If you haven't picked up a book yet, its cool, I know you will but in the meantime i'm going to use the Just a Taste post to put up some of my work. Sometimes it'll be joints from the books or i might debut some new stuff I'm working on.
Stop by and check it out.
I wrote this piece after listening to Nancy Wilson's song called Night Mist.
If you'd like to hear the song, here it go:
Like the Night Mist, You are unbothered by the darkness, Enveloping, memzerizing. I am got and got good. Spellbound. Captive. I don't know how badly I need anything when that cool touch hits and freedom no longer feels elusive. I don't mind being held, Letting love crack my shell. Seldom do we give in to something, let it surround us. Allow it to encroach. Everything takes the form of fighting so often, we don't let ourselves be softened. Be it by Nancy's velvety vocals or nature's reprieve, say, in the form of something mystic filling night air.
While living in Florida, i was taking the train and at the station I saw an older brotha with a big ass US flag fixed to the back of his bike. I had questions so I wrote this:
To a brotha: with the American flag mounted on his bike (From Savage and Citizen)
Did they cut you a check? What, by chance, is the currency? Is it invisible, unviable, backed by unrest? Did they hand deliver that flag or did you take the time to carefully choose it? How many people want to shake your hand when they see it? What hue are they? How many have pleaded with you to remove it? Who are they? Are you patriotic and can you prove it? Can you speak freely? Has your safety been compromised, If so just blink twice? Where did they train you? What meds did they prescribe? Some good shit huh? Has your pain subsided? Is the staring easy to dismiss? Do you love this place? Does this place love you?
Sufferings (From Power from Pain) inspired after reading a quote from pg. 217 of Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Harriet Jacobs
Property is such a frigid word.
There is no life in it, it bears no aura.
The word power vibrates, beams color.
Sends the mind afoot. Holds the line between surity and seeming.
Triumph is a pure word. It grieves and celebrates at the same time.
Honesty is enlightenment and it does not wait, no matter the circumstantial air, the manner of a moment or the energetic inlets feeding into seas of love or hate.
Are you bold enough to think back but never turn back?
Can you call sufferings glory?
Be confident that your story needs no sweetening.
Tell it raw, exhibit its bitterness, tempt the cringe tucked far away in ashamed souls.
Incident is a rather fixed word, exudes formality
It only hints at the consideration of life and its unwanted encounters.
Just vaguely accounting for atrocity.