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"Language exerts hidden power, like a moon on the tides."

- Alcaeus (via reborn-in-the-sea)

(Source: quotedojo, via reborn-in-the-sea)

"A writer must be hard to live with: when not working he is miserable, and when he is working he is obsessed."

- Edward Abbey (via conelradstation)

Classically Beautiful (retitled from Persona Non Grata)

Its hurtful

Reflecting back upon the harm

Done to the blk man’s humanity

Lazaro Ros emerges

From internet radio

Afrekete all in his voice

And you cringe

In the discomforting skin

Of your own non-customs

Invoked into anger 

And shame or some other

Defiant aesthetic

If only your mouth

Was acceptfully asian

Singing italian opera

With a frenchman’s accent

If only you were gypsy and easily 

exotic in accordance to

The Black Beautician’s Code

For Broken Standards;

Your primeval not so pagan.

If only the west

Would romanticize you

Then we could all move on

Everyone a perfect people

Your persona non grata name-tag

Now a campfire ghost tale 

Or a boyscout’s merit badge

For the best retelling

Of historical sci-fi

Your sweetsongs

Left to reference life and love and

Not ‘this culture for sale’

You could sing in the tongues

Of your eldest traditions

And no one would rear back

Waiting for king kong

To break through the gate

Fearing for the fate of the pale pin-up

Will our women ever be

The girl-next-door? Our mamas

Have always been

A beta version faye ray

But who ever rushes to our mama’s 

Rescue to candlelit-meal them before

The adventurous moonlit walk?

The monkey on their backs

Done been 400 pounds

For 400 years. So, Afrekete, yes;

Afrekete, yaaay-yo! All the rose petals,

Each and every one,

Lighting gently upon 

Our shoulders; lilting in gaiety

To our outstanding beauty.

rainbow excrement / egun ex machina (classically beautiful edition)

fortunately for us, your thighs are too thin to bear the weight 

of this poem / my words have never been ones to believe 

in brevity for the sake of themselves. all the bowels break / bleak 

sentences full of baby diaper and swaybacked similes.

a thing of beauty.

this bent brogue might bore you to death (both ‘drill you’ and / or 

'not thrill you’) but it will not betray you for slivers of fame…

this old thing a new theology; long wet baptisms in all god’s 

bullshit ochres / this written word smitten to no ends with its 

own stench… ranch animals defecate and make love in the branches 

of every syllable. im sorry aunt sylvia… im so sorry mr. frost, 

but yall’s thighs are too thin to crutch my vévés from primitive 

corners to porcelained crucibles. i can not rely on yall’s hallowed 

histories to rub zeus’ silver glitter against the shoulders of my slang,

will not entrust you my tongue to twitch and hang like a tassel 

from where highbrows pedestal a poem / propping up shakespeare, 

prometheus, mephistopheles and the other old heroes of europe 

that were never once inclined to help save my mama / tho she had 

such a hope - but then she grew up and discovered there was no 

greek mythology that could comfort her after 10 long hours at GE…

in my mouth: parables and marbles mix / a new myth. my penchant 

for the projects over nobel prizes and pulitzer’s pull… zombies exude 

themselves from my birth canals / re-enact a michael jackson passion 

play and speak words that have werewolves in red zipper jackets 

excreting rainbows onto comedies of eros / cold rhythms that pass 

for write. i’ll bite a basquiat backbeat before i chew the cud of your 

crystallized canons - i do not throw perils before swine, i cast cowries 

at the very feet of shadows / this shit is my science and i am its highest 

sorcerer; no ‘griot’ - but an ordained babalawo… a ‘gawlo-ologist’… 

a black poet with a sight-seer’s degree and i’m sorry for i have not enough 

truth theorem to come cure the ills for the both of us. my science is a sunra 

worshipper. in this fable sonny blount flew too close to saturn; burnt the 

abstract into black beauty / became a household name (patent pending) 

but there is no ending to this tale, just my pledge of allegiance

asymmetrically ascending: canonically black, cosmologically bright,

classically beautiful… 

and yet, all-in-all, i’m still a dimestore horror show to you / i’m sure.

regularly queer…

i’m queer.

there. i said it.

nothing to do with sex or gender… just in my perspective. i’ve identified with that word since i first picked up a crayon to draw caricatures on the inside of closet walls (shout out to all my grandsons carrying on that tradition!)

i’m not goofy… i’m not quirky (tho i long to be both!) i’m just queer.

i love my family without hesitation (except for some of my louisville fam where ‘hesitation’ is our way of emphasizing our statements; it’s a louisville thing - yall caint sit at our table and yall caint show love like us. sorry).

i’m strongly affectionate towards the people and places that matter - it might not always show up that way because of my deep proclivity for introversion. to borrow a phrase from a friend, “i would fight a brick for them”.

i love chauvinism. i love feminism. i love mankind in all of its dualism and multidimensionalism (my browser is telling me that “multidimensionalism” is not a word but i fucking know that it is! stop spreading your lies to me, Artificial Intelligence!). i love contradiction for it is the most human trait a person can have - where else in nature does nature contradict itself for reasons other than strict survival?

i love straight people. i love gay people. i love people… especially the people most often attacked for their own individual peoplehood. and if you also identify with queerness, if you query internally for queerness, then i love you most of all.

if we share the same aesthetic then i love you too… i just wont care too much about you. if we are too much the same then that’s lame to me - i already enjoy talking to myself, how could interacting with you be any different if our identifies continually mimic? your individual queerness better be pretty damn dope, playa.

just offer me something new within you for me to explore within myself and we’ll be cool. we may not necessarily “get along” because i often struggle with that type of maintenance. especially if your presence or if just simply knowing you requires my devout attention. i’m too walter mitty for all that shit; i caint be your acolyte, i’m already a follower of shadows and i do not want.

anyway, i’m just a very queer man. a big, black, cis, queer ass man.

and i wish queerness on you and everyone you love, that’s about the only way i could ever see us getting along with each other.

my daughter and grandson conversation

Kareem: Mama, I'm sorry...I said a bad word.
Journey: Hmph. What'd you say?
Journey: I'm listening.
Kareem: Garbage bags.
Journey: Neither of those are bad words.
Kareem: Yes huh.
Journey: No, they're not.
Kareem: If I say it again am I gonna get my butt whooped?
Journey: Nah.
Kareem: Garrrrbitch Bags see? I can't say it right. I'm sorry Mama...

the ability to sexually objectify women in your media

is the only prerequisite for consideration as a modern civilization.

"come hither" is the god-given name collectively given to their daughters at birth and it is a father’s role to deliver his daughters into the hands of commerce for all tutorials on "refined womanhood" until they are labeled useless.

a woman is only considered “useless” once she loses the desire to seduce and it can happen at any age (be aware of the warning signs that your daughters are considering a useless lifestyle, there are many and most begin with books that can not be made into movies).

once useless, she will be labeled a “hag” but there is always hope that she will return to a softer posture for the appeasement of society, then the west will train them as “educators” (a “bitch” is a woman that chooses to seduce off-cue and for her own pleasure, but as long as she retains a commerce-based sexual desire then this is ideal, although not optimal).

parents must reassure their daughter that such dreams are not impossible (and propable, if your daughter is nonblack).

ladies, welcome to the destiny of a desireability demographic.

please dispose of all prepackaged aspirations in proper order for maximum consideration in feminine idealism or you may find your privileges zeroed out to a non-commercialized sum.

keep smiling; stay commodifiable.