Fresh Kill

Thought it was only supposed to be bad guys

that got killed like that

gunned down, bloody melon burst

brains and shit on the street

left there to die in the the death and stink and shit

on the street

camera phones can’t capture

the smell of

shit and fear

can’t catch the smell of

a pigs sweat and

cigarettes

House of Broken Spirits

I dwell in the house of broken spirits.

So much sadness, here in this house.

Shattered dreams hang like tattered curtains.

Chipped paint and peeling wallpaper on cockroach carriages ridden by giant mice

who snack on children’s spirits.

I dwell in the house of broken dreams where old ladies lie about past glory because no one is there to contradict them.

Here, babies are not allowed to dream because no one wants to see them get hurt.

I dwell in the house of broken dreams where I will do eternal penance, for never daring to chase a dream for being satisfied with great.

For being ok with way less than excellent, by someone else’s dream. I live in the house of broken spirits.

But I am not alone.

New ones come every day.

They always have and they always will.

When are you coming?

Don’t dream.

Don’t dare to chase a dream. Be happy with humdrum

I don’t want to be alone.

The House of Broken Spirits

A few poems for Pops on a Friday

Me and Pops at the Nairobi Reunion 2000

Five shots

I made sure I was fully loaded

Before I left to go and see him

The first time in a long while

I loaded all five shots carefully and left

When I saw him

I shot fast and all five shots

Caught him

Center mass

Knocked his ass right over

One in the head

Two in the heart

Another in the lungs

One in the gut

All five shots caught him

Center mass

Knocked his ass right over

I Love You Daddy Always

1 2 3 4 5

Five shots

I am Hip Hop

My Dad is JAZZ

Blue, blazing saxophones in a smoke filled saturday nite. Heads nodding while the sweet musk of marijuana drifts amidst cries of "yeah" and "blow cat blow'hot and fiery nation music the muse of a woman's voice insinuating itself into ears and minds that know rivers and vast oceans of knowledge unwritten and unspoken.dissonant clashing rhythyms make, red black and green strokes in the air and blend together in an orgiastic celebration of Black life. The instruments call plaintively home to Africa, Cuba and distant Europe.

My Mom is SOUL

Some sweet sisters crooning lost loves,losing morebittersweet wine easing bitter livesnotes soar around rooms whispering 'sex' and 'seduction' betrayal and trustenchanting and romancing young lovers and old haters. Silky soulful mystical melodies making sticky elastic black magic recalling mother tongues, land long lost, grandma's hands and sweaty southern juke joints.

I am HIP HOP

Slipping and sliding,multiplying and dividing myself constantly redefining my definition. I'm cutting and scratching away at liesrevealing basic truthsasking whyhard beats drive me into lyrical, mystical frenziesheads bob and shoulders weavegiving kids a brief reprievefrom the concrete they meet outside the doorcrowds screaming for more and more the beat ebbs, where am i ? i'm not sure for a minute to elevate, translate and transcendeveryday, anyway distilled like a potion into pure physicality and emotion.

and she saw the God in him

New birth bloodshiny
brand new big head (bloody veiled) African boy
Brenda and Jack
had said “his name will be Malcolm”
and I am
the struggle took Jack
he wrestled with men, drugs, the system
but mostly himself
Brenda was his Angel, his lifeline, his life preserver, his beautiful Leo Firestorm.
Jack was her Man.
and young Brenda saw the God in him
took him and the pain in
took it in and made it lovely
them young and shiny

and black and beautiful
Dashiki black leather jacket Afro Mamas and Babas and Brothers and Sisters
Red Black and Green Flags
fists and baby raised in the air

we new Africans
torn apart though

by our own shit
and the bullets from the pigs
between our shit
pigs bullets
the motherfucking government
and white hate groups
aka the democrats and republicans
we got delayed somehow
forgot some shit
but now we back on point
see ferguson
see Bed Stuy
see Florida
see Oakland
see us
rise

Brenda
aint never seen a smile and a Afro
like my mama
famously brilliant
and beautiful
and completely fucking insane
ask the Dean of Students
how one little black lady
turned into 5 big black dudes
and beat the shit out of him
no words

ask a 12 year old
how his Mama wouldn’t take no shit
or lies
and he got choked the fuck out.
ask the lady who Brenda carried the machete for
behind and beneath the drivers seat in the B210
ask her

ask my Mama how she can take all that
beautiful brilliance out of her head and make the world obey
and fit her mold ?
ask my mama how she take starshine and moonlight and magic
and spin beauty
and beat that
and beat that

Brendah creates beautiful things out of the basics.
shit
love
envy
anger
bitter
life

My Mama hands….magic
simple and beautiful magic
but sometimes what she touches turns to shit
like me and her
can’t even talk
no one loves me like her
no one loves her like me

there is no one who has cut me deeper.
I bleed and love my mother for kissing the wound

her smile disarms me
her hugs heal me
all the time she is preparing to raise that knife.

john sidney

my Daddy
like Black Superman
John Henry hammering
imperfect and flawed
but perfect
my blueprint

my daddy taught me how
to fight
white folks
bullies
the power
pigs
and him.

and him
the same hands that held me
shook the shit out of me
knocked me on my ass

picked me up
and held me close
one hand holding me behind his legs
the other smiting

the same hands
that held me first
that hold me still

Crazy
just like him
look into the mirror, see his face superimposed over my own
same wrinkles
different scars

Angry and wounded
tearing through life
like some angry comet
but really just wanting to shine like the stars
and not burn out, crash to earth, tumble over and over, break into a million pieces

Just want to shine.

a poem for Funky Rat

these streets were not designed to carry the soul weight of our young men and women.
this asphalt and concrete laid out to carry trucks and cars.
not the gentle soft feet of young ambition.
streets is watching.
waiting for you to fall, fail, return
to tell you
"I told you so”
and
"your tiny ambition is worthless your dreams are shitty and useless"
 why?
Our souls are heavy with failure
 this is why we simultaneously rejoice and cry when one of us ascends
“either to fame or death”
“he made it”
“yo.he DID that shit”
yo. he did it he got it
fame and fortune
but in the end he died alone
he didn’t deserve to die like that
so young ½ century
he should have been surrounded by those who truly love him somebody should have been there to massage his weary feet to cradle his head in their lap someone should have been there to tell him that it was okay to go

This is my first post for the blog to support  my book "One Hundred Forty Four Poems and Essays for God, Love, Truth, Justice, Peace and Hip Hop". Coming out on ebook, Amazon and through my website www.deepculture.net.

144 is a collection of poems and essays dating back to 1982 (I am a Big Blue Frog) all the way to 2014 touching on the uprisings against white supremacy taking place worldwide. There are photos and art chronicling my journey all along the way. This book has been a major effort, I don't know if I have ever done anything as difficult.  It began as my contribution back to Hip Hop, a culture that has given me so much over the course of my life. Over the years of writing, faking like I was working on it, and looking at that pile of paper, it became something else.

What I am presenting now is a compilation of my writing, collected art and photos. It's not perfect, all of the poems are not polished. Some of the pieces were written in 1982, when I was just learning to write. The most recent pieces were written in late 2014.