Freaks in the Industry

Black people
do nothing but screw and kill
so that’s what I see in videos
black people ain’t nothing but crazy evil
prostitutes, vagabond, hustlers and rogues.
denying that they broke skin on our backs
snapped our necks and raped
our women with authority
our pretense of mental health rebuffs pain
and is central to revision of our history.
we possess freedom papers,
but carry the burden of vilification --
they cast roles for animals and
we compete to fill the positions.
thinking the insignificant part
is just a bit of art
instead of role-modeling --
ignoring the gullible youth,
who all the negative images influence
leaving the play-back
in a vile loop on the
young mind’s theatre.

let’s just stop watching BET,
it is just another form of slavery.
despite the company line,
this entertainment psychologically shapes minds.
celluloid images and hip-hop anthems
force young brothas to
play the role of hyper-masculinity.
because there is nothing in the pockets,
some think it’s best to wield power
in bedrooms and in the streets.
hating on one another instead of
seeing oppression as the enemy.
the mantra is internalized silently,
“I hate me – ’cause life is hard!”
street-cred is nothing in the
grand scheme of society.
despite that some rapper said
a brotha ain’t nobody
’til someone shoots ’em in the head --
everyday some young brotha dies
on some ghetto sidewalk.
soon the gossip goes away
and people cease to gawk
then someone walks over the blood stain
and grinds brotha’s existence along
with his chalk outline into the bedrock.

—screw and kill—

the images on tv and hip-hop business
endorse dehumanizing the
supposed “gentler” of the sexes of
the first people of the earth
sistahs only ever get to hum the dirge
as sassy- mouthed bitches or head-rolling hos --
never the partner of a worthy mate or
respected mothers of promising black children.
we must trudge through this jungle with no protection
thrown to the beasts by the fat of our tattooed asses.
on every video show tramp-stamped females are
displayed hyper-sexually, --wet and worthless--
without pride we revel as if
this was acknowledgement of a form of beauty.
some rapper said rump-shaking is a
fine way a gal can get that legal tender…
but the assets sag and our memories vanish
and since respect didn’t exist to begin with,
we go broke leaving only the
remembrances of sin on our breaths
then we pick up the pen and write to confess.
—screw and kill—
the slave driver’s role advances
through the lyrics in the music industry.
the most disparaging representations get the record deals
which appeal to the oppressor’s sense of superiority. Entertainment industry movers and shakers
nod and offer awards of approval to
each transgression of self-destruction
and with each misogynist line,
our legacy’s shrunken.
don’t you get it now?
let’s dissect this for the record
it can’t just be about the
beat and the harmony
whether you listen or
hum along with the melody
the messages sink subconsciously
into your gourd.
the power system has
written a prescription
for our obliteration
and we choose self-medication
but multiply the dosage.
they tell us how to perform
and like Pavlov’s dogs
we react to the stimulus;
but understand, this tune is offbeat
our apathy must be discarded
tossed from the record company windows -
because if this is their idea of blackness
let them keep their minstrel show.
Black people do nothing but screw and kill
so that’s what I see in videos
black people ain’t nothing but crazy evil
prostitutes, vagabond, hustlers and rogues.

battle axe

Battle‐Ready

NO EXPERIMENTS ON THIS TEMPLE!

So what I eat junk food,
and prefer a tall milkshake
in a cold, clean glass instead of the
acidic healthfulness of orange juice?
And yes, I’ve been known to pass up a bowl
of lumpy oatmeal for French-fried potatoes,
seasoned with relish, on the side of fried blue fish…
Yes, I said “fried”!
my temple is mine,
and my actions don’t mean
I don’t worship this place around which
my aura hovers, and my soul calls “home”.

Believe me baby,
this is not a lab in which
you can try not to don a mad-scientist overcoat
and force me to let you conduct salacious experiments
to satisfy your sexual curiosity or
boost your oppression-beaten ego,
-- one or both.
your (alternatively aroused) wishes
makes a woman like me have to question my values
after just standing near you.

Your boy told you that how “powerful” he felt
making her (or him) -- one or both --
bend and take him in every which way,
that he got so excited that his “love taps”
stung his palms ’til the other party in the room
become more a victim than a lover,
and the euphoria hit in a manner never felt
from one-on-one consummation.

Well, sweetheart, dig this-- I am not the one!
Take your devilry to some non-believer because
my temple was crafted by the divine
not to be guinea-pig for your depravity.
Doing compulsory side bends, yoga poses
and other licentious exercises with
third or fourth parties, because you want
girl-on-girl-on-girl-on-girl-on-you action
is not a scene I intend to enact
in the movie script of my life.

Don’t get too cozy thinking you have
full license to cajole me into
making my exit holes
into your entrances.
because I need you to consider me for a second,
since the temple you seek to enter is mine.
if you have to ask more than once
and the answer is always a resounding “no!” --
if you have to bring me chocolate candy kisses
molded in the positions too decadent to be
shown in the kama sutra and
the answer is still “no!” --
if you have to beg me
sixty-nine ways to Sunday and
I am still telling you
“nah, brotha, my interest isn’t roused” --
understand that you are losing me,
because I refuse to compete
in the museum of your sexual oddities.

Brotha, why does it have to be science fair
in order for me to have a place in your love-life?
What’s so wrong with a little convention
where you give reverence to my need to
respect myself when I look at me?

So, in the interest of my self-preservation,
why don’t you just put your garments back on and
back the hell away from my temple.

COMPOSITE OF A KING

Brothaman,
a sistah god gave you birth.
From the womb, you emerged the color of earth —
a be-locked divinity anointed in glistening perfume
and immersed in history.
A sensual Shango-son emitting the
voodoo of heaven upon which you were baptized
and sanctified with spotlights that shine
through the black of your eyes,
that are accented with gleams of white-hot suns.
When you enter a room, you are able to
come in peace to make your own power audible
under a marquee made by Orisha and
comprised of stars — oozing masculinity and
thriving in the presence of female potency.

Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you’re the perfect brotha for me.

Nu-Afrikan King you breathe poetry from the lungs;
tenets of justice flow from your tongue;
musical, magical vocals slide from your throat;
you carry laws of righteousness in
the pockets of your coat.
It is imprinted on your mind to
abide by the laws that gods wrote.
On this frigid frightening planet exists
versatile you and you represent
in any situation you choose.
You can vibe those who
choose ordinary pursuits
and guide your brothas
without lecturing condescendingly,
or ever having to cower on street corners
smoking your legacy in clouds of trees.
And though the world on a daily beats you down
you address your own shortcomings and
never wear your Afrikan-ness as a crutch,
but always a crown.
Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you’re the perfect brotha for me.

Spirit-being, cheetah-quick you jump in to correct
the missteps of those who serve to oppress;
and alone in your home you deprogram from stress.
You commune with your creators as a ritual,
grateful for your daily bread —
evoking spirits through a lighting of
seven scented candles on your altar;
reciting blessings in the names of your ancestors --
allowing from this plane you
to momentarily depart and
wade beyond slavery and the middle passage
to the motherland’s heart.

Because you are blessed by super-nature,
you don’t have to walk, you glide
fat lips, slim hips you carry knowledge of your ancestry
and armed with your wisdom,
you’re the perfect brotha for me.

Sugar-god, you are the inspiration of hymns,
with the aroma of nutmeg and clove
rising from your onyx limbs.
I meander in your arms as we kick back discussing:
The Black Panthers and the Ten Point Program’s rise;
how the Mirabal sisters became butterflies;
the Black Liberation Army and Assata’s fight;
reparations and human rights;
the meaning of revolution and Malcolm X;
how Black self-love gets taken out of context;
and making babies and educating them for liberation’s future.
And while we lay in our symbiotic structure
I know it’s me for you and you for me
’til oppression fades away and is dismissed;
’til the world of injustice cease to exist;
’til the current class system is dilapidated;
’til the words “let freedom ring!”
are worth celebrating.