Thursday, August 30, 2007

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

The Art Of War

I think abstract like wooden crafted-cut designs that show the workings of knives and lives who designated their times of creativity to make wood-stains become the focal point of a canvas adorned prettily with pastels and acrylic ideas strewn in a collage of the excitement, vivacity and meditation of a market vendor with a body so slender and a head-wrap and her goods at her feet, or was it the one with the mother standing and her child climbing to reach the sash of her ragged dress or the one with someone's grandmother decked in her Sunday's best on the dirt road where her principles were sown to grow into your mother or father... Or was it the one I saw after where Aunty Martha danced deeply into memories of plantation-side gathering when we had assembled to beat drums to summon freedom that was to come, was to come. Not even moments like these can become undone in time's passing for they are rooted and lasting in the minds passed from the ancestors to us, they are gone but they trust that these redemptive deja-vu's stay in-tuned into our everyday living and so that implies our ridding of negativity and ignorance of the past lives of our original family. These ideas remain for the time when the sculptor takes back up his hammer, the artist his brush, and the warrior his dagger. For too long have higher powers beat us senseless in this psychological panorama and mental lashing of lies and deception that threw us off the scales of justice outweighed by greed and malice of those dividing to conquer, but cast your anchor in your people�s history to launch you into the future's unforeseen mystery and learn how to create harmonies within your living space and how to erase the laziness and bad habits spotting across your lifescape so that what you portray if frozen can be a portrait of things to aspire to. Most important though is to know who are you, man know thyself, and then learn thine enemy, for too many forget 'self' and they fail so easily. Knowledge is your power, know what you're standing for, for this my friend, this is the Art of WAR. UHURU.

Two Pieces

Christian girl

You can't begin to understand me Christian girl,
Because of your closed-in crystallized dwelling box,
Painting you a picture of perfection.
You dream of Cherubim angel-choired cathedrals,
White robes, golden books,
Only things that purest thoughts allow.
Yet the irony lives somewhere between these lines,
And outside the confines of your memory,
That's where I took up residence,
Among the residues of truths and purged untruths and doubled half-truths
Of the tongue and of the pen
Only then can you understand me-only then.
I offer comfort of admitting my previous (your present) standing,
But you still stand here reprimanding me
Because of the things I see as necessary.
I didn't go to truth Christian girl,
Truth came to me.
The blessings of the almighty Creator
Have made Anaya Jahzara a few moons later
The aspiring womb-man with ceaseless ambition,
As long as her strength can suffice,
Catholic girl, isn't she not your sister in Christ?


When it is that I can't get you out of mind, you're out of sight, out of grasp, and I'm out of luck, but such are we that dip and sway to life's rhythm making wavelengths across unknown distances because I remain oblivious to where you live, work, or spend most of your time. But I keep in mind every detail I can capture in our minimal message exchanges or how we relate to each other, but somehow I know no other like this illuminated, ablaze, inextinguishable brother who ironically quenches my thirst for life-giving words, or speech that causes enemies' corpses to turn in their earthen housing , this dialectic dousing and mental arousing that leaves me in my position of standing ovations from explicit orations that simply spiritually satisfies me

Three Short Pieces

Caught between in the net of a passion on death row and a distant devotee who I should be loaning my thoughts to, but this is something I forever knew that my grip should be loosened from these penetrated desires that cause this miniscule fire to rage within the restrictions of my capillaries, but this inflammatory appeal tends to heal as it flows through veins, through god-made lanes that maintain the traffic of life as it surges and creates urges to want to, but forgetting to remind you that possibilities are drenched with the libations of the impossible nature of the matter and that focus should be marked on the latter part of sentiments and the former that represents my reality. And so, this one takes the spotlight on my stage and with lights in focus and curtains drawn, I- the anxious patron applaud the performer's standing that he can still love me despite my demanding mentality.

To Zion we go
Wandering Israelite, cast into exile from some unfamiliar terrain with scorching suns and swollen rains and sweltering warmth and blistering cold, elements of this foreign land unknown, where seeds are sown in infertile soils and thorns choke and weeds destroy good intentions like widespread pretensions of false gods and pagan culture makes way for my exodus. Lost- from birth, no fault of my own, I seek to find back my home, over seas, over sands, the promised land- Alkebulan.

Streetlight called desire.
Jiving Jazz that adds a special touch to the soft light loaned by the lonesome lamppost that stately stands to guide travelers of the night, that reveals the passion of lovers daring to become lost in each other. The cool, breezy, air ever-moving and intruding on a congregation of dried leaves that scrape the pavements as they exit into the unknown. Of the weeping piano that sobs for lost lovers and the bass that somberly uncovers the grief of some bar-ridden victim, who allowed his emotions to trick him into its fatal folly, Coloured blue and verb-less lyrically, but still expresses this misfortune and anomaly.

Copyright 2006