Songs For The Cleveland Avenue Warriors

Oooh! Spooky--

Validation is a former student/program participant telling me that they read my poem, 'Obama' to their 3rd grade son and that it led them to research and further discuss who and what the Tuskegee Airmen were because of it!

What does it sound like in my head when I write a poem?

Something like this--

DEATH AT THE MANOR

This world is dying, slowly.

Suffering a long, painful death by decay

as everything that seems to underpin

the floorboards in this great house

and the lot upon which

our civilization sits,

a great and stately manor

manned by the surcoated

subservient, happy to maintain

the symmetry that defines

this great estate for appearances' sake,

rots away from within,

and rust creeps up through the steel girders

that once served as a show of strength,

back when the world moved along on rails

and dynamite blasted away

at such minor distractions as mountains

and felled forests reaped fortunes

for the Merchant Kings who stood tall

on the precipice of greatness,

erasing and rewriting histories

and cultures to suit their needs

while convincing the rest

that this is what's best

in a successful attempt

to justify their greed.

But now, all that's meaningful,

what was once considered great,

even among the unwashed,

has been taken away from those who rest

easily and govern from places

of comfort and our summers are marked

by an oppressive, urban heat, stretched out

like a thick, downy blanket that smothers

and tests the limits of an aging

infrastructure, built during

a wild lark of a progressive era;

short-lived, yet indelible in the scars

left behind, seared across the native face

of an expanse that seemed inexhaustible

to the consumer, cut off from the chain

of industrial destruction

that stretches from far-off foreign soils

and settles into the carbon footprint

of the local Sam's Store

that displaced the Mom and Pop

who sold their soul to this

dying enterprise, only to find

that their pensions were spent

to pay for the funeral

and that they weren't invited

to the reading of the will.

CHICAGO

An encapsulated oasis,

negro gardens surrounded by red-lined

highways and freeways and expressways

that wend way out past

the pristine parks and magnificent miles

and high rise luxuries, the views

extending out across the distant smoke

and heat that buckles the city streets

and knees and bends and breaks

the fractured infrastructures,

unsupported, taxing bodies blind

to the needs of the plebeians

who plead for concession in Court

for traffic fines and noise complaints

and lost momentum in a culture

fueled by perpetual motion,

a kinetic abhorrence, broken

and distorted, the laws of physics

rendered meaningless

to a contortionists' expressive art,

deployed on nightly news recaps

to tamp down any hint of dissension,

leaving behind a shambling hoard

of participants, eager to pursue

the fleeting comforts found

in Gucci belts and Diamond grills

and stolen Hellcats, running red lights

in the downtown shopping district

while the police, and the politicians,

shoot back with practiced precision

A quick little hit of encouragement--

"--when poverty extends its superfluous form into many small and mundane places, it teaches children in different ways than does suburban educations."

This poem is an homage to all that shaped me; the people and the places where beauty is subjective and love runs rampant, even as the crumbling infrastructure further casts these communities adrift. Meanwhile, we learn to find our place and to celebrate and to learn to abide with it.

gzus

I look forward to sharing with you, whether it be my poetry, some rambling opinion piece, a short story or maybe just something to consider. I love you dearly. And I cherish your company--

Jambo. Greetings, Dear Hearts,

gzus loves you, and I certainly appreciate your time and attention. I met a dude(in prison) some time ago who I believe to be a Prophet, a Holy Man, who set me on my current path, in search of greater illumination.

To be clear, I knew, I've always known that there was something that I was missing, and now I understand. It was simply my flawed perceptions, the distortions reflected back to me in funhouse mirrors. 

And now I can see clearly, the strings being pulled behind the scenes, manipulating our motivations, our beliefs. I can see that the discrete boundaries between our reality and the allure of an amorphous, shifting definition of fame is no more than a line drawn in the sand, scratched out during neap tide, with no thought given to when the waters will eventually rise.

This pursuit of fame is announced through bathroom selfies and filtered digital pics of perfect food and overnight flights to exotic locales, but the truth is, we grind on a budget, life don't give discounts for good intentions and the world really isn't waiting with bated breath to see what we do next.

We, in fact, live with a fleeting definition of fame that can't withstand the rising tide of reality as it creeps along the beach and seeps into the sand.

This podcast will serve as an early warning, the Caution: Danger Ahead sign as the tide comes in. As you listen along, please, heed these warnings. The water is rising. And we must learn to swim lest we drown--