my bs bio bo

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.

time to kill (and the sacred desk)

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.

thinking outloud online part 1

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...

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...

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

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!

sigh-ku, volumes 1 and 2

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?

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.

a kentucky haint thinks of haiti

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)

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

('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)

urban stele #3

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.

changes for the new year...

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

to

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

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...

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?

radio interviews

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

yes, i believe in magic...

or 'miracles' if your religiousness forbids you from uttering such phrases outloud; if your inner-child was abducted and made to act grown by screw-faced parental administrators (god bless you and them, i'm sure they meant well!)

but i believe in all of it: miracles, mojo, magic, all of it - i'm an artist - it's in my dna.

my fiancé and i were in louisville for 8 days beginning this past friday while she teaches creative writing at spalding's fall mfa session. i'm from louisville, so i always go with her - allowing me to be her soundboard while also allowing me to visit family.

i had no reason to want to come back home to lexington, an hour's drive away, but today i was feeling 'confined' and felt compelled to make the drive instead of going to the bookstore or music store or any of the usual things i might do to shake any doldrums. so i did make the drive, promising my fiancé and my daughter (who was taking advantage of the warm day to grill out) that i would be back in the afternoon.

i got home at 9:30am.

ate cereal. made coffee. watched sportscenter. checked email and was preparing to take a nap before making the return drive. it was 11:30 and i was planning on leaving around 2.

then i thought i smelled gas.
no... i was definitely smelling gas... the house was leaking gas! ... ...profusely!
so 9-1-1 is called. 6 fire trucks arrive on the scene. they do their thing/the gas company is called in, she does her thing. crisis neutralized.
- but i had no business even being here today!

the plan was to return next sunday, lounge for a little bit, work on our office space, have a date night.

had i spent the entire week away, chances are something entirely dire would have awaited us on our return... at least five hours have gone by and i'm still a bit shaken by it.

so what's a neo-spiritual, completely superstitious and abstractly religious creative type person supposed to do?

make art, what else.

so i did. it speaks to me. i hope it honors shango, the orishas and all the ancestors who've looked over us today...

it's an age-old story:

the hebrew interpretation of cain and abel suggests that cain was actually the son of the serpent that seduced eve in the garden, explaining his 'evil' nature...

thats the nature of almost all sibling rivalries. in my case, my sister karen is the bad-seed and im the good one (however, in my own mind, i dont die - i just beat the shit outta her - its payback... or karma... but belee me, she has it coming/she's earned it.)

its actually a beautiful feud; i think we both enjoy 'cant standing' each other sometimes. where we grew up, thats how we showed familial affection - a scratch, a bruise, a scar, etc (except mama - there was none of that shit going on between her and daddy - they battled, but it was more like tupac vs. biggie/west coast vs. east coast; all stage/no street)

karen whines that i had a small milkcrate sized tv in my room and she didnt, tho she's 5 years older and was old anuff to work and buy her own damn tv... crybaby.

i whined that she's the reason i dont like poets and have refused to call myself one, even tho i've been writing poetry for 20 years - karen was a poet, but because i couldnt stand her those emotions bled over blanketing all poets everywhere... plus, the poets she hung out with were fullashit (except mary, mary was cool/she still cool!)

i dont know why but karen gave up trynta kill me in my bassinet as well as consistently writing poetry some years ago... incompetence, maybe?
but she started channeling her inner Malissia Pettway and has been making art-quilts professionally for several years.

but i love my sista. and from this day forward i promise to stop referring to her as "that ol' stankhead heffa" behind her back... i mean, we're 'grown' now right?
bygones anshit.

anyway, i pulled a book off the shelf yesterday to take to louisville while crys teaches at spalding university for the week, 'halala madiba: nelson mandela in poetry'. as poetry editor for mythium i'm always looking out for black and other ethnic writers, researching the genre, what's out there and in what form... halala madiba is pretty thick volume of work full of many familiar favorites: Keorapetse Kgositsile, Kamau Braithwaite, Ntozake Shange, Wole Soyinka, Kalamu ya Salaam, Karen Davis, Haki Madhu- -wait!- KAREN DAVIS?
WHAT'S THAT STANKHEAD HEFFA DOIN' UPPINNAIR?!?!?

"caint i have a day of peace without having that ol' albatross show up and ruin my day?

damn...

well... let me see what she done did... maybe its a whole 'nother different karen davis..."

karen davis, FOR MANDELA (1988©)
(printed without permission and with complete and utter disregard for what might be said and/or done should i see karen sunday at mama's house)

The chokers of "The Resistance" foolishly
watch their hands bleed and swell against the edge
of the struggle, your life, the people
entwined like a three strand rope
tying into a hangman's noose
for the death of apartheid

_____


a real short joint, but a completely effective use of the public outrage our activists used to wear badge-like on their shoulders when condemning those who utilized oppression as a major weapon in controlling a people.

strong, eloquent and to the point... entirely reflective of karen's personality.
as a fan of poetry, i hate that there's little else publicly available for me to read of her. and as a sibling-critic, i publicly blame her absence helping to create the chasm that became 'conscientious black poetry' during the 1990's (inspired by rap-attitudes and black propaganda more than the black literary canon that dominated in the 1970's and early '80s).

in fact, there are tons of black poetry (including my own!) that have mimicked what karen had written, only we did so without simile or craft, only with poetic attitude, making us what i hated about poetry to begin with - politically superfluous and poetically empty.
(for my own endeavors, my intentions were good/i swairfogawd! and i think the maturity in my work has developed the more humility i devoted in regards to understanding the craft)
((and yes, my punctuation sucks - but to hell with all yall that might criticize, i was an art major, not an english one! plus, i take the license to call bad punctuation "my personal aesthetic" - non-grammar majors are allowed to that, right?))

strong, steady voices are few and far between in the black poetry field (at least, in what passes as 'popular' black poetry) - there are tons of talented writers out there, but we put too much of our egos and our own personae into our work... so instead, we wouldnt have this type of genuine mandela poem, we'd have (insert poet's name here) doing his/her mandela poem, playing to the crowd and not the cause.

karen's poem reminds me of the secret reasons i wanted to write to begin with; works that read well as well as attempted to make or reinforce a political/social change in society; to have work that stood on its own two (or more) feet without always having it reference back to "that poet who wrote it" for it to be accepted.
karen wrote because it mattered to her and it shows in her work.

or maybe she just got lucky, but what she coulda ever done to have earned such good karma is besides my knowing...