photo by Alex Lear

 

 

this poem woke me—4:50am

  

what most healthily marks

our passage through this whirl

is never stone

 

neither forged metal

nor mute masonry

 

nothing that sits

nor stands

defiant of time

 

but rather a quick sensation

potent enough to shape

several generations, e.g.

 

—the breath

of a baby

well loved

whose own grandchildren also

experience the enabling splendidness

of human touch & caring

 

a spirit flash which

creates space within us

to pause

& be fed

by the gentle trickle

of ancient rain

 

every life needs

an inner security system

constantly on,

continuously blinking

sensitively set to alert us

to respond to beauty

regardless of the dawn's shape

or our circumstance thereunder

 

even if appreciating

means awakening

 

well before

we are finished

 

sleeping

 

 —kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

old men dream

 

 

at night i pull you through

the waterfall of my desire —

your invisible caress ripples,

cascading touches whetting my skin's imagination

 

once when i was talking

about learning philosophy

i was actually tasting the browness

of your breast warm in the soft of my mind's mouth

 

yes, i know what to do with the ephemeralness of the erotic

how to turn passion into poems and work — a sub rosa motor

secretly powering metaphorical image boats crisply skimming across

the intimate surface of creativity's lake, in the depths of my emotions

 

every poem is moistened by at least one drop of eros even when

my brain is fully clothed standing stark still on dry sand

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

We Don’t Stand A Chinaman’s Chance Unless

We Create A Revolution

         (“There’s A New World Coming”)

            To Fred Ho & Everyone In The World

            Who Are Not Afraid Of The Future

 

 

Chance, like the lottery, is dependent on the universe

What the conditions of the competition are

How many of us competing and who’s pullin’ the numbers

 

Look at the world, my people, where we draw our borders

Determines who we are, defines our social status as a people

 

If we stop at the Atlantic & Pacific

We could just dumbly call all ourselves Americans

If we start at Canada

Then for certain we are deep in the South,

Down below the real Mason-Dixon line

If we start at Mexico & work our way north

Then most of us are just

Non-spanish speaking, dark-skinned gringos

 

But if we go back into ourselves, into our souls

Our history and the reality of our befores

Then there is something greater than geography

That defines us

 

I am a political creature

Praxis, ideology put into practice

Defines a major part of me

 

I am also an individual particle of my people

My roots, blood and genealogy

Defines another part of me

 

But more than politics and biology combined

I am a human being, a creature defined

By the character and quality of my social

Relationships

Who I am, is very much

The way I relate to people, both my race & others

 

Is whether I lie about my realities

Or struggle to tell the truth

 

Is whether I want to get over by bullshiting

Or want to develop by facing & changing my reality

 

So what is a lie versus

What is the truth?

 

A lie is when we knowingly say the opposite of what

We are, were and strive to become

The truth is simply what is

 

Our problem is not just telling lies

But also being able to recognize lies

We’ve been lied to for so long

Believed lies for so long in the past that

Today we don’t know the truth

 

How can we honestly know who we are

If we don’t truthfully know who we were

 

Truth looks strange to us, sounds

Weird, even corny or square, is a foreign language

Certainly painful and discomforting, the truth is

A hard lesson to swallow when we’ve been

Filled up with lies, our bowels blocked by

Government cheese & our arteries hardened

By imbibing consumer prescribed drugs

 

You don’t know it

But you don’t really know anything

If all you know is what you have been

Taught in school combined with the limited

Education you get from media distortions of world

Realities

 

If you think dope in our lives is bad now,

That crack houses exemplify moral decay,

That we need to get back to the past

Then what do you think of opium dens

And native Americans besotted by alcohol

 

Chemical warfare

Is nothing new, especially in this nation of junkies

Where the twin drugs of tobacco & alcohol rule the roost

 

Consider this a gentle wake up call:

 

We don’t stand a chinaman’s chance

Of creating a better & more beautiful future

If we don’t make a revolution

 

You don’t stand a chinaman’s chance

Is what people used to say to define hopelessness

You don’t stand a chinaman’s chance

Used to be a definition of a loser

But after Mao & crew did their do

A chinaman’s chance got so good

That nobody played that number anymore

 

Regardless of the problems and perplexities

Of China’s current state at least they got a chance,

A future & the whole world recognizes that

 

What about us, my people

Do we stand a chinaman’s chance,

We, the underdogs in a horse race

 

The ice cubes trying to stand the heat of hell

The fifth wheel on a tricycle

Buying bus tickets to cross the ocean

Worshippers without a god

We who can’t stand to reign

Will continue to suffer a million to one

Odds of redemption

Unless we create

A revolution

 

Plant the seed, raise the tree

Dig, we made America into a democracy

 

Now we must recreate this whole country

Into a multicultural community where all peoples

Can live & be their natural selves

Can live their traditions & carve out a future

Can call on their ancestors & give birth to healthy children

Can learn what they don’t know & teach everything they do

Can honor the earth & respect the sacredness

Of all living beings

 

There will be no bright future for us

Unless we create & seize control of our lives

Consume no more than we produce &

Produce all we need to consume

Unless we define progress in terms

Of the quality of relationships &

Measure wealth by the status of the poor

No future until we consciously empower women &

Proudly display a healthy respect for diversity

 

No tomorrows unless we shut down

The hegemony of cave culture & reinstitute social circles,

Bring back the vision of the tepee, the hut &

Other architectural & social structures which avoid

The dominance of the box & straight line

Nothing will grow unless we merge

With the other rather than thinking separate is equal

 

We can only greet the dawn with smiles

By doing for self & sharing with all

By building marketplaces at the crossroads

Rather than forts on the frontiers

By learning the literature of the world

Rather than imposing a canon of monoculture

 

A true revolution

Motivated by the force of love

Sustained by the generosity of spirit

Is ultimately victorious not because it conquers

But rather because it endures

Outlasts exploitation & overcomes oppression

 

A revolution, a revolution

A revolution of the human

Body & soul, mind & consciousness,

A decisive change, after which

Nothing can ever be the same

Change is the external truth

Everything that exists becomes

Something other than what it now is

 

Some people think that ugly gon last forever

That whites will always rise to the top &

Revolution is impossible, i.e., that is the

Flat earth school of foolish thought

 

Those same people think

We don’t stand a chinaman’s chance

To create a revolution—you wanna bet

 

Whether through evolution or

Revolution, things have got to change

 

We, like all humans, will evolve or die

Regardless of what we think & do

We will either renew ourselves or

Become extinct

 

There is a new world coming

There will be a revolution

In our lifetime

 

The only question is where we gon be standing

What we gon be doing

Who we gon be loving

When it comes!

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

 

We Say, Bechet 

 

 

they say Bechet

was the only man born

whose solos could silence Louie Armstrong

by simply the awesome strength of melodious song

ringing resplendent in dulcet tones

through the bell of Sidney's serpentine saxophone

 

they say Bechet

was a Creole colored Black man

who ventured forth to France land

to get closer to Africa his beloved

albeit estranged ancestral homeland

 

they say Bechet

was an hombre of straight backed pride

with a quick silver temper he seldom bottled inside

and the swiftness of a pugilist in his ability to settle scores

and, mano a mano, to batter open doors

 

they say Bechet

was possessed by the gris gris of his grandfather

who had impassionately danced beneath tall oak trees

in the sunshine of Sunday breeze

during weekly place de Congo gatherings

and that this same Bechet directly inspired the afro-blue blowing

of Coltrane's adoption of the gypsy drone

that undulating high pitched moan

articulated in spirit conjuring tongues & shot flickering hot

out of the damballa tubing of a b-flat soprano saxophone

 

they say Bechet

when they don't know what else to say

Bechet when they speak admiringly

of an exotic untamed noir beauty

Bechet when they search diligently

for lions within the aural jungles of the 20th century

Bechet of the sweeping vibrato undammable

as the torrential flow of the mighty Mississippi

Bechet of amazingly graceful creativity

fierce as the hand wrought iron filigrees

of Black diasporan new world melodies

 

Bechet, Bechet, Bechet

is what they say

when they mean to mark the beginning,

the genesis of the Black man's astonishing

affair d'amour with the hybrid horn

Adolph named the saxophone

 

Bechet they say

oh how seriously huge this gigantic petite fleur played

this majestic musicianeer Bechet

whose mournfilled joy remains today

the birth cry of Black music's jazz ascendency

 

Bechet, Bechet, Bechet

we say

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

HOW I FORSEE IT

 

     "leave the lights

          on"

       --Roz's advice

 

we

won't hide

from love's

light caress, nor

be afraid

to immerse ourselves

beneath the warm wash

of tongue's touch

on skin's

bare surface

 

we

know

there are 9 ways

in & 9 ways out,

each buoyed by

its own joy

every encounter

virtually infinite

in variations of

intimacies

 

both of us laughing

& licking our fingers

across each other big time

bold like children

enthusiastically

transforming page after page

of life's heavy coloring book

as we wield fistfuls

of fat crayons

with no regard

for staying inside the lines

or choosing colors

that correspond

to the way

things usually look

 

with rebel joy

we assemble our palette

bursting with wild hues

brilliantly combined

to match the unfettered tumble

of our entwined feelings

 

as our passion runs

its uncharted course,

our pounding blood

is compass & we select direction

with a casual flip of the heart

 

of course we

are dangerous

 

the thought police & the

propriety experts undoubtedly

will work overtime

legislating prohibitions

in vain attempts to censor

movements they never imagined

naked humans would make,

 

socially respectable

professional interior decorators

are suffering serious heart attacks

after visiting the rooms

where we make love, but

who cares? certainly not us,

this is our interior

where we proudly giggle

at purple fingers wet

with body fluids stuck

in orange ears or my green face

kneading your natural dough

in the pliant concave

of your upturned turquoise back

or the way you paint my chest hairs gold

& red with yr breasts as i reach down

between yr legs and pull out

more pigment and you use thick

dollops of paint straight out my tube

 

on the other hand

i could be miles away

& you're sitting under a dryer

my letter in yr hand, smiling, & where

i am i'm remembering something we shared

& i'm doing like you, smiling

 

& though apart

we are coming together

 

love

 

is

 

everywhere

 

          ###

 

i wish for us the best

& that the goodness of this out lasts

whatever time each of us has left

on this planet

 

as you reminded me

this is special / but then

it always is special

when

african americans love

each other

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

Silently Speaking (#2)

 

sometimes we do not talk

but sleep, our old breaths

whistle coloring the dark

the annoying blues

buzz roar of my occasional snore

your relaxed red

exhales distantly sounding

like a smooth running kitchen appliance

 

other times we do not need talk so matched are our respective

half-centuries of maturity we are able to simply sit or lie still

near motionless, untouching but syncretically close

the luminous electricity of mutual understanding

sizzle spark arcing across alienating space, bridging

the depths of whatever differences might distance us

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

even death will not stop me from struggling

  

i will continue

as ashes & dust

 

my bronze flesh will join the soil

of free lands everywhere

& grow trees

be the mud within which rabbits burrow

be carpet of rain forest mountain walls

 welcoming gorillas home

 

my bronze flesh

sacred ground

will become ancestor soil

 

and i will also be dry dust

refusing to cover despots

i'll clog the air filters

of tanks & invade the nostrils

of invaders

 

you hear that wind

that's my dying breath

laughing at those who thought

they'd seen the last of me

 

you see that baby eating soil

 dirt smeared around her cheeks

that worker dusting himself off

that couple of love embracing on

 picnic ground

that hopi sand painting

that amazonian stripped with the chalk

 of white clay

you see me

 

i am sorry to disappoint you

but i do not die

i just move to another plane of existence

and become the fertilizer of the future

 

even when i'm gone

i will still be here

though death do us part

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

MOJO HAND

 

men who worship sky gods & have no earth gods

are dicks with no place to grow their seed except

into stolen soil, turf marked off, contained, contracted

even owned, acculturated & institutionalized into weakness

 

is to hurt the land and dishonor the number four

is to believe in the father, the son and no mother,

is the unspeakable name of a male who gives birth to women,

is to worship macho male bonding & be enraged with womb envy

is finally to talk about protecting women from what?

 

from men, a gender mafia extorting feminine devotion

allegedly in exchange for promised security

 

what there finally is is a need to heal and nurture, in

reality we have been hurt, maimed, raped and damn near destroyed

rambo will do us no good now, where is dr. drew, dr. carver

where is the ability to bandage and the patience to tend to patients

the easy softness with babies, the untragic shaping

of adolescent egos, the avoidance of posturing, a willingness

to admit ignorance & even impotence, we can not stop

life from cutting us but we can tend to the wounds, or can we

men ever climb down off our high horses, kneel to the earth

embrace life & share the strength of a medicinal mojo hand

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

 

STILL RUNNING

(meditations on integration)

 

1.

escaping plantations is not

simple

simply

a matter of running

away / for

to getaway successfully

 

you must not only run

from

but establish yourself

in

 

the place

to which

you run

 

somehow

 

create a home

create community

some how

 

shape space

transform

the alien air

of here & now

where ever

you are

 

into the welcoming

embrace

of home

 

 

2.

now that the big house

is on fire

and none of the world

is offering water

 

the progeny

of our former masters

hang out welcome signs

and proclaim

we are all the same

 

we can even sleep

in their beds with them

if our amnesia is deep enough

 

the price of admission:

leave your soul at the door, preferably

outside, not even on the porch

but in the yard

the back

yard

 

now pledge

allegiance

to this system

your history does not

matter

 

that the jails are full

of us

does not matter

 

that our illnesses

are at record levels

does not matter

 

that we own less

have less wealth

than ten years after

slavery

does not matter

 

if we forget

who we were

who we are

does not matter

 

 

3.

when we think

the other

is our problem

 

we have become

our own problem

 

after all

aren’t we all

wayfaring pilgrims

just passing thru

 

a strange

land, all of us

in need

of a helping

hand?

 

 

4.

regardless

 

of what those who own

to live

tell you

 

you can only really own

whatever you brought

into this world

 

whatever you brought with

you is all that you can

take when you leave

 

 

5.

you can not escape

the plantation

 

if you are carrying

their architecture

 

in your head

in your heart

 

 

6.

some of us

run

 

away

 

some of us

run

 

towards

 

until we die

all of us

 

are

running

 

 

7.

zig zag

brother

 

reverse field

stutter step

skip, hop, & jump

 

zig zag

sister

 

they’ll catch us

if we stand still

 

 

8.

our people

are our hills

—amilcar cabral

 

I think we should live

up in the hills

—burning spear

 

 

 

9.

no rest for the weary

 

believe

I’ll run

 

on and see

what tomorrow brings

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

 

THE WAY INTO YR SOUL

IS SOUND 

 

1.

yr ears are the surest way

into yr head / the sounds

of music and the meaning-

ful word spoken

at leisure w/ a minimum

of embellishment

 

2.

the blk marrow

core of us is composed

of music, we aural travelers

know sound is the movement

of matter & souls in motion

rubbed so close together

that more than simply hearing

each other we feel

the movement of each other

sometimes without even touching

each other each one moves the other

the resonance and tingle

of life (which is self-generated

motion) our soul motors

vibrating the tone sensitive

membranes of each other's inner skins

 

the low notes make us smile

the high notes make us holler

and all in between is our singing

 

—kalamu ya salaam