that other black people have inflicted upon them. too often, those of us who are very positive in labeling ourselves as 'black artists' bash that concept over the heads of those who are still working toward labels that work for them. during a flood, you can't make me get into your raft if i've chosen to swim. i may drown; you may not want me to; but that is for me to discover. those in the raft travel in one direction, those in the water get swept away elsewhere.

what needs to happen is this: the people in the boat follow the people who are swimming - that, for me, is the only working definition of what it means to be 'black'. anything else is a person grinding an ax.

so... "relevant"?

swimming or rowing, both are relevant actions to the people involved in those circumstances.

soapboxin'...

2010-12-03T15:03:00.000-05:00

at some point maturity itself must become your priority.

you must be able to recognize when lifestyles and philosophies aren't working for you.

that if some of the ideals that you hold dear aren't fulfilling you spiritually, psychologically, or
philosophically, then you need to surrender those concepts to a higher or alternate authority
and develop new ones that become beneficial to you as a growing entity.

wrapping your identity in concepts you developed for yourself in your youth, before your
acquisition of wisdom (or what passes as 'wisdom') or concepts that are counterproductive
to how you must carry yourself as an adult on a daily basis, harms not only you as an
individual, but also harms the collection of individuals surrounding you who care about
your well-being. at some point the weight of what is "real, loving, and lasting" in your life
must take precedence over the illusions we tend to carry with us, masking who we truly are
with the dream-of-who-we-see-ourselves-being. here's a newsflash: no one loves that dream-you
but you, unless you surround yourself with the delusional. in which case,
all of yall are shit outta luck.

i'm not saying you should abandon your dreams. but if the end result of you pursuing those
dreams, whether you succeed or not, does not leave you a better person / does not add to your
personal definitions and your worldview, then holding onto such dreams is a childish endeavor.

and not that you can't be "a child at heart" - being child-like in some aspects can actually add
to and fill out your natural tendencies as an adult. but there is a difference in being child-like
and being childish. its not a good look for a grown person. grown people will talk behind your back
and the real-serious-grown-folks will talk about you directly to your face. THOSE are the ones
you should spend the greatest effort listening to. they may or may not like you, they may or may not
love you, but unless they operate from a childish position themselves then chances are their criticism
of you and their advice to you will be deadly accurate.

swallow yourself.
shit out habits that hinder you.
lean into the wind; pull up your collar; walk anew.

Olive Senior - literary crush of the week

2010-12-03T10:29:00.001-05:00

it takes diggin' in the crates, late nights and early mornings
spending the set-aside, essential creative time for precious projects
on web-surfing, google, bing, etc... but when you come across
that previous nugget-of-the-dark-unknown™ then it all seems worth it.

(at least until the people you're beholden to wanna know what's up with your deadlines!)

Olive Senior... why do we not know who she is on the education circuit?

check her out... her work is canonical.

tongues of the ocean is another good site to check out... this link takes you to Olive's poem there.

protoplasmic phrenology (the video!)

2010-12-02T22:52:00.000-05:00

about as close to doing a literary reading as i get.

and listening to the robot-voice read my work i think it's a favor
to the audience that i refrain from ever doing so... ever.

dont worry, it's only the first 2 stanzas.

protoplasmic phrenology

2010-11-22T02:22:00.001-05:00

this pathos-by-proxy still twitches at the mere mention
of paterollers storming the gate / neanderthals with knuckles dragging
swarming the stanza; dupes in white robes, haute-couture dunces capped
in trivial pursuits; they’ve come for the gardenias, the organza. and
the penumbra spills over every edge, haunted / daunted by a post-slavery
stress disorder that’s anything but paint-by-the-numbers.

voices told me to buckle up; that work was to be done.

but who knew i’d be the one to grow up mapping the spinal cortex
of yoruba-oblongata / talking the dead down from the ledges of ivory towers,
stalking spirit-guides on chalkboards, in chatrooms and in chapbooks always
in a state of rough-draft outlining and underlaying the pedagogy of a sun-people
told for years that melanin undermines accomplishment, merit, our seats
at the table. money changed hands, the bets placed on the crowd pleasers and
social favorites. who thought it would come down to this: me taking the witness
stand as public defender for stolen property.

the story goes i was born the son of an egun-runner and fell shadow-first
from several wombs all at once; assembled on a single line / stitched
into sorcery by the gnarled hands of an unseen seamstress, but i digress.

this poem is my mess-of-pieces and in haste i assumed you already knew
the elemental weight of sankofa. the dna of most nursery rhymes are made
of angst and atoms, but mine are composed of poro masks, the wail of tears,
robert johnson’s cigarette ash, etc. and the banana in the pocket of this poem
is a poltergeist. but i’m not a ghostbuster whispering the echos of the dead...
i’m the doorman for the dearly dormant.

it’s a tough trade. not as in demand as you would think...

i was born to translate tarbaby’s morse code into a canonical course (jes grew 101),
my dissertation was on head-lump reading. baron saturday was my first instructor,
paid me to re-edit the wiki-entry for the pot-liquor sciences. he taught me to be
everywhere you want to be. that's why i’m known as prometheus backwash on
facebook and, by luck of the drawl, i’m jujuchagalia on twitter... i’ve been told
that “upfromsumdirt” is kiswahili for “renaissance” and my signature looks like
basquiat’s long lost rorschach, my john-hancock the sonogram for a lost culture
- you should just see my cat-scan! no shit, my medulla is a fun-house mirror.

i see saint octavia’s image on toast and tree-bark or when connecting the moles
on the back of my lover’s knee. i was hit by a marching band as a baby and that’s
why i see everything so clearly. just didnt know i’d be the one to grow up
re-inventing a wonderland, replacing rwanda for kentucky as uncle tom’s
backdrop where cabins are shingled in soapstone and cowries.

does anyone know the trajectory for a black poet profiling himself? then again,
it’s not like i was born for recognition, my mug adorning the t-shirts on liberal
college campuses... in me is not the tradition for upholding a metered dialog;
i was born an act of reclamation... what need i for progress if the thought-process
is afraid of flames?

you:

continue taming your lions, chasing gazelles;
i was fed the breastmilk of hyenas.

it’s my nature to alert you to aneurysm; when
i curl up at your feet, a conniption is coming.

online journals....

2010-11-15T21:43:00.000-05:00

a few online journals for your perusal for when you get bored...

blip

pank

kill author

bartleby snopes

exquisite corpse

decomP

twelve stories

anderbo

failbetter

the collagist

my first video using xtranormal

2010-11-12T12:34:00.002-05:00

"change the style" - wordemup!

2010-11-10T14:08:00.001-05:00

and now, for your listening and viewing pleasure,
i present to you... ...son of bazerk; vintage 1991. enjoy.

"my students are full of shit"

2010-11-08T08:58:00.000-05:00

branford marsalis speaks the truth...

"shadeism"

2010-11-07T08:29:00.002-05:00

Shadeism from Shadeism on Vimeo.
This short TV documentary is an introduction to the issue of shadeism, the discrimination that exists between the lighter-skinned and darker-skinned members of the same community. This documentary short looks specifically at how it affects young womyn within the African, Caribbean, and South Asian diasporas. Through the eyes and words of 5 young womyn and 1 little girl - all females of colour - the film takes us into the thoughts and experiences of each. Overall, 'Shadeism' explores where shadeism comes from, how it directly affects us as womyn of colour, and ultimately, begins to explore how we can move forward through dialogue and discussion.

stronger than silent 'e'

2010-11-05T11:32:00.000-04:00

baby's asked me to create a new flier for her and i started thinking about using an image of letterman (electric company, not david) for it... but then i got to thinking: shit, like today's students would even know who letterman is!
so i'm gonna settle on watching these classic videos for now til i think of something else -

and then there's this one... just cause the sista is so fly...

until the real thing comes along...

2010-10-21T09:24:00.000-04:00

no, not the song... just talknabout the next blog i'm wanting to write.
until then, this will hafta do...

disintegration of america's black neighborhoods

2010-10-13T15:18:00.002-04:00

eugene robinson on npr

we're slowly getting to the point where we can openly speak about the negative side-effects
of integration on the black community. eugene robinson touches on a few points of interests,
but i think he sidesteps acknowledging the main component plaguing the legitimacy of
empowerment for african americans - i'm talking about 'integration' itself.

not saying integration is bad; it's just that african americans were badly integrated.
we didnt step headlong into 'the great american project' hauling our culture with us; for the most
part, that culture was what we were wanting to get away from - slavery, jim crow, stereotype,
disenfranchisement, poverty, ridicule, self-hate, etc... the only thing is we also abandoned
the positives that go along with thriving within your own culture as it battles outside forces
to maintain its dignity, relevance and reverence to the world at large: community, pride-in-self,
accomplishment, solidarity, social inclusion.... all the things currently coming up short in
black communities across the american nation; the dwindled social aspects that caused
mr. jello (bill cosby) to launch into his tirade about the perception of social malfeasance
existing not only in our neighborhoods, but in how our images play out in the media and beyond.

400 years of second class (on a good day!) citizenship has intrinsically damaged our self-esteem
and yet 'post traumatic slavery syndrome' is a laughed at phenomenon. and yet we treat
children held hostage over night by irate family members, lovers, co-workers, etc... we treat
soldiers who spend any amount of time in active combat situations (whether weapons are fired
or not). and yet african americans have had to deal with the legacy of being the offspring of
those violently taken from their homes and loved ones, we have all come of age living with
this banner of supreme victimization and yet america expects us to shrug it off/get over it/accept
their somewhat-welcoming and not-all-together-immediate embrace...
we probably COULD get over it if our medical practitioners hadnt abandoned us in our mad rush
to join in with the mainstream - black communities where left with the void of business
professionals rushing out in attempts to earn gainful employment where financial reward was
more likely to equate to their experience, know-how and cognizant abilities. ask any black
person over 50 and they'll recount tales of neighborhoods thriving with black businesses -
bakeries, restaurants, dry-cleaners, lawyers, doctors, teachers, etc... black professionals who
worked within the borders of the communities in which they lived. this is called 'being invested'.

and in the mainstream of america, our white counterparts had already called dibs on the goods
and services we once provided. this is how a black doctor under segregation becomes a factory
worker at general electric. of black elders who believed the grass was always greener on
the other side, so they'd comment that 'white doctors are better than black doctors', exposing
the 400 year legacy of being victims in a harsh environment. not that we all individuals suffered,
but as a black collective, which is what mr. robinson's article addresses.

we'll get it straight one day; i know that about us. but it will take bolder language out in the open
than what currently exists at this time. eugene does an excellent job in adding this subject to
the national discussion...

it's time our artiststs and writers to back him up; for our work as individuals to reconnect us
to our cultural heritages existing before melting-pot-theories watered us down. its not america's
pollutants that have pulled us down, its the dilution of our cultural fabrics that have splintered
us the most.

(and where's the 'black newspaper app' for our smartphones? ...damn!)

time to kill (and the sacred desk)

2010-10-13T14:07:00.003-04:00

i love days like today, when me and crys are on the same creative schedule,
where we're not rushing our own individual projects and each other 'making time'
before rushing beyond our doorways appeasing the projects of other people.
days like today are good. we get to lounge, catch up on tivo, cradle each other,
wash clothes/dishes/behinds (or not!), make grocery lists and other day-in/day-out
activities at our own leisure. even when we both retreat to ten paces away from
each other to work or play on our computers the actions are casual. there is a pleasure
at not being pressured to surf the web when on a time-line... being in the same room
while surfing the internet is relaxing. i'm left to wonder what the percentage is of
internet users who feel a high level of anxiety just from being 'connected'. i know
such an activity, over time, affects our cognizant abilities - how is it affecting our
physical health? maybe it doesnt and its just the on-going battle being waged within
us as our old-school upbringing resists the lure of technological advancements...

anyway, what i'm saying is: today i get to surf the web more slowly and with a bit
more sense of purpose/less the sense of urgency... i came across this video about
the way we use our workspaces, real and imagined. having crys nearby without
the invasion of 'work' hanging above our heads has me able to process the trillions
of daily websites i stumble across on a daily basis. the posting of this video reflects
the peace of mind i'm currently aware of...
tomorrow is back to the grind; but we're grown...
so even if stressed, we know that tomorrow will hold its own type of beauty.

Desk - Music and Sound Design from Aaron Trinder Film:Motion:Music on Vimeo.

canonical black lit

2010-10-10T04:21:00.009-04:00

there are many factors shaping the aesthetics and acceptance of the black creative in this modern era.
mostly, we are affected by the loss of a common, communal plane of existence to house our muses.
in this overly-assimilated era we've lost our own cultural mt. olympus from where our creative gods
held fish-fries, rent parties, and shot dice before heading to church.

to fit into 'the mainstream' america asks its subcultures to streamline their baggage. if you can not
fit your heritage into a carry-on (or is over 2 megabytes of memory), then you have to get from
here to there all on your own (not impossible to do, but once you arrive you'll find no welcoming
reception). so, if a black creative is to ride the uncle-sam-express he's less the history of his people.
or if not 'less' then at least very simplified. you can not enter their boxcars with your convoluted
community ties. come 'clean and articulate' or not at all.

you can opt for 'not at all', but there are no publishing houses or exhibit curators flipping through
their rolodex searching for your contact information. black narratives no longer seem to channel the
communal black experience before being funneled into the wide open world. we sieve our creativity
through the institutionalized avenues of acceptance: art schools, mfa programs, the assembly lines of
writing collectives.
when's the last time a completely 'unknown' forced his or herself onto the social scene?
because our avenues for success are now narrowed by academia our creative geniuses are no longer
recognizable to the common people: popular black writers and artists are no longer marketed to
the black communities where legacies are fostered. black creatives chase after 'legitimacy' which is
now the sole-property of higher institutions. 'legitimacy' is what pays the bills. unless you ply your
trade in coffeehouses and cafes, no one leaves a legacy to inspire the common people in their own
homes.

now, i know this is not exclusively the problem for black creatives. i'm not saying it is.
all i'm doing is discussing how the monopolizing of the creative process has specifically hindered
our cultural progressions. if you are over 40 years old, then you grew up at least knowing about
such writers as langston hughes, james baldwin, toni morrison, sonia sanchez, etc...
but ask someone under 25 to name their favorite black literary writers... 9 times out of 10 they'll give
you those exact same names. ask them to name someone under 30, they stumble for answers.
unless you participate in creative workshops and classes, you'll stumble to name any also.
you might luck up and get a saul williams or jessica care moore. maybe someone will say jill scott
or mos def or some other frequent flier on the cable tv spokenword circuit. tyler perry might even
be mentioned; not knockin' his hustle - we all need one.

... (stops to take one long pull from an inhaler) ...

what books are the coffeehouse audiences carrying with them? are they the same ones being used to
teach black creativity in academic classrooms? audre lorde, langston hughes, james baldwin, toni
morrison, richard wright... all extremely venerable in the pantheon of black literature. but how long
can they carry the load for us? at what point do we champion their successors to carry on the legacy?
and whose job will it be to do so? it's been nearly 25 years since chuck d. said "our heroes dont
appear on no stamps" - well, some of them are now, but who writes letters these days?
we have to find our voices, our new icons and hold them dear no matter the advancements to
technology, education, and society tempting us to pull away. when america places its seal-of-approval
on 'the next new thing' it needs to be because the masses put that person in position to be honored;
this is how we as a whole become invested in the world at large. otherwise, america will prop up
'the new thing' like a foreign dictator and when his or her usefulness has expired then so does the
resources once available to that person. 'the new thing' returns home, angry that we can not support
his 15 minutes of fame... we shrug at his anger because, shit, we're angry too, asking him "and who
did you say your mama was? ...pfft! you didnt come up through us anyway."

every black writer can tell their own authentic black stories, but in this day and era where
the institutionalized whole is more important than the communal parts, what's that mean to the black
society at large still trying to fit in? has black legacy become the woolly mammoth frozen in a glacier
or has it moved beyond the scope of our community elders once chosen (hand-picked or self-assigned!)
as our keepers of the flame? an extremely limited coven of black literary artists create work that is
canonical to the black experience, working equally on universal and marginalized plains of existence.
can anyone now do so effectively? should we even expect our geniuses to attempt so?

black trees fall in our forests everyday... 'hearing' them or not is not the question; the question is:
how do we even get people back into the forests to begin with?

ps:

2010-09-30T09:09:00.001-04:00

and if you drop by the house unexpectedly
and hafta use the restroom then dont come
calling on me to hand you a roll of toilet paper
if it runs empty. you are welcome in my home,
but uninvited visitors are not 'a guest' - i am not obliged.

thank you.

- the mngmt.

ibid scribbled at the bottom of my tombstone made a totem turnt a temple

2010-09-30T08:56:00.003-04:00

how much scab could a hermitcrab grab if a hermitcrab could grab scab?

ok. i admit to being off my rocker today, but off-my-meds is where i need to be at every day of my life.
creative types shouldnt have to reel themselves back in for the sake of appearances... i, too, wanna walk around with my draws showing, not like the younger generations with their pantses sagging, but like our daddies used to do walking through their own houses in a t-shirt and boxers and a can of pabst in one hand, porn in the other, on the way to the bathroom while mamas were entertaining the jehovah's witnesses dropping through to talk about organized salvation.
(and yes, i said "pantses" - stfu!)

i want my art and poems to grow from a crevice. from the forgotten pot of beans in the back of the fridge that now has a rain forest growing in it. i want ... the hell if i know ... something. different. older than where we are now as a people but still future-forward. reverse-sankofa. an un-diversed dissertation on total damnation written from the hands of some dawn-dead zombies and have it be a poem of love and affection. thats what i'm wanting. to be so fkn retro its original. to sit on the Great Porch built by the hands of those forced into serving me. to be an overseer. shotgun across my lap, marcus garvey and kwame nkrumah on my ipod. reading franz fanon on my ipad. whipping my fieldhands, the scarification on their backs my folk-art; telling toby his new name is achebe.
(and yes, muhfkr, i said 'lissen'... no, wait. no i didnt. i deleted that part.
but i'm not sorry for callin you a muhfkr. live with it.)

its not that i'm antisocial (because i am), its just... i'm just not counter-cultural enough. i think.
the status quo has tainted what it means to living-up-to-your-responsibilities. i love doing what others expect of me, as long as what's expected of me is based on the name i've created for myself and not by the stereotypes associated with 'black/art/literature'.

you probably dont understand.

its not just a black thang.

its a blacker thing.

i would give anything

2010-09-24T10:21:00.002-04:00

to own the truck currently used in my banner. that is the dopest thing on 4 wheels. i could be driver/curator for the black-apothecary-traveling-splinter-art-and-broken-lit-splitters-show...
like a new-era bingo long!

have a bell, like the old-fashioned ice cream trucks used to have. (god, how i miss ice-cream trucks! not popsicle truck, ice-cream! remember how they useta swirl vanilla and chocolate double-barreled from the side? simply beautiful.)

my daughter calls me weird.

i dont deny it.

ding, ding, ding... we have a new champion!

2010-09-24T09:26:00.000-04:00

and the winner by tko is
(ref lifts the arms of.... ) .... ... ... ... ... the people's champion!

okay... i can be simple and direct. i'm not always so theatrical.

i'm talknabout the blogsite AUNT JEMIMA'S REVENGE! they are holding it down!

"O" is for...

2010-09-23T14:50:00.000-04:00

its sad when one of the freshest things in hiphop isnt actually hiphop but a homage to it...

there are exceptions, but exceptions are usually fleeting.

O from Daniele Manoli on Vimeo.

Daniele Manoli - check out his entire alphabet on vimeo.

baby has a new blog...

2010-09-18T12:54:00.001-04:00

crystal wilkinson is ~~kinda~~ obsessive.

which is a very good thing when comes to being a literary creative
(i freely admit to being biased, but let me rephrase that as "creative literary genius!")...

when first we met 4 years ago, she was "2 months" away from finishing her latest project, her first full-length novel, "The Birds of Opulence". well... nearly 4 years since, the books 'official' wrap-up was 2 months AGO. she has agonized over ever page, plot and neurotic psychosis of every major character of the novel since i've known her, taking breaks only to grade papers, sit on panels, give readings, change diapers, feed abandoned pets, make breakfast, mourn, fret over hospitalized loved ones, catch up on gossip, commute 75 miles 1-way to her morehead state university day-job, pinch people, facebook, tweet, etc, etc.....
okay - that seems like a helluva lot now that i mention it. no wonder its taken 4 years to complete "one final chapter."

but in truth, not only are crystal's plates full, but so are her saucers, cups, bowls, her pots, and her sauce pans... all burners are always on blast. she lives a very full life. she lives and loves and leads by example. she's 'good people', as the old-heads say.

both of us are lousy at actual self-promotion, a social networking sin in this day and age where digital communiques have become the typical first option for people wanting to stay in the loop on the status of certain projects and the people behind them. we're actually better at promoting each other than with ourselves - in fact, of the two blogs i 'actively' stay on top of, i consider this new entry only my second 'serious' posting, the existence of which is only to announce the launch of her own new blog write with your spine.

okay, maybe this is where my sense of competition has kicked in... crystal doesnt play spades or tonk (the perennial card games of choice for louisville's native sons and daughters!) and is happy spelling 3- and 4-letter words in scrabble instead of attempting to crush the shit out her opponents (another tragic symptom of being a native louisvillian) - with her one blog she has already doubled the number of followers for my two combined! i mean, i really suck at this...
- to be fair to myself, i havent taught a million students, havent read literary excerpts to a billion people, dont have no where near a trillion friends and acquaintances. upfromsumdirt is practically an unknown entity, but the act of invisibility is a dying art form i've learned to master since birth.
except for when my overly aggressive competitive side rises from its self-induced coma...
i absolutely SUFFER knowing that i'll never be half the literary writer that she is; in fact,

it. is. an. absolute. torture.

i think i need a psychologist.

anyway,
baby has a new blog.
for those wanting to have a little more insight into the mindset of an award-winning author and highly touted professor of creative writing, then write with your spine is the place to start. i mean, i learn something new about the creative process everyday while simply watching her wash a load of clothing - she is always on! - so her having an entire blog about it? i now have a legitimate reason for wanting to have 'a life' online.

engine block feng shui for boy davis' only son (work in progress)

2010-09-02T14:05:00.007-04:00

even tho it was still a work in progress, i removed the poem because i just submitted it to a journal
for review. some journals regard blog posts as 'publishing' and wont consider them for publication.

if it isnt picked up i'll repost it here in a few months.

i'd be happy to send it as an email to anyone interested.

:P

elder solomon lightfoot michaux

2010-08-27T12:36:00.003-04:00

"an african and an irish walk into a holler..."

2010-08-15T00:29:00.000-04:00

black southern heritage and appalachian culture

abbey lincoln

2010-08-14T23:58:00.000-04:00

abbey lincoln - the man who has the magic/where are the african gods?

some real good feel good...

2010-08-05T08:38:00.000-04:00

8 goals for africa -

sigh... firefox is ackinafoo again...

2010-07-30T13:55:00.001-04:00

a great blogsite concerning literary journals...
http://lisacalderone.wordpress.com/

i'll add this to my blog list whenever firefox stops having hissy fits and lets me create a link for it...

summer reading list 2010

2010-07-20T01:44:00.000-04:00

(when not reading poetry submissions for mythium)

anthills of the savannah, chinua achebe
the woman of the dunes, kobo abe
fledgling, octavia butler
the electric koolaid acid test, tom wolfe
african short stories, achebe & c.l. innes
flight to canada, ishmael reed

up next:

naked lunch, william burroughs

thinking outloud online part 1

2010-07-20T01:25:00.000-04:00

every couple of years i gather up the 20 plus years of badly written poetry, focusing on the last ten years in particular, with the intention of 'getting published'... so i read, reread and do some editing, siphon a million bad similes into 70 pages and shout to the heavens how THIS IS IT! my voice shaking the shit outta the firmaments... but then the transient taste of satisfaction and sense of accomplishment fades and i shrug; toss the manuscript back into dry-dock and go on about my business of being indifferent, literary-speaking.

i know for a fact that i'm a decent poet, but tho i consider my poetic approach 'scholarly' i have never once considered myself an 'academic'. i've spent a great deal of time studying the writers who've influenced me, but never while in a classroom setting... i've been encouraged to get an mfa in writing but again to what purpose? to teach? to sharpen the shape of my nose as i preach 'form' to the 'unlettered'? for vanity? for 'just because that's the way its done'?

certainly receiving my mfa would potentially add weight to my credentials as i talk to 'genuine' publishers about accepting my collections, but then what? i dont particularly need the approval of a publishing house to know i'm better than what passes as an average writer (and despite that last sentence, i am quite humble in this fact/even if it only exists in my own mind) - but unless i win a substantial prize, the role of 'poetry writer' is cupboard-bare skill once fully accomplished.

but i do want to publish my work. but #2, i dont want to self-publish. writing in my own journals is self-publishing all by itself, why would i want to spend my own money expanding the look and feel of my own poetic journal entries, especially since i can only name 10 people that might be interested enough to purchase one! better to just turn my manuscript into a pdf file and just send it to them via email for free, right? but such a hassle seems too much like an inept type of hustle to me. i'm not a mic-type writer standing outside the coffehouses pushing my wares... my dilemma is this: i write for both academia AND for the non-academics. i want one word to reach them both and be equal in standing.

this means self-publishing is most definitely out. or is it?

shit. its almost 2 in the morning... wtf was you expecting from me at this hour, an epiphany?!?!?!

go to bed and forgetchu was e'en herre.

or if you're reading this after breakfast/lunch/dinner/etc, then please proceed to vomit at the commencement of this sentence.

(watch the shoes!)

siblings...

2010-07-12T11:20:00.000-04:00

its funny how much me and my sisters have in common but yet still know very little about each other and whatever it is that motivates us... i'm the youngest and the only boy amongst 5 girls (2 sisters from mama's previous relationship, 2 from daddy's previous relationship, then me and a sis from their union)...
there is off and on tension from a sister on my father's side who i think feels 'neglected' (or annoyed) by daddy's 'new' family. i think she feels like we enjoyed vast advantages of a loving home (which we did and then sometimes we didnt - its all relative to your own individual demons)
my other sisters think i enjoyed some 'loving, common bond' with daddy, as if i adored him and had a close relationship with him (which didnt exist and has never existed. as mentioned in the previous post i had much emotional acrimony towards daddy and not until he had lost the use of his legs did he seem to have much use to stay connected with me)...

i think 3/5ths of my sisters are extremely narcissistic. one would doubt it and turn it back on me, one would say 'yeah, and?' and the other would roll her eyes and hit me in the back of the head...
(one sister is a complete angel and we would never exchange cross-words with each other...
then again, maybe i just dont her that well... and the other sister, i just dont know her that well; daddy's funeral was the first time i'd seen her since i was a pre-teen - just found out she's been living within 5 blocks of mama and daddy's house for the last 2 years!)

anyway, we all have issues and are bound to have the wrong adjectives (see previous post) placed on one another's obituary pages when those appropriate times arise...

you always want more time...

2010-07-12T09:30:00.005-04:00

the newly began chronicling of my relationship with my father has transcended the traditionally predictable rants of father/son angst and anecdotes into something remorsefully surreal...

yes, my sentences ramble in the most awkward of badly poetic ways, i'm sorry, that caint be helped, i eschew proper school-learning, especially regarding the academics of slang - slang is my shield, my
slang-blade...

anyway, i'm avoiding the actual reason for this inarticulate post - not wanting to say it...

my father passed away in his sleep the saturday morning of July 3rd, 2010.

my last conversation with him was the friday morning before, when he called me crying; not wanting
to return to the nursing home he had been rehabilitating in. i felt his pain and sorrow, but more than that i understood the actual origins to that pain and sorrow - information he had shared with me during the 18 months (plus the 3 years since then) in which i lived with him and mama acting as his human crutch and personal errand boy (a position i held with great honor and esteem, hoping it would at last earn me a morsel of respect in his view of me) ((those issues he shared with me will be addressed in later posts/probably))...

but the man who never seemed to hold much affection for me as a child or as an adult has passed away (not to be confused with 'love' because i knew he fully loved us all, he just was reluctant or just didnt know how to show it in ways that mattered on deeper levels, at least to me) - i think he came to trust me, at least 'value' me as his sounding board, but still i didnt feel his respect for me as his son and as a man... not that such a thing is ever a requirement, its just something nice to keep stored in your self-esteem when growing into a functioning adult. esteem should grow from feelings of familial love and not from the need to prove one's self as a valuable commodity to his closest kinfolk.
how can you empower your communal ties when you keep a chip on your shoulder at all times?

forgive me. this blog might be about me, but this immediate post is in honor of my father. i didnt intend to rant on about any preconceived misperceptions about manhood and family-ties.

i've lost my father. it was hard to like him and not always easy to love him - but i did both (at least after abandoning my long-seated bitterness and hatred towards him/strictly undeserved and entirely harvested from my own emotional aesthetics) - my sisters affectionately placed the phrase 'mean and surly' in his obituary in attempts to adequately sum up his most frequent disposition - traits in which we all have, either by blood or social osmosis! - and i've inherited my fair share of those characteristics.

but i also maintain a deep-rooted sense of overpowering love and the need to visibly express it; traits i thought i had created of my own volition... and the truth i came to understand was this: these, too, were traits i had directly inherited from my father. deep within him was an overflowing well of love, one that had been capped in life by intimate reasons i may never fully know (or openly express online, at least not yet).

for so long i had misunderstood my father... but the truth became extremely clear as i had began understanding myself: if i too am 'mean and surly' by blood and against my will, then perhaps everything i feel about love and intimacy should be attributed to him as well - what reason or right had i to conclude otherwise? if visibly and by temperment daddy and i were just alike, then he too held great desires to love and be loved equally in return...

daddy's 'negative' traits were exacerbated when the life he lived proved it impossible to fully express himself through his positive traits...

or maybe he and i are just full of shit, i wont rule it out... at any rate, i found myself when going through my father just as i found him when going through myself: he was the theatrical 'dark knight' and i was just the campy ol' televised 'batman' - our origins are the same. only the cinema was different.
"mean and surly" - i know its said with affection, but to me it represents 'the unknown (and maybe now unknowable) reflections of his past' - not who he actually was but more reflective of the things in his life that made being 'mean and surly' his most adequate armor protecting whatever softer underside he may have had... in those inner-realms of himself is where my true daddy resided... reserved and calculating every single acquaintance by those conditions of an unknown extenuating circumstance - the iceberg tip to his emotional titanic.

the more i got to know daddy, the more i realized that he was soft, had grown insecure of his life choices and was badly in need of a hug, acceptance and understanding... things he was now unable to express since his mean and surly armor had long ago become the prison by which he was now held by and most commonly viewed through, condemning him to live out his last precious moments as a characture of himself to those he needed the most support and understanding from.

rother davis
1937-2010.

- in love and obedience.

daddy issues part one

2010-06-26T10:36:00.009-04:00

my father is a hard, unaffectionate man (unless you are a friend or a cb buddy, then he is warm, exchanging blue-colored languages joyfully with them - i am so jealous!)

as a child i would side up to him while he was under the hood of the family car (motor oil was a body fluid for him) - but he would always push me back, very gruff, saying i was getting in his way; would tell me to go play somewhere else... it's sublime at first, but after awhile you look out into the garage and wonder how long it would take you to go get help if the jack slipped, trapping him beneath the pontiac he was working on. not "run off in a panic" for help... i'm talking about "IF i ran off..." would i go to the candy lady first, get a bag of pop-rocks and a pickle before returning home to tell mama "mama, i think daddy is stuck under the car."

this is bitterness. i wasnt an evil child. this is one of the many negative emotions that will eventually surface when you instill ... what's the word? ... "detachment" ... when you instill detachment in children. which still isnt the most correct term, because the bitterness you feel is most definitely attached to the person who helped nurture it!

but you grow up. i understood that daddy didnt not love me, he just didnt show it in socially recognizable terms. so, i didnt not love him in the exact same way the he didnt not love me...

i also swore blood vows to the heavens that i would NEVER love my wife and children in such a manner once i was old enough to indulge in the arrangements of adulthood! my children still might not like me, but dammit, they will sure as shit know that i love them above all else!

(let me smoother my loved ones with love... or else, let me smoother them in their sleep. their choice.)

this lovelessness-as-an-act-of-love i was shown as a child would not be permitted in my home as an adult. it has shaped the way i am now emotionally connected to the friends and family willing to fully express their love respectfully and openly. al green said, "love and happiness" - that man was a goddamn genius. i have no time in my life for loveless, unhappy people - not just because they are a drain, but also because their very existence trudges up the emotionless-void stuck in orbit between resentment and bitterness (metaphor for the relationship between a father and his son).

at times, i have hated daddy. deeply. not the angst-ridden "i wish you was dead/i had never been born" overly dramatic, cinematically dysfunctional type of hate. just a good ol' fashioned clean, angry hate.
("if you wasnt so much taller than me, i'd fuckn kick your ass!")

i guess this is normal for many folks. but what happens to you, as an adult, when the ancestral link begins to claim you and you find yourself FEELING, ACTING AND BEHAVING in the same exact vein as the person you abhorred?!?! - - - in my mid-20's began the realization that i was becoming my father!

not in temperament. but... well, yeah... in temperment! some damn genetic switch was thrown and the traits in my father had begun to metastasize in me!

NOT HIS HABITS! not the way he expressed himself (not entirely, anyway) but a deeper understanding, appreciation and acceptance of why he was the way he was. temperamentally i was wired the exact same way as he was... the switch had been thrown. or maybe it had always been there and i was just becoming aware of it. but at any point, it took being in a successfully joyless relationship for me to understand my connection to my father:

acts of lovelessness was a self-defense mechanism to hide the pain and failure of not having/living the life you wanted deeply for yourself. you love your family to no ends, but you accept the stifled confines of an unhappy relationship and simply make the best of it. i can see how having a loving, happy child running his hot wheels collection around your feet while you hide your head inside an engine block can ruin the spa-effect of your powertool-based escapisms... once i'd understood this about daddy (though maybe not completely accurate in my own unlettered analysis) the love i had been stifling for him came rushing back into me. and in doing so, i was able to fully love the parts of me that reminded me of him; insight and perspective had freed me from that foolishness... i became calm. began talking to my gods again. understood not just what 'a good love' was, but understood how to avoid the actions in a relationship that can lead or push you away from that same 'good love'...

al green wasnt just a genius, al green is my jesus! in love and happiness i am saved.

hallelujah, aché, show you right!

fresh! for twenty-ten...

2010-06-24T19:46:00.001-04:00

after four years of work, my Tangerine Tubman poem is 99.99013745% finished...
this has been one of the longest ongoing literary projects i've undertaken in the 20+ years
i've been writing... i am thoroughly pleased with this final result!

now to cut the cord, smack it on the ass and send it out into the world to fend for itself.
initially, i was gonna make it available as pdf file and sell it for $3 online (plus $10 for a poster
of its cover)... but most magazines consider pdf files (as well as blog posts!) the equivalent to
an electronic chapbook/self-publishing.

im wanting to avoid any unnecessary hassles, at least until (and 'if') the poem is sufficiently
rejected by the publishers im sending it to. if that happens, then i'll make the pdf available for
purchasing via my paypal account.

below is 'the cover' and also a piece of collage incorporating a couple of lines from it;
surely thats okay with any panel of judges, right?

legba walks into a bucket of blood

2010-06-14T20:40:00.012-04:00

its my nature to swallow seeds
to have them ferment in the soils within my skull
to birth themselves from daydream/their daylight bursting
from the inseams of forehead/my whole head a calabash
uncollapsing... the daylight strands a dreadlock each,
potential breaching virtue. new gods from a nappy gourd.
the guardian at the gate of dreams draped in gonesh

and gunsmoke... his guitar smoking/his black hand
stroking the 'nations sack under his suit coat.
ask him to tell you your future...watch and see
if he dont sing/maybe he will swallow you; the seed
in my head shorn from thunder/born under a bad blues,
a Conqueroo, becoming/how how how how ------- whoa!,
babe.

upfromsumdirt, 2010

nigerian oil spills

2010-06-11T15:29:00.000-04:00

africanliteraturenews.blogspot.com

the nigeria delta region has had the equivalent of 1 exxon valdez oil spill A YEAR for the last 50 years!

Anene Ejikeme has written a very informative opinion page letter to the New York Times concerning this seriously under-publicized ecological disaster....

follow the above link back to African Literature News and Review blog or
click here to go to the NYT article.

poefrica

2010-06-10T21:05:00.002-04:00

african poetry blog to check out next time i get some time...

this one too!
(afropoem)

recent inspirations

2010-06-10T20:52:00.001-04:00

1. african short stories, edited by chinua achebe and cl innes
2. flight to canada, ishmael reed
3. anthills of the savannah, chinua achebe
4. kiss my black ads blogspot
5. the jazz baroness, a documentary detailing the relationship of thelonious monk and pannonica rothschild.

how to make a book (if you lived 60 years ago)

2010-06-05T07:01:00.002-04:00

new wimmins in video...

2010-05-22T08:41:00.002-04:00

joi

the best videos for visual artists needing creative inspiration - part 1

2010-05-22T08:28:00.003-04:00

kid koala

olmecha supreme

mf dood/madvillain

killer mike

outkast

springgun press chapbook contest

2010-05-04T09:19:00.001-04:00

• click here:
springgun press
- a new online and print journal.

some other people's journals

2010-04-15T11:41:00.001-04:00

diverse voices quarterly

ryga

weave

cerise press

southeast review

concisely

phati'tude

poetry submissions/contests

2010-04-14T22:26:00.000-04:00

ZONE 3

FUGUE

Aimé Césaire 1913-2008

2010-04-08T14:08:00.002-04:00

Out of Defeat

Aimé Césaire’s miraculous words
Colin Dayan

from the boston review 2008

When Aimé Césaire died in Fort-de-France, Martinique on April 17, 2008, Ségolène Royal and others called for him to be buried in the Panthéon in Paris, alongside Rousseau, Hugo, and Zola. Away from the land of his ancestors, the acclaimed poet and long-time mayor of Martinique’s capital Fort-de-France could be claimed for France. But the obituaries make clear that Césaire’s legacy is both powerful and troubling.

The writer who once celebrated Haiti as the country where “black men stood up in order to affirm, for the first time, their determination to create a new world, a free world,” stood by, a powerless politician, as his own country turned into an acquiescent neo-colony. He had hoped to make the former colony a full partner in the economic and social benefits of the post-war metropole. It did not work. Harsh economic inequalities, reflected in de facto segregation by color and status no less effective for lack of legal sanction, remained. As late as 1973, Edouard Glissant noted that in Fort-de-France a cinema boasted “la salle de l’élite.” Even now Fort-de-France stagnates in its ongoing role as accommodating child of Mother France, while passive consumerism and cultural dependency stifle local initiative.

I first met Césaire in the mayor’s office of the old Hôtel de Ville in Fort-de-France in 1980. Ten years before, I had discovered Cahier d’un retour au pays natal (Notebook of a Return to My Native Land) (1939), his best-known work, when I began translating the Haitian poet René Depestre’s Un arc-en-ciel pour l’occident chrétien (A Rainbow for the Christian West), the “vodou mystery poem” about the gods’ descent into the violent “Dixie-pit” of a judge’s parlor in Alabama. I became obsessed by Césaire’s language; the peculiar reality of his Martinican landscapes, lethargic, flat, and festering, yet always ready to awaken into beauty. I translated his collection Les armes miraculeuses (The Miraculous Weapons) (1946) and found in his “Les Pur-Sang” a sensuous terrain that recalled Mallarmé’s sterile winters, wounds bleeding like open pomegranates, and lace disintegrating in the light.

Césaire always surprised me. He seemed so calm. No bitterness, no anger. I had just seen the cruise ships in the blue harbor. I saw the high prices in the supermarkets, French yogurt that cost more than in Paris. The rot and neglect of shanties in the shade of luxury hotels. The packaging of the “local” as folklore. I had read his definition of negritude in an interview in the ’60s as a “resistance to the politics of assimilation,” a confrontation with the “ideal” imitation—“a French person with black skin.”

In his journey through language, Césaire had to pick through a pile of names—for blacks, for slavery, for gods, for trees—surviving in his island like unwanted things, the waste of empire.

Césaire once quipped that anyone confused by his politics should seek it in his poetry. He seemed, at times, an advocate of poésie pure, a follower of Mallarmé’s craft of absence and elimination, especially in Les armes miraculeuses. But his poems also bear witness to the harsh realities of life in a colonial outpost under Vichy rule. He meant the “miraculous weapons” to be arms for the struggle against colonialism, as well as, in and of themselves, poetic annunciation. Behind the flames, grasses, guava, and hibiscus of his impossible landscapes, one catches sight of the lashing of bodies and rotting flesh, the stench of slave ships, the postures of sanctimonious politicians.

* * *

Born in 1913 at Basse-Pointe in the north of Martinique, Césaire lived in the shadow of Mt. Pelée, a volcano that had erupted eleven years earlier, annihilating the capital St. Pierre. He moved to the new capital Fort-de-France for schooling at the Lycée Schoelcher, named after the abolitionist Victor Schoelcher. There he met the assimilated middle classes. He always felt that he brought something else to the classroom, a past he once told me was like “some other kind of blood” that had nothing to do with the classical French literature he studied.

Césaire spent most of the 1930s in Paris, as a scholarship student first at Lycée Louis-le-Grand, then at the Ecole Normale Supérieure. While in Europe he began the Cahier, which André Breton would later call “the greatest lyrical monument of our times.” Césaire wrote:

So much blood in my memory! In my memory are lagoons. They are covered with death’s-heads.

They are not covered with water lilies.

In my memory are lagoons. On their shores no women’s loincloths spread out.

My memory is encircled with blood. My memory has its belt of corpses!

If in Paris Césaire found writing and Africa (he confessed that until he left Martinique in 1931 he did not know what it meant to be black), in Haiti he found something quite different. Césaire arrived in Haiti in 1944 a poet and returned home later that year a politician. At the time Haiti was still the only independent black republic in the Americas. The people of Jamaica, Barbados, and the West Indies still served the King, learned English history, celebrated the Empire, and knew the beauty of daffodils not breadfruit. Martinique itself had supported the colonial regime and Vichy after France’s collapse in World War II until a U.S. naval blockade in 1943 forced the island to transfer its allegiance to the Free French.

Called “Black France” by one nineteenth-century observer (Jules Michelet), “France with frizzy hair” by another (Maxime Raybaud), and a “tropical dog-kennel” by Thomas Carlyle, Haiti had always goaded imagination high and low, between the extremes of idealization and debasement. Eight hundred miles from Martinique, Haiti’s peasantry still lived off the land in the 1940s, a heady time of Marxist student revolts, a return to vodou, and, for young writers there, surrealism. For Césaire Haiti meant revolution, a heroic history for the Caribbean.

Césaire returned to Martinique at the end of 1944, and after giving lectures on Haiti was asked to run on the French Communist ticket for mayor of Fort-de-France and for the new French National Assembly. Not yet thirty-two years old, he won by a landslide in the May 27, 1945 election. Césaire would remain mayor of Fort-de-France for nearly fifty-six years, until 2001, and serve as a deputy in France’s National Assembly until 1956 and again from 1958 until 1993. He would also in these years continue to write poems, plays, and his 1950 anti-colonial manifesto, Discours sur le colonialisme (Discourse on Colonialism).

In this world where the French language meant domination, to gain a voice—to be a writer—was no easy matter. In his journey through language, Césaire had to pick through a pile of names—for blacks, for slavery, for gods, for trees—surviving in his island like unwanted things, the waste of empire, the refuse of colonization, remnants of a history gone wrong. Discours sur le colonialisme helped me to know politics, to understand the impurity of places that constructed themselves by projecting dirt onto others. It was Césaire’s vision of the bourgeoisie as “a receptacle into which there flow all the dirty waters of history” that stayed with me.

Yet the troubling contradictions between his writing and his political life remain. In any attempt to understand Césaire, and to know why Césaire matters—or should matter—so much to us now, we must ask one question: how did the call to “decolonize our minds” square not only with his political life, but also with his use of French and not Creole, the language of the “mother country” and not that of the black majority in Martinique?

He described negritude as ‘a concrete awareness’ of what it meant to live in ‘the atmosphere of rejection . . . conditioned to feelings of inferiority.’

Frantz Fanon began Peau noire, masques blancs (Black Skin, White Masks) (1952) with Caliban’s curse (“the red plague rid you / For learning me your language”), and an aside: “We are trying to understand why the Antilles Negro is so fond of speaking French.” To acquire a civilizing language means to lose your identity, or at least to enter into a devil’s wager. To speak is to exist absolutely for the other, “to assume a culture, to support the weight of a civilization.” The more one mastered the French language, the whiter one became, closer, in Fanon’s words, “to being a real human being.” Years before in 1931, the Haitian poet Léon Laleau lamented “this anguish like none other / To tame with words from France / This heart received from Senegal.”

Whether from the English or the French Caribbean, writers educated into literature faced “a divided self” or became “the mulatto of style,” as Derek Walcott wrote. Yet the cure of culture was nowhere more effective than in the French colonies. Cultivation and eloquence were the keys to assimilation. In Paris Césaire met Léopold Senghor and Léon Damas, and the three founded the journal L’étudiant noir (The Black Student) in 1935. Césaire coined the word “negritude,” transforming the word “nègre,” a term of abuse, into the rallying cry of a movement. He proclaimed his blackness. He became a poet.

Unlike Senghor, Césaire never used negritude to mystify or mythologize. The return to Africa, the invocation of “primeval unity” or “the truth of essentials,” an authentic or innate blackness, was not enough. Instead he described negritude as “a concrete awareness” of what it meant to live in “the atmosphere of rejection . . . conditioned to feelings of inferiority.” Rather than counter racism with visions of past glory, he returned to the history of prejudice and the suffering it had wrought. “No, we’ve never been Amazons of the King of Dahomey, nor princes of Ghana with eight hundred camels,” he wrote in the Cahier. “I may as well confess that we were at all times pretty mediocre dishwashers, shoeblacks without ambition.” Many writers would later condemn negritude for its essentialism; Wole Soyinka quipped that the tiger doesn’t have to proclaim its tigritude. But Césaire never wholly abandoned the charge to reclaim a real history that had been disfigured or obliterated. And for him the French language was essential to this project.

In the Cahier, history is Césaire’s subject: his personal history, as well as the history of his island. But what happens when the poet who has been told his country has no history sits down to write an epic? Detritus is the source of his vision. The fragments of foreign civilizations, the residue of imposed cultures, the medley of traditions, all contradictory and clashing, inspire the poet. The ritual of recovery depends on a landscape suffused with spirits, trash, and mud. Here is Césaire’s “essential landscape,” splendidly translated by Clayton Eshleman and Annette Smith:

And they threw stones at him, bits of scrap iron, broken bottles, but neither these stones, nor this scrap iron, nor these bottles . . . O peaceful years of God on this terraqueous clod!

and the whip argued with the bombilation of the flies over the sugary dew of our sores.

The Cahier marks Césaire’s “descent into a real hell,” the plunge necessary to heal the wound of assimilation, what Fanon called “lactification” or whitening. As Césaire explained in 1967:

It’s true that superficially we are French, we bear the marks of French customs; we have been branded by Cartesian philosophy, by French rhetoric; but if we break with all that, if we plumb the depths, then what we will find is fundamentally black.

Imagine a poem that forces history, psychoanalysis, ethnography, and revolution to coexist. The Cahier stages the uneasy alliances between the monumental projections of empire and its abject underside: populations looted, cultures trampled, slaves reduced by terror and regulated by force. Alternately strident and elegiac, Césaire pits the ongoing myths of inferiority against the lure of “civilizing” language. The relics and scraps of bodies, the slaves who had been called “ebony wood,” “pieces of the Indies,” or “heads of cattle,” return as ancestor spirits, caught in the evil that created them.

What these metamorphoses have in common is a secret pact with the banal. Césaire plied his words as if they were ritual incantation, and he knew that the magic of ritual lay in its ordinariness, its way of reiterating the simplest, least gilded things. The sacred had to be concrete in order to transform, palpable, never abstract. The bond between colonizer and colonized, the mutual adaptability, as Hegel had it, of master and slave, gained substance through these meditations on mimicry, adaptation, and appropriation. Resistance for Césaire is not just political, but psychic. Repression is not only a history of mutilation and torture. It is also the buried and forgotten. The revolution must be “internal,” a complete overhauling of consciousness, what he called “une rencontre bien totale.”

In the effort to understand the relation between Césaire’s art and his life, between tradition and revolution, his plays are also instructive. He turned to drama in much the same way Eliot did, not to replace the poems but to supplement and enlarge upon them. They are not just history plays, but analyses of the colonial problem, the perils of revolution and the difficulties of decolonization. One of his tragedies, among the many that dogged his life, was the recognition of his plays in Senegal but not in Martinique.

In 1963 Césaire published La tragédiedu roi Christophe (The Tragedy of King Christophe); in 1965 Une saison au Congo (A Season in the Congo), about the fall of Patrice Lumumba; and in 1969 Une tempête, what he called his “adaptation” of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. I recall asking Césaire why he wrote a play about Christophe and not about the other two revolutionary leaders Toussaint or Dessalines. He liked to linger sometimes in the negative, he said, in what was irretrievable—or did he say unsalvageable? Christophe is a black Prospero who loses his magic as soon as he takes up his crown. Unlike Caliban who cuts through the illusions of Prospero’s speech, Christophe faces a history of loss: “In the past they stole our names / Our pride / Our nobility.” So instead of the stigmatizing “Pierre, Paul, Jacques, Toussaint” he invents a nobility, “his Grace the Duke of Limonade, the Duke of Marmalade.”

The magic of the hybrid—the beauty, the heat, the odors and music, the luxuriance and excess of the tropics—is much more attractive to publishers and critics than the grueling realities of racism and violence.

In writing these plays, Césaire made it plain that he was honest enough to declare an end to his dream of decolonization. But he was brave enough to write Toussaint Louverture: La Révolution française et le problème colonial(1961). Haunted by revolution, living in the torpor of Martinique, and perhaps remembering his first visit to Haiti long before, Césaire proposed to answer the question, “why did the whites fail . . . why did the mulattoes fail . . . and why did the most destitute social group, the negroes, the group with the ‘greatest grievance’ succeed?” How paradoxical and vexing proved the language of “inalienable” human rights when used by the free in the name of the bound. It was Toussaint, according to Césaire, who “took the Declaration of the Rights of Man literally,” who gave life to a principle. But the black masses made the revolution. They understood, as Césaire demonstrates, that nothing could be expected from Paris, that formal promises would not be fulfilled, and, most of all, that freedom must be won through conflict.

Eventually, those black-brown masses did win their freedom, and in doing so turned Dessalines, the first leader of independent Haiti, into a god. This link between religious practice and political change, between vodou and resistance, is a consistent theme in Haitian history, but Césaire was never comfortable talking about vodou, or quimbois, its attenuated equivalent in Martinique. Though statistics indicate that 75 percent of Martinicans are Roman Catholic, that does not say very much. In Haiti, where le mélange, or mixture, is a fact of life, vodou practitioners boast in words that are by now proverbial, “I am Catholic, and I serve the gods.”

Even though blood-suckers, revenants, evil spirits in the form of dogs, and loupgawou walk the night, Césaire, like Toussaint, refused to recognize—at least openly—these powers. Yet a glance at the poetry, early and late, at the landscape infused with life, stones made animate, and all kinds of commingling of persons and things, suggests what is so deeply felt that it cannot be said. Césaire’s reticence, which I first took as coldness, I later understood to be respect for the unknowable, a grace that refused to use or tamper with what gave life to the trees, lived in the waters, and, I think now, inspired him. The spirits found voice in his art.

But what kind of voice was possible for the poet born in the Caribbean, educated into French literature, who wanted to break out of the fetters of colonialism? Césaire once said:

I don’t deny French influences within myself. . . . But I want to emphasize very strongly that—while using the elements that French literature gave me as a point of departure—at the same time I have always strived to form a new language. . . . I wanted to create an Antillean French, a black French.

He always refused to be enshrined as one of the splendid results of French colonization. He defied its gifts of eloquence, dislocated French into something new, and expressed what he called “this self, this black, creole, Martinican, West Indian self.” No one wrote French like Césaire. From the Cahier and Les armes miraculeuses to such works as Soleil cou coupé (Beheaded Sun) (1948), Corps perdu (Lost Body) (1950), Ferrements (1960), and Cadastre (1961), he coined neologisms and introduced archaisms and popular and scientific etymologies, while tearing apart syntax and word order. Obsessed by terminology, he exhumed old words, plundering Latin and Greek and remaking the ancient world on the soil of Martinique.

The challenge was to forge a new register of communication out of the données of the colonial “mother tongue.” For some Caribbean writers, however, the attempt was doomed to failure: to be an exile in your own land. In Eloge de la créolité (In Praise of Creoleness) (1989), Raphaël Confiant, Patrick Chamoiseau, and the linguist Jean Bernabé oversimplified the ambiguities of Glissant’s Le Discours antillais (Caribbean Discourse) (1981). They advocated a return to creole, the language of the “djobeurs” and “the vegetable markets of Fort-de-France.” Creolity, along with such terms as “nomadism,” “cross-cultural circulation,” and “mestiza consciousness,” entered the academy, offering a chance for professors fashionably to embrace the “other.” Creolity became exotic, an easy trip to the supermarket of diversity goods where everyone could pick up a bit of local color. It was supremely apolitical. Suddenly, the Caribbean became emblematic of the world we live in, as in James Clifford’s realization that “the whole world is evolving toward a condition of creolization.” But these Caribbean hybridities were achieved at a price.

Césaire never forgot these costs. He never forgot history or politics. Perhaps that is why Confiant and Chamoiseau are so much more popular in Paris today. The magic of the hybrid—the beauty, the heat, the odors and music, the luxuriance and excess of the tropics—is much more attractive to publishers and critics than the grueling realities of racism and violence. Césaire’s French holds on to the parts of the self that most of us would like to conceal. Stark and compelling, it ruptures empty pieties. Take, for example, these lines from “Ibis-Anubis” : “à l’avance j’éructai une vie / j’ai tiré au sort mes ancêtres une terre plénière / mais qui blesse qui motile / tout ce qui abâtardit le fier regard” (in advance I belched a life / I drew lots for my ancestors for a plenary earth / but one that wounds that mutilates / anything that bastardizes a proud gaze). He became a poet by renouncing poetry. It was only in this rejection—achieved through the very materials that confined him—that he made his break with the “langue de culture.”

He made his life, just as he made his language and his poetry, out of what others judged defeats.

Césaire recognized that the dream of a return to Africa was as much a symptom of deracination as the myth of assimilation with France. His honesty was brutal. But only with his singular and hard-won French could he keep his voice true, held between the lure of an idealized past and the dangers of a restrictive present, between poetry and politics, lyric and prose, Paris and Africa. He never feared controversy. He was dreadfully consistent. In 2005, when he refused to see future French President Nicolas Sarkozy, who had supported the law forcing teachers and texts to teach the positive effects of colonialism, Césaire insisted, “I am anti-colonial. I have never changed. I am inflexible.”

* * *

Césaire lived the tragedy of a present that kept repeating the past. He had hoped in the auspicious days after World War II that colonial atrocities would end. It was in this spirit that in the French National Assembly on March 19, 1946, he pushed for Martinique, along with the other “vieilles colonies” —Guadeloupe, French Guiana, and Réunion—to become a department: no longer a colony, but an equal part of France alongside Alpes-Maritimes, Paris, or Dordogne. Yet he found himself humiliated as he watched new forms of oppression—economic exploitation and cultural dependency—take root in a neocolonial Martinique. Laws concerning unemployment benefits, social security, and equal salaries, for example, were passed in Paris but not applied in Martinique. Before the Assembly on December 29, 1947, Césaire condemned “the caricature of assimilation” offered by France, who had reneged on her promise of equality. “We asked you for . . . the rights of man and the citizen,” he said. “What you offer us instead are truncheons and riot squads.” He watched his fellow deputies acquiesce in the massacres of the Malagasy during the nationalist uprising in Madagascar in 1947. Three years later, in Discours sur le colonialisme, he described scenes of “cannibalistic hysteria” in the Assembly, with “cries of ‘Kill! Kill!’ and ‘Let’s see some blood,’ belched forth by trembling old men.” Discours marked his confrontation not only with the barbarism of the “respectable bourgeois,” but with a language that blinds, manipulates, and deadens. He looked to an Africa that finally shook off the colonial yoke only to see independence become nothing more than a cover for new forms of domination. “The flotsam of any Ancien Régime,” he reminded me, “has a strange staying power.”

He made his life, just as he made his language and his poetry, out of what others judged defeats, or as V. S. Naipaul put it, “nullities.” If Naipaul’s recurrent nightmare was to awaken and find himself back in Trinidad, Césaire lived again and again the return to Martinique. Not just in his Cahier, where return is the only ritual that matters, the only way to reclaim the self, but in his double life as mayor in Martinique and deputy in Paris. He never turned his back on what divided him.

I visited Césaire before the publication of moi, laminaire . . . (me, laminaria . . .) (1982), as he approached seventy. The promise of “unheard of whitenings” in Les armes miraculeuses, the pleasure in obscurity had thirty-five years later become muted. More an elegy for what did not happen than a summoning of the possible, these poems are quiet in their strangeness. The prose epigraph concludes: “time also to settle one’s account with a few phantoms and ghosts.” The old influences, Lautréamont, Mallarmé, Rimbaud, and Claudel, are gone. The laconic voice and cool irony accomplish something more honest and more difficult. Offering no easy compromise or magical fantasy, Césaire presents his island, his vision, and his art as “avatar / of a version of paradise absurdly spoiled / —it is much worse than a hell— /” .

Vulnerable now to disappointments that over such a long time had not been dislodged, he realized that no words of his, no matter how miraculous, could save him. In the image of the laminarian algae clinging to a rock in the Caribbean, Césaire reflects on how “the atmospheric or rather historic pressure / immeasurably increases my afflictions / even if it makes some words of mine luxurious.” Césaire selected these closing lines of “Lagoonal Calendar” to be engraved on his tombstone in the cemetery of La Joyau where he was buried on April 20 after a long journey through the streets of Fort-de-France, lined with tens of thousands, some of whom sang in Creole, “Papa Aimé, mesi” (“Papa Aimé, thank you”), as if he were a god.

Prayer to Masks by Léopold Sédar Senghor

2010-04-08T13:35:00.002-04:00

Black mask, red mask, you black and white masks,
Rectangular masks through whom the spirit breathes,
I greet you in silence!
Any you too, my lionheaded ancestor.
You guard this place, that is closed to any feminine laughter,
   to any mortal smile.
You purify the air of eternity, here where I breathe the air of
   my fathers.
Masks of markless faces, free from dimples and wrinkles,
You have composed this image, this is my face that bends
   over the altar of white paper.
In the name of your image, listen to me!
Now while the Africa of despotism is dying - it is the agony
of a pitiable princess
Like that of Europe to whom she is connected through the
   navel -
Now fix your immobile eyes upon your children who have
   been called
And who sacrifice their lives like the poor man his last
   garment
So that hereafter we may cry 'hear' at the rebirth of the
   world being the leaven that the white flour needs.
For who else would teach rhythm to the world that has
   died of machines and cannons?
For who else should ejaculate the cry of joy, that arouses
   the dead and the wise in a new dawn?
Say, who else could return the memory of life to men with
   a torn hope?
They call us cotton heads, and coffee men, and oily men,
They call us men of death.
But we are the men of the dance whose feet only gain
   power when they beat the hard soil.

Léopold Sédar Senghor

SEMBENE OUSMANE!

2010-04-07T14:33:00.002-04:00

i've got a used copy of XALA on hold at my gig at morgan adams bookstore... me and Crys
rented the film from netflix a few months ago and i'm eager to check out the literary version.

the film below is the first installment of
a work in progress by jason silverman - http://vimeo.com/9708864 - featuring
Sembene Ousmane as the subject... it's incomprehensible to me how black art and literature
can be discussed in america without mentioning the works of our african counterparts either
living on the continent or living elsewhere... but to paraphrase what the video is about and
what i'm always saying to every ear that will listen:

more than with guns, whoever controls a peoples' narrative controls that people.

SEMBENE! chapter 1, 2-20-10 version from jason silverman on Vimeo.

cave canem book prize

2010-03-31T11:59:00.004-04:00

taken from Poets & Writers

Cave Canem Foundation

Poetry Prize

Deadline:

April 30, 2010

Entry Fee:

$15

Web site:

www.cavecanempoets.org

E-mail address:

camillerankine@ccpoets.org

A prize of $1,000 and publication by University of Georgia Press will be given annually for a first poetry collection by an African American poet. Elizabeth Alexander will judge. Submit two copies of a manuscript of 50 to 75 pages with a $15 entry fee by April 30. Call, e-mail, or visit the Web site for complete guidelines.

Cave Canem Foundation, 20 Jay Street, Suite 310-A, Brooklyn, NY 11201. (718) 858-0000. Camille Rankine, Contact.

TAGS:

African American

Back to Writing Contests Database Listings

sigh-ku, volumes 1 and 2

2010-03-22T08:35:00.001-04:00

this entry exists
by shear will of extreme
laziness - a poem.

...

if only i blogged
as brilliantly as i com
ment on other blogs.

does my red black and green liberation jumpsuit make me look fat?

2010-02-25T16:16:00.005-05:00

the activist in me (if only in mind) has been on mute waaaay too long for my liking.

crystal once told me about a brother back in the day who walked into a crowded restaurant
raised his fist in black power salute and shouted "AFRICA, MOTHERFUCKER!"
then left.

i so wish that had been me.

there was a time that would have been... but i've since allowed the cultural malaise that seriously
affects the region i live in to become my excuse for surrendering 'the cause' for hermitage,
seclusion and isolation. i accepted the fact that the people i create art and word for no longer
exist in this modern era... at least, not on the streets where we can share anger, joy or secrets
eye-to-eye.

i live in a vacuum, i understand that... but why have i allowed a vacuum to live within me?

i used to joke that i had several split personalities living inside me: a prankster, but conscious.
a romanticist, but conscious. an elitist, but conscious. a villain, but conscious. a preacher, but
conscious. a politician, but conscious. a patriot, but conscious... a hustler, but conscious...

but somewhere along the way, i grew sick and tired of those who had become sick and tired of
being culturally responsible. folks who i thought would sing the blues with me forever began to
snap their fingers and dance a jig to showtunes i knew nothing about (metaphors for 'providing
a better roof over their heads than what previously been allotted to them) - - - i firmly undersood
that "PROGRESS" happens, i get that and deeply accept it... i expect it!
but how progressive is it if the action of doing so takes you away (against your will or by agreement)
from the philosophical positions on live and liberty you once so thoroughly delivered to anyone
who would listen?

if the progress that feeds your belly also purchases the hunger within your soul, then shouldnt the
reward for such also be of benefit to your mind and spirit? if a pound of steak feeds your conscious
questionings better than the rice and ramens did, then your questions about who you were as a person
wasnt about shit to begin with...

forgive me... ive been walking around my soapbox for so long, that i'd forgotten that it DOES actually
support my weight... at what age did fear of falling become inbred?

sigh... anyway... i'm not going to address all of my inner-issues all at once at this exact time. instead,
i'm going to post a link to the blog that got me riled up again, plus my reply to it below the link.
it's a good site... i'm adding the sister's link to my blogroll...

acts of faith

there are many facets to this issue, a major one being our focus on 'how we've progressed since slavery' - but 'progression' isnt the issue, it's 'power'. those who controlled power 100 years ago still control power today, it isnt as much about race as it is about society, wealth and privilege (issues which once included doctrines of racial superiority, but but now focus on primarily on class - where issues of race are embedded, but are easily side-stepped by those controlling media, business and education)

america has decided that its okay for its 'minorities' to openly protest, but what it prohibits is ORGANIZING because knowledge with a physical mass is a threat to structured power.
the poor, black and disfranchised can blog and post videos to their hearts' content while tangible knowledge is removed from our communities: black bookstores, black laundromats, black newspapers, black schools and any other independently owned black business or agency has vanished from our neighborhoods reducing the influence they could have on our younger (and older!) generations.

african americans today have more access to education and financial ability than we have at any other time in our past... as a whole, we are the wealthiest segment of black people on earth - even our poverty levels far exceed the annual incomes of black folks anywhere else on the planet. we have freedom, but we no longer have cultural independence - an aspect lost as we assimilated into 'the melting pot'.

the system that once shunned us now controls how we view and celebrate black history; there are no longer any newspapers thrust into our hands detailing our status in america, we must now stumble upon it online to be linked to and debated about but STILL online. where do we go to meet outside of our homes to discuss who we are and what we want? the huffington post can write an online editorial and then have someone physically address someone else face-to-face for comment or rebuttal
while those who are disenfranchised take their outrage to facebook or blogger.

avatars have replaced activists, which suits the holders of power (white or black) just fine.

in this day and age of black presidents and oscar winners, million dollar athletes and talk-show hosts, we have PROGRESSED about as far as being powerless will allow us.

now, its up to some of us to take a few steps back,
see what worked and what hasnt and then formulate a way to put knowledge into action.

this wont alleviate all our social ills, but it will definitely give us a better landing place to start from when discussions of who we are as a people rage out of control only to be worked out in resolution centers we do not own or operate.

lucille clifton...

2010-02-19T17:00:00.003-05:00

of the 3 poets who have shaped my approach to writing,
alongside ishmael reed and haki madhubuti, mother lucille clifton
has always been the one to best balance message, emotion and craft: the 3
strongest elements, to me, defining 'black poetry' - an artform that has
recently shifted away from those core strengths in favor of
mainstream poetry's predominant aesthetic... ((clears th'oat))

i've never been one to to say the right things at the right time...
i usually cut straight to the point during the times when pointlessness
is the most expected sought after type of literary foreplay (when i do talk
too much i ramble/painfully obvious right about now)...

this is the poorest damn eulogizing ever!!!!!

i never met ms. clifton, but she remains an entity that i will carry forever within.
the act of pouring libations and setting up ancestral altars is for the remembrance and
continued acknowledgment of those most venerable to who we are and how we choose
to live - a recognition of those we deem the most worthy of being so-honored...

ms. clifton will always be welcomed in our home.

this is my favorite of her poems, and perhaps my most favorite of all poems:

"if i stand in my window"

if i stand in my window

naked in my own house

and press my breasts

against the windowpane

like black birds pushing against glass

because i am somebody

in a New Thing

and if the man come to stop me

in my own house

naked in my own window

saying i have offended him

i have offended his

Gods

let him watch my black body

push against my own glass

let him discover self

let him run naked through the streets

crying

praying in tongues

ky blues

2010-02-18T19:30:00.001-05:00

african booty scratcher!

2010-02-18T14:57:00.001-05:00

African Booty Scratcher-Short Film by Nikyatu Jusu from Nikyatu Jusu on Vimeo.

this week on the bbc

2010-02-17T07:50:00.000-05:00

king tut had malaria, a bone disorder, a cleft lip and a club foot.

lady gaga wins big on brit music awards.

still fictitious

2010-02-11T03:42:00.000-05:00

soooo fictitious

2010-02-11T03:25:00.000-05:00

a kentucky haint thinks of haiti

2010-02-10T20:36:00.008-05:00

im not a witch
nor the son of one
but i want to be

so instead, i write
to shore up the lack,
every written word

thrown head first
into the ohio river
more than once

to sink or to float
whichever fits
the thick lipped

phonetics/foundation
for this self-anointed
poet building towers

atop
the
waters

...

audre lorde is my lady of the lake
ghost hands parting this southern mouth
housing a kentucky pond/each word a frond
every stem a magic wand/the tongue a baton
wagging in yemoja's general direction,
all of her reflection upon this body of water

...

anyway, the coffee kept on ancestral altars
has crumbled into dirt; prayers dehydrate
into dust fertilizing the eggs of this diaspora

i can await the answers to prayer, im patient
and i meditate. besides, all of my ancestors are
out on loan... tho shorn from kentucky i am kin
to haiti. my not-so-distant cousins needing more
angels than i because love is an immediate action

...

and speaking of punching pat robertson
in the mouth, he and rush limbaugh can call
my ancestors retarded or niggers and me
a retarded nigger for crafting faith from where
the hate of blacks was created. pyre respects
pyre and i am sunflower-supreme. i do not
shrink shrieking into shadows reeking with
shame or fear or of the fear-of-flame... there
is switchblade in my sepals. and just ike all
of my gods, i too speak from my mouth. dont
require prophet-mongers to translate what god's
written on my cheek, so let's not escalate this
renunciation to your ignorance. push me too
hard and i shall no longer pray for you

not that
praying
for you
is ever
a first
venture

every amen
must begin and
end somewhere

and the brackets of this body and
soul do not embrace everybody.

...

but if i was a witch
or the son of one,
how wonderful...

from such
a blessing
would come the
understanding
of beauty and
the undertaking
to use it.

(god damn the prevention
of this american polyglot
spoiling a black man's
asymmetrical patois)

finna follow in crystal's footsteps and get my shortstoryfiction thang in action...

2010-02-04T20:06:00.003-05:00

working title, "rapunzel beatbox, bookstore clerk"

- the hell if i know what that means right now, but sounds damn fresh to me.

i got the book cover done tho!

crissy's been talknabout her novel almost being done for 3 years, but at least in her case she actually HAS 43,000 words down on paper... i've just got half a opening sentence written on a 3" grocery receipt currently going through the spin cycle in the wash machine...

sigh...

such is the life of a writer-in-his-own-mind™

midnight paregoric (side effects from a nickel slick nigger serum)

2010-01-27T14:33:00.006-05:00

('this thisness' redux)

...

BRRRRIKCtikkktiklikttickkcc...
the sound my blackness makes
fading in and out the shadows
and the i-have-a-dreamcicle
incense smoke separating us
brrrrrkkkktickticktaktickkkkkkk,
i lick you/the bootblack of my tongue
leaving a slender streak of oil-slick
slob on your cheek/the globules
of a literary gawlo practitioner.
bbbbrrrkkkktkkttckcktttckkkk
so electric my eclectic shadow
passing its solids through you;
african + cosmic in your nasal
cavity, the cave wall for my
disembodied canon/etching shades
of hatshepsut & franz fanon
on 3rd eye-lid insides,
i kid you not...
brrrrrbbbrrrkkkktkkkbbbrrrrrrttttit
i come from a long line of long lines
the day you can see me
i could kiss you, but brrkktktkktkkkick
nothin' but static/your heels brrklckclicking
like shards of flint for good-witch
glinda to send harlequin bush-babies
to cover you in kansas
bbrrrrcktkckckttkcikcktaackktickkak...
but all there is is this crepuscule on
canvas, this rainbowed excrement & this
- thisness.

(see your doctor immediately
if ochered inflections persist
longer than 4 hours)

i want to be a pilot!

2010-01-25T22:59:00.000-05:00

Yves Saint Laurent Collection Homme Printemps/Eté 2010 - Film.

2010-01-25T22:45:00.003-05:00

Yves Saint Laurent Collection Homme Printemps/Eté 2010 - Film. from official ysl on Vimeo.

god, how i love art films...

2010-01-25T22:40:00.003-05:00

well, vimeo's removed two of my favorite short films, 'death to the tinman' and 'jettison your loved ones' ... but this one still remains:

spike jonze's upcoming short "i'm here"...

Absolute Robot from funny you should ask on Vimeo.

two dope boys in a cadillac -

2010-01-23T20:59:00.003-05:00

one from rome... the other from stax... what funky is!
as a writer and artist, i cant help but be deeply intrigued by the creativity of these songs...
Adriano Celentano mustabeen on LSD.
Brotha Ike was proly high on ham sandwiches (laced with lsd)... ...whatever the case, i want summa it!
i've never been high, but i think i've been missing out.

(is 'the green movement' the closest thing we have to having a 'counter-culture'? does what's left of true hip-hop and punk rock still count as subversive cultures? is 'american gothic' a republican subdivision?)

where have all the bellbottoms gone?
(and if you say old navy, ima smack the shit outta you!)

contests/submissions/etc

2010-01-21T17:40:00.002-05:00

Willow Books Legacy Chapbook Series

and Integral Music Chapbook Series

Postmark Deadline: March 1, 2010

Reading Fee: $15 per entry

The Legacy Chapbook Series is designed to showcase and further enhance the legacy of writers of African descent. The length of the submission should total no more than 28 pages.

Note: to kick-off the Legacy Chapbook Series, Willow Books will be publishing National Book Award Finalist Carolyn Rogers in the month of April.

The Integral Music Chapbook Series, which is named after the poet Ed Roberson, will feature innovative poems that push boundaries through musicality and word play. We encourage risk-takers to submit their work to this series. The length of the submission should total no more than 25 pages.

Both chapbooks will be perfect bound with an ISBN. The selected authors will receive 10 copies. Willow Books, the poetry division of Aquarius Press, agrees to make the chapbook available to readings, conferences, bookstores and any other venue where the poet has a scheduled reading.

Poets, please make sure that your cover sheet includes:

• The title, your name and contact information (address, phone number and email address). This is an open submission process.

• An acknowledgments page listing previously published poems.

• A brief bio (no more than 50 words).

• State which series you would like to enter.

There is a reading fee of $15 for each manuscript submitted. Multiple submissions are accepted, as long as each submission is accompanied by a separate $15 reading fee. Manuscripts submitted during this open reading period may not be revised nor re-submitted. Please include the $15 reading fee (PayPal, check or money order), payable to Aquarius Press. We also accept credit card payments (leave name, card type, number and expiration date at 877-979-3639) . ($25 fee for returned checks and/or declined credit cards.) Include a self-addressed postcard for acknowledgment of receipt of your manuscript and #10 SASE for notification. Manuscripts will not be returned.

We reserve the right to not make selections for this year if the editors decide that there are no manuscripts meeting our editorial standards.

Manuscripts must be postmarked by March 1st, 2010. Send two copies of your manuscript, with cover sheets, to:

Aquarius Press

(Include the name of the Series that you are entering here)

PO Box 23096

Detroit, Michigan 48223

2010 Cave Canem Poetry Prize Guidelines
Award: Winner receives $1,000, publication by The University of Georgia Press
in fall 2011, 15 copies of the book and a feature reading.
Final Judge: Elizabeth Alexander. (Judge reserves the right not to select a winner or honorable
mentions.)
Eligibility: African American writers who have not had a full‐length book of poetry published by
a professional press. Authors of chapbooks and self‐published books with a maximum print run of
500 may apply. Simultaneous submission to other book awards should be noted: immediate notice
upon winning such an award is required. Winner agrees to be in the United States at her or his own
expense when the book is published in order to participate in promotional reading(s).
Deadline: Reading period opens March 15, 2010. Manuscripts must be postmarked no later than
April 30, 2010. Manuscripts received after May 8, 2010, 5 pm, will not be considered, regardless of
postmark date. To be notified that your manuscript has been received, enclose a stamped, selfaddressed
postcard. Winner announced in September 2010.
Entry Fee: $15. Enclose check with submission, made payable to Cave Canem Foundation. Entry fees
are non‐refundable.
Direct packet to:
Cave Canem Foundation
Cave Canem Poetry Prize
20 Jay Street, Suite 310‐A
Brooklyn, NY 11201
Submission
�� Send two copies of a single manuscript. One manuscript per poet allowed.
�� Enclose a stamped, self‐addressed envelope to receive notification of results.
�� Author’s name should not appear on any pages within the manuscript. Copy One must include a
title page with the author’s brief bio (200 words, maximum) and contact information: name, postal
address, e‐mail address and telephone number. Copy Two must include a cover sheet with the title
only.
�� Manuscript must include a table of contents and list of acknowledgments of previously published
poems.
�� Manuscript must be single sided with a font size of 11 or 12, paginated, and 50‐75 pages in length,
inclusive of title page, table of contents and acknowledgments. A poem may be multiple pages, but
no more than one poem per page is permitted.
�� Manuscript must be unbound. Use a binder clip—do not staple or fold. Do not include illustrations
or images of any kind.
�� Manuscripts not adhering to submission guidelines will be discarded without notice to sender.
�� Due to the volume of submissions, manuscripts will not be returned. Post‐submission revisions or
corrections are not permitted.

2010 BARROW STREET PRESS BOOK CONTEST

The Barrow Street Press Book Contest award will be given for the best

previously unpublished manuscript of poetry in English. The winner will

receive book publication by Barrow Street Press, and $1000.00.

Judge: Mary Ruefle*

Deadline: June 30, 2010

Fee: $25.00

If entrants would like to receive a copy of the winning book, please include a book mailer with

$2.75 postage. Thank you.

*manuscripts by current and past students of Mary Ruefle will not be considered

GUIDELINES*

*(note – send to Rhode Island Barrow Street address, not New York City)

1) Submit a 50 - 70 page unpublished manuscript of original poetry in English. Include

acknowledgement page for published poems.

2) The manuscript should be typed, single-spaced, on one side of the page

only, on white 8 ½" x 11" paper. Clear photocopies are acceptable. Please

do not send your only copy, as manuscripts cannot be returned. If the manuscript is

illegible or not a clear copy in any way, it will not be considered and your check will be

returned.

3) Include two (2) title pages. The author's name, address, and telephone number should

appear on the first title page only, and should not appear elsewhere in the manuscript.

The second title page should just contain the title and nothing else.

4) Include SASE for notification of contest results.

5) Please include a check for $25.00, payable to Barrow Street.

6) Send entries to: **(note – send to Rhode Island Barrow Street address, not New York

City)

Barrow Street

PO Box 1558

Kingston, RI 02881

Our best wishes,

The Editors

www.barrowstreet.org

Black Infinity:

Adele V. Holden Prize for New African-American Poets

CityLit Project announces the first Black Infinity Poetry Prize in honor of Adele V.

Holden, born on Maryland’s segregated Eastern Shore, educated at Johns Hopkins

under Elliott Coleman, devoted high school English teacher. Through her art,

career, and life, Ms. Holden promoted equal rights while shaping the minds of

young people. Prize recognizes African-American poets under 40 not previously

published in book-length form. Send $15 entry fee, SASE for notification of

winner, and a manuscript not more than 30 pages with coversheet to Black Infinity,

CityLit Project, 120 S. Curley Street, Baltimore, MD 21224. Must be postmarked

before February 1, 2010. Winner receives publication, small honorarium, 25 copies.

Reginald Harris will judge. Guidelines at www.citylitproject.org.

Submission Guidelines

1. This chapbook competition is open to any African-American writer who has not

had either a chapbook or full-length book of poetry published by a professional

press. CityLit Project staff, interns, board members, and their immediate family

are ineligible.

2. Contestants must be under the age of forty at the time they submit the

manuscript to the competition.

3. Send one (1) copy of a single manuscript, one (1) submission per poet.

Manuscripts must be typed and available in electronic format. Submit no fewer

than sixteen (16) and no more than thirty (30) pages of poetry. All poems must

be original (translations are not accepted).

4. Manuscripts must be unbound. Use binder or paper clips (no staples).

5. Include on separate pages

a. A cover sheet listing poet’s name, date of birth, mailing, contact

telephone number, email address, and collection title. Author’s name

should not appear on any pages within the manuscript.

b. List of acknowledgments of previously published poems (if applicable).

c. Brief one paragraph brief bio not to exceed 200 words.

d. Separate page with title of collection only (to be forwarded to the final

judge).

6. Manuscripts will not be returned; after the winner has been selected, all other

manuscripts will be recycled. Please do not send your only copy.

7. Simultaneous submission to other awards should be noted. Immediate notice

upon winning an award is required.

8. Enclose a stamped, self-addressed postcard so that we may acknowledge receipt

of your material, and a stamped, self-addressed envelope to receive an

announcement of the prize winner.

9. Entry Fee: $15 (made payable to CityLit Project) along with submission to:

Black Infinity Prize

c/o CityLit Project

120 S. Curley Street

Baltimore, MD 21224

FINALIST MANUSCRIPTS WILL BE JUDGED ANONYMOUSLY.

Postmark Deadline: February 1, 2010.

Notification: Winner will be notified in May 2010, with the winning chapbook

published in Fall 2010.

Prize Winner: The winner of the Black Infinity: Adele V. Holden Prize for New

African-American Poets receives $250, publication by CityLit Press, and 25 copies of

the winning chapbook.

Prize Honoree: Adele V. Holden (1919-2005)

Through her art, career, and life, Adele V. Holden promoted equal rights while shaping

the minds of young people.

Born on the racially segregated Eastern Shore in 1919, Adele grew up in Pocomoke

City, Maryland, during the Great Depression, a time when the state’s final lynchings

were taking place in nearby towns. She attended Morgan State College and Johns

Hopkins University, where she was an early student of Writing Seminars founder Elliott

Coleman. Adele dedicated her energy to educating young people as a devoted English

teacher at Dunbar High School and the Community College of Baltimore. She

published a collection of poetry in 1961, and forty years later her second book, the

memoir Down on the Shore: The Family and Place that Forged a Poet’s Voice.

Adele and her editor criss-crossed the region promoting the widely-praised book,

forming a relationship that lasted until her death in 2005. She willed the car in which

they traveled—an otherwise barely-used black Infiniti—to that editor, who donated it to

CityLit Project to establish a prize in her honor. While Black Infinity references that car,

it also represents Adele V. Holden’s belief in young people, poetry, education, and

equal rights for all.

2010 Prize Final Judge: Reginald Harris

Reginald Harris is recipient of Individual Artist Awards for both poetry and fiction from

the Maryland State Arts Council. His first book, 10 Tongues: Poems (Three Conditions

Press, 2001) was finalist for a Lambda Literary Award and the ForeWord Book of the

Year. A graduate fellow of the Cave Canem: African American Poetry Workshop /

Retreat, his poetry, fiction, book reviews, and articles have appeared in various journals,

reference works, and websites, including 5 AM, African-American Review, Beltway,

Black Issues Book Review, Gargoyle, smartish pace, Sou’wester; and the Best Gay

Poetry 2008, Bum Rush the Page, Role Call, The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South,

and Voices Rising: Celebrating 20 Years of Black Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and

Transgender Writing anthologies. He serves as Manager of Help Desk and Training for

the Systems Department for the Enoch Pratt Free Library in Baltimore.

Prize Sponsor: CityLit Project

CityLit Project nurtures the culture of literature in Baltimore and throughout Maryland.

CityLit builds and connects a community of avid readers and writers through public

events, workshops, web resources, and publishing. Its signature event—CityLit

Festival—was selected “Best of Baltimore” by Baltimore magazine in 2005 and 2009,

and is now a “can’t miss event on the city’s cultural scene.”

THE 2010 IOWA REVIEW AWARDS
Poetry, Fiction, and Nonfiction
Brenda Hillman, Michael Cunningham, and Jo Ann Beard, judges

$1,000 to each winner
$500 to runners-up
Plus publication in our December 2010 issue

Submit during January 2010

Submit up to 20 pages of prose (double-spaced) or 10 pages of poetry (double or single; one poem or several). Work must be previously unpublished. Simultaneous submissions are fine assuming you inform us of acceptance elsewhere.
Manuscripts must include a cover page listing your name, address, e-mail address and/or telephone number, and the title of each work, but your name should not appear on the manuscript itself.
Enclose a $20 entry fee (checks payable to The Iowa Review). All entrants receive a yearlong subscription to the magazine.
Label your envelope as a contest entry, for example: "Contest: Fiction." One entry per envelope.
Postmark submissions between January 1 and January 31, 2010.
Enclose a #10 SASE for final word on your work. Enclose a SAS postcard if you wish confirmation of our receipt of your entry.
No electronic submissions.

The Iowa Review
308 EPB
Iowa City, IA 52242

Milk Money
http://www.milkmone ymag.com/

Entry Deadline: Feb. 15, 2009 for the next issue
Milk Money, Volume Seven: Vile Pile
They say print is dead. But who are “they” to say such a thing? The editors of Milk Money Magazine in Cincinnati, Ohio think otherwise, and they can back it up with the very real existence of their mechanical duplicator. It’s not alive – it’s a machine – but the quarterly literary magazines it mass-produces are evidence of a very alive scene for printed works of fiction, prose, and poetry from national and international writers.
Milk Money is accepting submissions for its latest edition, Volume Seven: Vile Pile. They are looking for exceptional works of literary and experimental fiction and poetry. Works should be no more than 5,000 words whether it's fiction or poetry. Please only submit one short story per issue, but feel free to submit several works of poetry. We accept submissions year round, but the deadline for our next issue is February 15th.
If a work has been published outside of the United States or published in an online-only journal, Milk Money will consider it; please specify in the body of your e-mail if this is the case when you are submitting. All other previously published material will not be considered.
Milk Money only accepts work submitted via e-mail at (replace (at) with @). Please attach your work in the form of .doc, .rtf or .txt files. Any submissions received otherwise cannot be considered for the magazine. Please do not paste the text in the body of your e-mail. A formal cover letter is not necessary. However, we do like to read a little bit about our contributors so please include a short bio in your e-mail.
Visit www.milkmoneymag. com for previous issues and more information regarding submissions.

The Prairie Schooner Book Prize Series welcomes manuscripts in poetry and fiction from all living writers, including non-US citizens, writing in English. Both unpublished and published writers are welcome to submit manuscripts. Writers may enter both contests. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but we ask that you notify us immediately if your manuscript is accepted for publication somewhere else.

Winners will receive $3000 and publication through the University of Nebraska Press.

Manuscripts should be mailed with a postmark between January 15th and March 15th, 2010 to:
Prairie Schooner Prize Series
Attn: Fiction or Poetry
201 Andrews Hall
PO Box 880334
Lincoln NE 68588-0334

Any questions, please send an email to Managing Editor James Engelhardt at jengelhardt2( at)unl.edu or Prize Book Series Coordinator Cody Lumpkin at (replace (at) with @).

For information and a complete set of guidelines, please see our website http://prairieschooner.unl.edu/ prizes/index. html

2010 Intro Prize in Poetry/fourwaybooks

Judge: Alan Shapiro

Submission Dates: January 1 - March 31, 2010
electronic or mail submissions accepted

Awarding publication of a book-length collection and $1000.00

Open to any poet writing in English who has not previously published a book-length poetry collection

For Complete Guidelines please visit:
www.fourwaybooks. com

Four Way Books
P.O. Box 535 Village Station
New York, New York 10014

The American Poetry Journal Book Prize
Guidelines and Information for 2010
http://home. comcast.net/ ~jpdancingbear/ dhpcontests. html

The postmark deadline for entries to the 2010 The American Poetry Journal Book Prize is February 28, 2010. To enter, submit 50-65 paginated pages of poetry, table of contents, acknowledgments, bio, email address for results (No SASEs; manuscripts will be recycled), and a $25.00 non-refundable fee for each manuscript entered. The winner will receive $1000, publication, and 20 copies. All entries will be considered for publication. All styles are welcome. Multiple submissions are acceptable. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but if your manuscript is accepted for publication elsewhere you must notify The American Poetry Journal and/or Dream Horse Press immediately. Fees are non-refundable. Judging will be anonymous; writers' names should not appear anywhere on the manuscript. Please include your name and biographical information in a separate cover letter. Please be sure to include your email address. The winner is chosen by the editor of The American Poetry Journal, J.P. Dancing Bear. Close friends, students (former or present), and relatives of the the editor are NOT eligible for the contest; their entry fees will be refunded.

The American Poetry Journal Book Prize entries may be sent, following the guidelines above, to:

The American Poetry Journal book prize
P. O. Box 2080
Aptos, California 95001-2080

Please make checks payable to: Dream Horse Press.
Or, you can now submit your manuscript in email, save on postage, paper, and envelopes

by paying online at
http://home. comcast.net/ ~jpdancingbear/ dhpcontests. html

Poetry Chapbook Contest/swan scythe press

Swan Scythe Press, founded by poet Sandra McPherson, and now under the management of poet James DenBoer, announces its 2010 Poetry Chapbook contest. Submissions will be accepted between January 15, 2010 - June 1, 2010. Any poet writing in English is eligible to submit. Winner will receive publication and 25 copies of perfect-bound chapbook. For details see: www.swanscythe. com

We require submissions in the following format:

*Title page with author’s name, address, phone number, and email address
*Another title page without any identifying information; book title only
*Table of contents
*Acknowledgments page (optional)
*20 to 36 pages of poems
*All pages must be numbered
*Submit ms. bound only by a binder clip

Please include with your manuscript:

*Reading fee check for $15 made out to Paperwork (not to Swan Scythe Press);
“Paperwork” is James DenBoer’s business checking account
*Stamped SASE for announcement of winner(s)
*No SASE for mss, which will be recycled

Send your manuscript to:

James DenBoer, Managing Editor,
Swan Scythe Press
515 P Street, Apartment 804,
Sacramento CA 95814.
Email: yahoo.com> (replace (at) with @) if you have further questions.

Swan Scythe Press began publishing in 2000, and over the last decade has published 26 chapbooks. Its authors have won many national and local grants, awards and fellowships, and have distinguished themselves as artists and educators throughout the U.S. and in foreign countries. Now launching its second decade under the direction of James DenBoer, Swan Scythe Press is committed to discovering and publishing the best new poets in America today, and to featuring poets of diverse ethnicities/ races, ages, sexual preferences, and genders -- though our emphasis is on the quality of the writing, not on any particular demographic.

Tidal Basin Review

Reading Period & Submission Guidelines
Tidal Basin Review seeks to publish high-quality, well-crafted literature for our electronic debut! Our vision is to amplify the voice of the human experience through art that is intimate, engaging, and audacious. We do not seek shock value art, but rather work that broadens the artistic landscape.

Reading Period Inaugural Spring E-Issue:
January 1, 2010 – February 28, 2010

Submission Guidelines(for Inaugural Spring E-Issue Only) Please send submissions of 3-5 poems totaling no more than 5 pages, one (1) short story, one (1) stand alone novel chapter or creative non-fiction piece of no more than 2,500 words, in an email attachment in doc., rtf, or .pdf format to (replace (at) with @)
for poetry submissions and (replace (at) @)
for fiction and non-fiction submission.

Please send work, in English, which has not been previously published. Publication rights revert to the author upon publication. We accept simultaneous submissions, however, please inform us immediately upon acceptance of your work elsewhere. Be sure to include a brief cover letter which includes your name, mailing address, email address, and phone number, as well as a brief bio with a maximum of 60 words.
Best of luck from the Basin

bluelightpress
Extended to February 20, 2010:

The editors of Blue Light Press warmly invite you to submit a manuscript to our 2010 Blue Light Book Award Competition. Contest rules and previous winners are listed below. Please share this E-mail with other poets, and if you teach writing, please let your students know about our contest. If you have received this from a friend and want to be on our E-mail list, please send an E-mail to aol.com> (replace (at) with @).
and let us know.

BLUE LIGHT PRESS
Announces
THE 2010 BLUE LIGHT BOOK AWARD

Guidelines:
1. Blue Light Press is dedicated to the publication of poetry that is imagistic, inventive, emotionally honest, and pushes the language to a deeper level of insight. We are a collective of poets, and our books are artistically designed.
2. Please note our new address. To enter, send a manuscript of 50 to 80 pages of poetry, typed or printed with a laser or inkjet printer, to:
Diane Frank, Chief Editor
Blue Light Press
1563 - 45th Ave.
San Francisco, CA 94122
3. Submit your manuscript between September 1, 2009 and February 15, 2010. Extended to February 20, 2010
4. Include a reading fee of $20.00 - check payable to Blue Light Press.
5. Include a self-addressed stamped envelope for results. We must have a SASE to correspond with you. No manuscript will be returned without a SASE.
6. Please do not send manuscripts by registered or certified mail, as this requires a trip to the post office. If you want confirmation of receipt, include a postcard with your manuscript. We are not strict about deadlines – if your manuscript comes a few days late, we will still read it.
7. The winner will be announced in June, 2010. The winning book will go into production in September or October of 2010, depending on our production schedule.
8. Winner will receive 10 copies of the book and a 30% royalty on book sales thereafter. The book will be distributed by Ingram, Amazon.com, any bookstore you suggest, and published in cooperation with our partner, 1st World Library.
9. If you win the contest, you will need to give us your manuscript on disk. Acceptable formats:
IBM - MSWord or RTF (Rich Test Format).
Macintosh - Clarisworks, Quark Express, Word, or RTF (Rich Test Format).

Books by Blue Light Press:

Recent books include poets Rustin Larson, Nancy Berg, Alice Rogoff, Stewart Florsheim, Diane Frank, Andrena Zawinski, Barry and Steve Benson, Michelle Demers, Stephen Schneider, Suzanne Niedermeyer, Christopher Buckley, Leah Shelleda, Nancy Tupper-Ling, Kevin Zepper, and Ken McCullough. In 2010, look for books by Tony Krunk, Paul Fisher, Mary Kay Rummel, Scott Caputo, and our new anthology.

Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest
www.winningwriters.com/tompoetry

Eighth year. Ten cash prizes totaling $5,550. Top prize $3,000. Submit poems in any style or genre. Both published and unpublished work accepted. Winning entries published online. Entry fee is $7 for every 25 lines, payable to Winning Writers. Postmark deadline: September 30. Judges: J.H. Reid, D.C. Konrad. Submit online or mail to Winning Writers, Attn: Tom Howard Poetry Contest, 351 Pleasant Street, PMB 222, Northampton, MA 01060. Winning Writers is one of the "101 Best Websites for Writers" (Writer's Digest, 2005-2009). More information: www.winningwriters. com/tompoetry

Diverse Voices Quarterly

- http://www.diversev oicesquarterly. com
is a new online literary journal looking for submissions from all walks of life.

Our second issue is available for download here:
http://www.diversev oicesquarterly. com/2009/ second-issue- available- now

Deadline for submissions is 02/15/10.

Submission guidelines are:
Poetry:
3-5 poems, 40 lines MAX. Please send in one file, separated by a page break between poems.
Short stories:
3,000 words MAX. You may submit up to two short shorts that add up to 1,000 words. If sending two shorts, please send two separate files.
Personal essays/creative nonfiction:
3,000 words MAX. Send only one essay at a time.
Artwork is especially requested. We accept in .jpg or .png format. Send only two high-quality images at a time.
–Simultaneous submissions are accepted but multiple submissions are not, unless you wish to send in artwork at the same time. Please query first.

–We will not read any material previously published online; this includes works published in other online journals or from any message board or blogs.
–While we will read submissions from everyone, the work MUST BE in English.
–Be sure to include your last name and type of submission in the subject line (Example: Kaling – Short Story Submission).
–Include a cover letter, a short bio, and your complete contact information in the body of the e-mail.
–Only attachments are accepted, either as MS Word (.doc or .rtf) or WordPerfect (.wpd) files. Pasted-in submissions WILL BE deleted.
–Send your submissions to: (replace (at) with @).

Noemi Book Award for Poetry
http://www.noemipre ss.org/contest. html

Guidelines for Submissions
Send 48-70 pp. of poetry, along with a $25 entry fee (check or money order) made out to Noemi Press, via U.S. Postal Service, to the following address:
Noemi Book Award for Poetry
P.O. Box 1330
Mesilla Park, NM 88047
Include two title pages: one with title, acknowledgments (if applicable), name, and contact information; one with title alone. Your name must not appear anywhere in the manuscript. Current and former students, close friends, and relatives of the Noemi Press editors are not eligible to enter.
Please use a binder clip to fasten your manuscript.
Enclose an SASE for notification of winners. Manuscripts will not be returned. Revisions of entries cannot be accepted.
Poems that have been previously published individually are eligible, but manuscripts must not have been previously published as a whole. Do not submit poems that appear in a full-length book already published or under contract for publication. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable under the condition that you notify us in the event your manuscript is accepted elsewhere.
All entries must be postmarked on or before March 15, 2010.

Naugatuck River Review
a journal of narrative poetry, welcomes submissions for
the Summer 2010 issue.

Submission guidelines:

The winter submission period is an open (no fee) submission and is from January
1 – March 1st at midnight.
We accept electronic submissions only through our ONLINE SUBMISSION MANAGER at
http://naugatuckriv erreviewsubmissi ons.com/

Contributors will be rewarded with a copy of the journal. We are not in a
position to pay you otherwise, but hope the journal is worth much more than the
cost of its paper.

During the submission period ONLY please submit no more than 3 unpublished
NARRATIVE poems of no more than 50 lines through the online submission manager.
Please remove your name from your file, as the poetry is read blind by our
editorial staff. Questions? Feel free to email us at
aol.com> (replace (at) with @).

Multiple submissions are discouraged, but simultaneous submissions are fine, as
long as you inform us right away if your poem is accepted elsewhere. Publishing
rights revert to the author after the initial publication period. We prefer
work that has not been previously published.

2010 Omnidawn Poetry Chapbook Contest
Judged by Elizabeth Robinson

is Omnidawn Publishing's first annual
chapbook contest
open to all poets writing in English.

Prize includes $1,000.,
Fall 2010 publication by Omnidawn &
100 complimentary copies of the chapbook.

The entry fee of $15 entitles you to a copy of
the winning chapbook if you send an SASE.

Submission period: 1/1/10 - 2/28/10.
Accepting both electronic
and postal submissions.

For details visit
www.omnidawn. com/contest

PALABRA:
A Magazine of Chicano and Latino Literary Art

invites Chicano & Latino writers to submit short stories, flash fiction, poetry, standalone novel excerpts and short plays that explore new avenues of Chicano & Latino writing. Innovative/cross- genre/hybrid work is welcome. Especially interested in work that is fresh and takes literary risks.

Fiction and novel excerpts to 4000 words, flash fiction 3 maximum of up to 750 words each, poems 5 maximum of any length and style, plays to 15 pp. Work can be in English, Spanish, Spanglish or any combination thereof. Simultaneous submissions are okay. There is some pay. Submissions are accepted from September 1 through May 31.

Detailed guidelines and information are available on the website: www.palabralitmag. com.
Submit via USPS only to PALABRA, P.O. Box 86146, Los Angeles, CA 90086-0146. Include SASE. Manuscripts will not be returned.

PALABRA A Magazine of Chicano & Latino Literary Art

P. O. Box 86146
Los Angeles, CA 90086-0146

www.palabralitmag. com

New Madrid Summer 2010 Issue

www.newmadridjournal.org

The editors of New Madrid, Journal of Contemporary Literature invite well-crafted, compelling submissions of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction for the Summer 2010 issue. Quality is the determining factor for acceptance in New Madrid. There is no special theme for the Summer issue—the subject matter is open. We will consider work submitted between January 15 and March 15, 2010. For detailed guidelines and to access our Submission Manager, visit www.newmadridjournal.org.

BELLDAY POETRY PRIZE
$2,000 PRIZE TO WINNING POET
http://www.belldayb ooks.com/ contest.html
Submission Deadline: March 15, 2010

CONTEST FINAL JUDGE: Lucia Perillio
Lucia Perillo has published five books of poetry, including Dangerous Life (1989), The Body Mutinies (1996), The Oldest Map with the Name America(1999) , Luck is Luck (2005) and Inseminating the Elephant (2009). She has also published one book of essays, I've Heard the Vultures Singing (2005). She has taught at four universities and was awarded a MacArthur Foundation fellowship.

Bellday Books will publish the winning book and award $2,000 and 25 copies of the book to the winning author.

Contest Rules:

• Submit a manuscript of 60-90 pages of original poetry in any style in English. The manuscript must not have been published in book or chapbook, but may contain poems that have appeared in print or on the Internet. Entries may consist of individual poems, a book-length poem or any combination of long or short poems.

• Submitted manuscript must contain 2 title pages: Name and contact information should appear on first title page only. Name should not appear anywhere else in the manuscript. Include a table of contents page, but do not send an acknowledgements page.

• Manuscript must be typed single-spaced, paginated and bound with a spring clip.

• Enclose an SASE for announcement of the winner. Manuscript cannot be returned.

• Postmark deadline: March 15, 2010.

• Include a check or money order for $25 reading fee, payable to BELLDAY BOOKS.

• Bellday Books reserves the right not to select an award winner, in which case all reading fees will be refunded.
CONTEST MAILING ADDRESS:
Bellday Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 3687
Pittsburgh, PA 15230

Potomac Review's biennial Poetry Contest

Winning poet receives $1,000 and publication. Second place takes home $250 and publication. All entries will be considered for publication and given a one year subscription. Published poems will appear in our Best American Series recognized journal, next to Elizabeth Spires, David Wagoner, and other great poets we've published.
Finalists will be announced two weeks after our Feb. 1st deadline. For more info, see our guidelines or read below.
Send up to 3 poems (up to 6 pages) along with $20 reading fee payable to Montgomery College/Potomac Review. All entrants will receive a one-year (2 issues) subscription to the Potomac Review.

Put author's name and address on the cover letter only. Include a cover letter (including contact info and names of poems), and a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE) for contest results. Entries will not be returned.
All poems must be typed and previously unpublished; no name or address should appear on the poems themselves.
Online submissions are accepted at <http://www.potomacr eview.org/ prsp/>by submitting under the genre "contest," although your entry fee will still have to be received through the mail.
Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but please note this in your cover letter and notify us immediately of acceptance elsewhere.

Contest deadline is February 1, 2010.
Winners announced February 15, 2010.
The winning poem will appear in the upcoming issue of Potomac Review.

The second place poem will be published on the Potomac Review website. Semifinalists will be listed on the website and considered for online and print publication.

backgrounds, banners, etc...

2010-01-17T21:56:00.000-05:00

a blues for sepia

2010-01-17T13:38:00.003-05:00

- for 'medicine for melancholy'

we watch theatrics with muted vision
our brown limbs weaving in weaving out
breathing in each other's brown brown.

dark skins in soft discussion
without us/claiming love/absorbing love
radiating a claimed love observed.

maybe i'm high. or maybe its the heat.
or the ancestral ashes rising up
from the ocher colored camel uterus

center-stage upon our mantle.
or the unopened mail calling
subconsciously to us from the void...

all i know is
this poem makes as much sense
as this netflix does.

i'm wanting breakfast
i pray for haiti
i hold you/and hope for sleep.

....

i really shouldnt slander 'medicine for melancholy', i really did enjoy it... it grew on me... is still growing on me. there is social commentary made throughout it, but the focal point steadily remains on the couple at hand and how they deal (or choose not to deal) with the development of their relationship. or non-relationship. everyone has been there... you dig someone, you go out, you wonder if there's anything there and if it will work. or how long it will work before it sours...
subconsciously, i think we all look forward to our relationships souring - i think thats a direct reflection on societal expectations between people. its not even a sign of maturity levels, its just the standard coping mechanism we employ because we secretly go into new relationships cursed with a deeply rooted pessimism. this is 'love' in the 21st century.
(dont sweat it, im not giving any of the movie away... i've kinda rambled away from it)

((rambling back))

the movie was cool... much better than 'avatar'.

coil review!

2010-01-16T13:06:00.001-05:00

ambsr. raymond joseph/rachel maddow on pat robertson

2010-01-14T13:32:00.001-05:00

i was avoiding pat robertson's comments all day - he's always maintained a high position on ignorance, so i knew whatever his comments had been where invalid by his very nature. you cant dismiss the attitudes of stupidity, thats not how progress is gained, but i do choose to ignore him as a person/as someone i expect the worst of and therefore hold his every opinion in extreme low regards.

but crys was wanting to know and i overheard pat spilling from her laptop... he's an idiot.

and because we had missed keith olberman and racahel maddow's reactions, she looked up their responses on youtube - this video is a short clip from haitian ambassador Raymond Joseph responding to pat's "insider-intel"

5/3 bank has a haitian relief fund... i'm sure there are tons of others online: PLEASE, DONATE DIRECTLY TO THE ORGANIZATIONS YOU TRUST BECAUSE BULLSHITTERS LOVE A HUMAN CRISIS!

a rejection-letter reactionary

2010-01-14T07:48:00.005-05:00

when i was younger

in my younger anger

you would have liked me

as a poet. i was predictable.

black anger is easier

on the ears of white critics.

white critics in secret

hold their own equations

sacred. love the easy

black answer as bombast.

they use kid gloves

for our hard edges

have us expecting kid gloves

as kindness. handle us.

fondle us. favor us

the fondue as feast:

black anger as ladyfinger

literature in hotsauce packets.

my words would have killed

you in your sleep. you would have

loved me. so tasty.

today, i write of souse

and sun-ra typing africa

into affection. been told

by white critics i'm not black

enough to write of black things

that i have to give more haftas

and let the slang swang

if i'm to hang with them. "this

is who's idea of africa america?

where's the obligatory outbursts?

the curse words? the woe's

me to be me? this isnt

authentic... this is heresy!"

but i too is a literature racist,

hate homer with a passion...

have no patience for hemingway;

was herodotus a writer?

you like it like this dont you,

you perve? to hit a nerve

is an easy energy.

you cop-out if i achebe you,

the unsaid syllables stewing

in your head... you hate me

as hard to hit refusing to write

poems-for-a-pegboard.

well... i'm in love with

a whole 'nother language.

my blackness is new belief

not grief-stricken. chicken

is most fit for sacrifice...

beans and rice are the lots

thrown in a soapstone dish,

divination devices to cure

the arthritic augur... there

is no time to steep anger

in sugar-substitutes

being niggardly with

my action words...

i rattle within.
i rattle without.

- this is all freestyled and i'm real sleepy, so ima end this here for now/nap for a minute then eat a hearty breakfast of veggie-bacon and biscuits...

okay, i'm back - a day later...

yes, unconvention
is contentious;
rainbows do not fall to earth
they are up from some dirt
(like a pyramid)

the new black word
is a rare ruin avoiding
the pitfalls of dysfunctional
blueprints certified "the standard©"
- stereotypes on steroids.
my old-man anger avoids
all of this... there is no black-mack
in abstract in my blues...
not the ruse-as-usual
to my meandering monologues
no concrete-concierge/no
shuffling with silver trays
in log cabins for copper coins...

this is from the groins of the gods,
my vascular voice - the black tongue
is a bright catheter for dark covenants;
like a shaman, i shake the shit
out of pen tips and keyboards
clasping the cosmic; word balloons
collapse into themselves
at speed of night/what i write
going supernova in my hands

becoming black whole
in my nappy head.

urban stele #3

2010-01-13T14:30:00.007-05:00

my orisha took me for a walk/led me
by the tongue - a long leash of ambient
etymology/a nubian nucleosynthesis.

this is how we get down,
a tether of speech and asemic languages;
eldest africa in the aeriform:

two dope boys in a cataract speaking
isangamo slang in spatial poetry, where
shared voices flare in asymmetric spaces.

my orisha took me for a walk/talked
of eddie hazel of houngans of octavia,
of blount of waymon of bearden

of other hyperbolic mysticisms;
2 sesquipedalic spell casters
- servants unto each other.

great visual inspiration for writers

2010-01-12T19:17:00.002-05:00

this is a great little film

- 100% ALL DIGITAL, NO FILM WAS INJURED

IN THE MAKING OF THIS MOVIE!

the visuals are simply stunning... especially around the 7 and 10 minute marks...

(the entire movie is roughly 12 minutes long)

check it out and be amazed!

NOTHING IN THIS MOVIE IS REAL... its all computer generated.

The Third & The Seventh from Alex Roman on Vimeo.

visual inspiration for written words #1

2010-01-10T12:44:00.003-05:00

Art Of Facts (Feat. FUTURA) from 13thWitness™ on Vimeo.

would you, could you as an art critic?

2010-01-10T11:10:00.000-05:00

arts writer fund

an archeologist is required to help me dig up what i remember about my college art history classes.
the slideshows were beautiful, i remember that... but the accompanying lectures were monotonous enough to make ben stein cringe, curl up into a ball and cry for it to stop!

i'm sure there've been changes in the curriculums since the protozoic age, when i was the knee-deepest
in ~~flunking the hell out~~ my college education... surely, contemporary art now has a prominent focus in the classical arena setting. i mean, andy warhol mighta got some discussion clock time back in '85 (maybe as a footnote) but there was no serious focus on contemporary art in my art history classes. serious art talk pretty much ended with cubism. picasso was as close to "contemporary relevance" as most courses got. i dont remember any mention at all on frida... and basquiat's legacy was in extreme infancy.

there can be inspiration and appreciation while talking about (insert dead european renaissance painter here) but its not been until brother kehinde wiley recently came along to apply those traditional approaches to his contemporary themes. most painters striving to achieve the level of mastery displayed by 'the masters' either mimic or mock those long-gone mentors... there's been much 'adoption' of classic approaches but very little 'adaption'.

and with all things in life, when changes in approach/technique/vision are required it usually begins from the pristine critic asking his jaundiced question.

and apparently, there is a scholarship for that!

is this a natural fit for me? i was already born a cynic... can i hone that into a career making critical conclusions on the state of contemporary art? shit... i'm damn near spent just getting this blog finished!

it's 2010... im an old ass man... maybe its time i take vitamins. supplements to complement my contemporary pessimism.

changes for the new year...

2010-01-08T08:44:00.001-05:00

at least as far as my art is concerned. was lazy as hell last year/really neglected my visual art - no shows, no galleries, no exhibitions, no covers, nothing. in 2010 im getting back on the grind including the redesign of my art blog masthead... i love the old one, but ima go with a sleeker image this year.

here are the old and new art banners:

from

3 quotes for january

2010-01-06T09:44:00.010-05:00

A child cannot be taught by anyone
who despises him, and a child cannot
afford to be fooled.

- james baldwin

All water has a perfect memory and
is forever trying to get back to where it was.

- toni morrison

The greatest threat to freedom is
the absence of criticism.

- wole soyinka

a new year's new yeah, yeah, yeahs...

2010-01-06T06:50:00.008-05:00

its like 4milliono'clock in the morning and here i still is... turnin' gold into rubbish.
a hundred years ago, i'd still be nursing a new years eve hangover a week later. but ima old man now.
i bought a six pack of bottled beer, my last official act of 2009... as of january 6, 2010 - i still have FIVE left!

not only am i an old man... i'm pitiful at it.
seriously, tho... im one of those fools who proclaim to look forward to the aging process. i look forward to having my locks go gray all to hell, dragging behind me as i hoveround through-out the house... i watch my grandkids get the fuck outta the way as my father luges, careens and ransacks his own motorized wheelchair through his kitchen... its funny; its just a matter of time before he squashes a hapless toddler/crushes a limb/puts an eye out... its all on the horizon. god bless the little children...

sigh... such is life.

anyway, planning my monthly facebook and twitter log-in sometime today. i really just caint get into those ~~fads~~ trends... at least myspace allowed me to prominently feature my visual art and graphic design skills; these new social trends are all about 'the daily diary entry'. shit, i dont even read my own diary... i hafta fake mustering the interest in checking the postings of my online acquaintances. where are the social networks for us anti-socialists?

this feigning interest in your daily updates is killing my malaise, seriously... it should be mutual.
if it aint, you need medicines.

blogging is so much better... its really a craft that needs to be re-elevated/re-evaluated.
i run a journal, i write, i subscribe to magazines, i make art that starves me, i have dishes to do... maaaan, i aint got time to twitter! (that'd make a great line for a tshirt... i can see jesse 'the body' ventura saying that line in a predator remake)

...

okay, obviously this is a hodge-podge blog... a menage-a-blog, if you will. a digital dialog undedicated to theme, stream or consciousness. this blog could run for president... i'm working on the campaign buttons as we speak!

...

these are my resolutions for 2010, you saw it here first:

1. finish those five remaining miller geniune drafts in the fridge before it achieves fermentation-metamorphosis.

2. officially claim a new nba team. after 30 years i stopped being a 76ers fan after iverson left; i'm even less enthused since his return to the team. i abhor all western conference squads with a behemothing vengence; there is bile and vomit and venom in my dislike for the west... i really admired the detroit pistons during their championship runs, but there's been nothing remotely like them since then... cant never ever ever see myself cheering for a celtic either. if necessary, the sixers will win out by default.

3. blog better. starting next time.

4. mesmerize random house into publishing my unpublishable shit.

5. buy a new cd, either genre, old school jazz or underground west coast hip hop. i'd been forced to relinquish the 'hip hop guru' moniker a few years ago... i'd like to earn it back; the industries been in shambles since i stepped down.

6. go ~~vegan!~~ vegetarian! ...vegetarian-ish... eat more vegetables.

7. read more on-paper work. my new gig is at a used bookstore; this should be a piece of cake.

8. start exhibiting my artwork again... 2008 ended on such a great high, followed by winning a prestigious award in '09 based from the work produced in '08. but other than that achievement, i went dormant last year. for 2010, im coming out hard ISWAIRBEFOCHEESE...

9. be more outgoing... (ack, huaaaaarrraaaaccckkk... cack-cack!) ... excuse me, had something in my throat.

10. actually go out and celebrate my birthday (JANUARY 21st!) ... birthdays were always ignored in my household when i was growing up (more a matter of math than indifference; me, mama and 3 sisters have birthdays immediately following christmas - christmas was a birthday-catchall).

11, read my work openly. on a stage. with a microphone. in a bar/club/cafe. with people in it.

at least eight of these resolutions will be abandoned by february. put your money down early and often.

my new blues name...

2009-12-24T23:36:00.009-05:00

i envision myself 30 years from now as an old ass man
walking the streets with a near-busted guitar strapped
across my shoulders/beard nappy, grizzled and gray...
dreadlocks dragging the ground behind me as i walk,
sweeping up behind me... yeah... hell, yeah...

think ima change my name to sumphn like
little-tourettes "plantain" nkrumah... or blind-sugarcane lumumba...
(its tradition that a good blues name have an infliction, the name of a fruit and the name of a president
in order to be considered 'the real thing' - and yes, nkrumah is a president, obama might be america's
'first black president' but africa been having 'em ever since the end (supposedly) of colonialism...

really, i'm wantin to write a poem from this perspective... talkabout how a juke burnt down around him
while he still played/came up out the flames smokin'/harmonica at his lips...

might even write his 'ending' - have all'a his wimmins show up at his eulogy...

always wanted a woman in black to fall on my casket with bright red panties showing as my wife and kids
looked on wonderin' just who the fuck this woman was to me... maybe have 2 or 3 of 'em do this.

- crystal says this fantasy is OUT and can give up the ghost on that ~~bullshit~~ nonsense.
if i hafta... i mean, i hear you baby!

so, anyway... who would you be if you could be a b.b.? what is your blues identity?

10 things to know before using twitter

2009-12-16T22:13:00.002-05:00

10 things to know BEFORE using twitter...

bloggers from another mother...

2009-12-15T21:46:00.004-05:00

(edit - 12/19/09 - i fckd up this whole article, referencing Poets and Writers instead of Publishers Weekly...

i'm such a sloppy journalist... i'll never work in this town. anyway, if you decide to get kneedeep into my 2 cents, then i just want'd you to know what you were gettn yourself into... plus, i think i credit Deborah Willis as the photographer when that credit actually belongs to Lauren Kelley! - i'm such a hack, i should work for Fox! ...now, onto the article...)

my its weird, this blog-on-blog crime... how easy it is to take personal soundbites (in this case, the 140 character limitations of an individual's twitter page) and embed them into contextual dissertations for or against any one particular position. we all do it... or will do it, the more we live our lives thru the world of virtual communication devices. as a semi-reformed conspiracy theorist, i've done it... will probably do it again real soon.
shit, might even be doing it right now!

folks (and good folks, i might add) have been tweeting about the latest cover of ~~Poets and Writers~~ Publishers Weekly magazine where a woman is crowned with an afro of afro-picks - an image im personally deeply in love with as a love-child wannabe of the black arts movement. africa and african american imagery permeates every focal point of my conscious life... i am not 'me' without it. the photography of Deborah Willis could grace the walls of my home or office anytime, even if i can see how it might elicit critical glances from those driven to uphold and protect black images; every creative output deserves to have those in favor of AND critical of it as "art".
so depending on one's personal philosophy, one person's 'black pride' might be another's 'black cliche'.
neither perspective is wrong; in fact, in the right context, both can be 100% correct.

the challenge for us is knowing when to differentiate subjective arguments from objective ones.
many of us lack this ability - or if not 'lack' then at least arent fully aware of recognizing those differences when they occur. i think the internet has made us all rude(r) by nature. cultures raised on text and instant messaging have deferred their logistical abilities for egotistical ones: our surface glances of a subject matter are all that we require to fully understand the depths of that particular topic; we rush to infer and to judge the responses of our internet colleagues without fully engaging in a thorough debate on the topic at hand.
it's just the nature of the virtual beast... until it is no longer as 'virtual'... twitter commentary often winds up being outsourced to actual news agencies! often taking casual commentary completely out of context,
confusing 'social media' as 'professional (or confessional) press conferences'.

case in point, see neptuniansoul where a debate is forming concerning the Ms. Willis's artwork and those critical of the contextual integrity of it as it is currently displayed on the cover of Poets and Writers magazine.
(the above is link is just a sample; no grudges for or against those operating that site or posting their replies to it... i'll probably be adding it to my blogroll before the night is done)

i understand this debate... it is sorely needed. its just sad that it takes slight critiquing of a subject to engage us deeply within it because we too often jump into 'left vs. right' positions when 'middle-ground' is needed the most. but what fun is finding the middle-ground on the internet? no one does it...

if i say "right" no one will ask me "why right?" - the most common, most immediate response is "no, left!"

and if my tiny quip makes it to the right rss feed, then good night! - ten words online already distort my full position on a subject by default and when simplified contortions are further distorted as they are digitally repeated, then compatriots and strangers alike will jump up to label me to the confinements of those distortions, "ron didnt like that one pic with black woman with the afro picks in her hair - therefore, ron dont like black women! that fucking sell-out... who the fuck is he and wtf does he know about being black anyway?"

folks will approach me with their asses already up on their shoulders expecting my behind to be up on mine...
its "first impressions by way of the rumor-mill"... its just the way society has devalued personal experiences when applied to the generalizations of the internet. by the end of the day, someone will have said i called someone 'a nappyheaded ho' because they went through 6-links-of-separation before finally getting to my actual responses.
such is life in this day and age; i dont like it, but i accept it... plus, counting pidjin, i can say 'yo mama' in 4 different languages.

anyway, what im tryinta say is this: everything seen, heard or felt is subjective to one's own personal experiences... my public philosophies might openly defy my personal opinions; if/when it happens, dont adhere so much to the discrepancy itself as you should the context under which such discrepancies might occur.

lets not poke each other in the eye before deciding to read our fine prints.
some of the women at the center of this debate are natural dreds and/or serious black feminists and yet others outside of the debate are weighing in and calling them straight-haired, blue-eyed wannabes. the more any issue spirals out into the virtual domains its larger waves soften into smaller ripples, but its those lesser ripples that are often commented on because its easier to focus on those ripples than the object that caused the splash to begin with.

a whole lot can be said in 140 characters or less... unfortunately, what is often left out is usually the position that defines us the most.

afroreggae...

2009-12-09T00:47:00.002-05:00

god jam you...

2009-12-07T17:39:00.001-05:00

a poem that rambled around in my head this morning as i lay dreaming...

2009-12-02T17:10:00.000-05:00

it's here somewhair... it's been a long day and i simply caint recall it at the moment... dammit.

on a sidenote, a haiku for you:

i crashed the car. golf
clubs or infidelity
were neither involved.

a brief guide to the black arts movement (from poets.org)

2009-12-02T17:03:00.000-05:00

A Brief Guide to the Black Arts Movement


"Sometimes referred to as 'the artistic sister of the Black Power Movement,' the Black Arts Movement stands as the single most controversial moment in the history of African-American literature--possibly in American literature as a whole. Although it fundamentally changed American attitudes both toward the function and meaning of literature as well as the place of ethnic literature in English departments, African-American scholars as prominent as Henry Louis Gates, Jr., have deemed it the 'shortest and least successful' movement in African American cultural history." --"Black Creativity: On the Cutting Edge," Time (Oct. 10, 1994) With roots in the Civil Rights Movement, Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam, and the Black Power Movement, Black Arts is usually dated from approximately 1960 to 1970. African American artists within the movement sought to create politically engaged work that explored the African American cultural and historical experience. One of the most important figures in the Black Arts Movement is Amiri Baraka (formerly LeRoi Jones). Following the assassination of Malcolm X in 1965, LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka) made a symbolic move from Manhattan's Lower East Side to Harlem, where he founded the Black Arts Repertory Theatre/School. According to the Norton Anthology of African American Literature, "No one was more competent in [the] combination of the experimental and the vernacular than Amiri Baraka, whose volume Black Magic Poetry 1961-1967 (1969) is one of the finest products of the African American creative energies of the 1960s." Sometimes criticized as misogynist, homophobic, anti-Semitic, and racially exclusive, the Black Arts movement is also credited with motivating a new generation of poets, writers and artists. In recent years, however, many other writers--Native Americans, Latinos/as, gays and lesbians, and younger generations of African Americans, for instance--have acknowledged their debt to the Black Arts movement. Related works include "On Black Art" by Maulana Ron Karenga and "The Revolutionary Theatre" by Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones). For more information, consult The Oxford Companion to African American Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), The Norton Anthology of African American Literature (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1996), Furious Flower: African American Poetry from the Black Arts Movement to the Present (University of Virginia Press, 2004) and Modern American Poetry's Black Arts resources. Poets in the Black Arts Movement inlude: Amiri Baraka, Gwendolyn Brooks, Ed Bullins, Eldridge Ceaver, Jayne Cortez, Harold Cruse, Mari Evans, Hoyt Fuller, Nikki Giovanni, Lorraine Hansberry, Gil-Scott Heron, Maulana Ron Karenga, Etheridge Knight, Adrienne Kennedy, Haki R. Madhubuti, Larry Neal, Ishmael Reed, Sonia Sanchez, Ntozake Shange, Quincy Troupe, and John Alfred Williams.

afaa weaver on 'black male poetics'

2009-12-02T17:01:00.000-05:00

This essay was originally delivered during the AWP Conference in Vancouver, B.C., March 30 to April 3. 2005.

• this following sample is taken here from poets.org

...

Langston Hughes was not pretentious about the tenor of his work. In choosing to be an architect, he had to imagine his role. That imagining is never accurate. All too often any poet will simply not know who cares whether he lifts pen to another page ever again in life. How else was Hughes to be famous given the exigencies of the blatant racial hatred during his lifetime? What are the requirements for fame today?
If American society has progressed, it should have done so such that fame has other requirements and, concurrently, poets such as Hayden who are more interested in simply being poets have more space to be, although there is no such thing as "simply" being a poet. Critical specificity requires more. Hayden and Wright are poets who write with less concern to the complexities of race and racism, and some consideration of this choice of theirs might illumine this idea of black male poetics.
Conversely, there is the black constituency that believes the urge to use one’s gifts with a focus on craft is whiteness and cultural betrayal to an ideal of blackness.This notion of betrayal is nonsensical and steeped in a lingering anxiety born in the space between black and white as evidence shows that the desire to have fame and greatness extend over the globe, even as they manifest differently according to cultural difference. The urge does live. The more sensible line of questioning out of all of this, I maintain, is whether we as citizens in an increasingly smaller and complex world need poets to continue with phallic notions of conquest inherent in greatness or aspire to newer notions of community, notions made possible by concentrating on one’s own development first, that kind of selflessness. The desire to fame and greatness is exploration of the opportunities to extend one’s self, which is not ascension to the sublime. If we look at the movement from Hughes to Hayden to Wright in this way we might see a journey toward selflessness in this thing we call black male poetics, selflessness as opposed to the quest for greatness that is more an earmark of patriarchy than anything.

radio interviews

2009-11-18T13:06:00.001-05:00

AS REAL AS IT GETS

elijah saint interviewed me via skype last winter (december 08 i believe)... i remember it
being as cold as owlshit that day... it primarily discusses my art, but i think i ramble other issues
into it as well.

and here is crystal wilkinson's interview on accents on wrfl radio, lexington
- hosted by katerina stoykova-klemer
(i play the sidekick)

ACCENTS

amira baraka turns 75; the radio chronicles

2009-11-16T03:47:00.003-05:00

takes 2 and a half minutes to get into baraka's comments...

Radio Chronicles - November 15, 2009 at 6:30pm

Click to listen (or download)