Selections from Babylon Songs ©
Metaphysical Mantra ©
(Be…)
Be happy
Be understanding
Believe
Be free
Be you
Be I Am who be you
Be love
Introspect
Reflect within
Be what we be when we begin
Pure
Be human
Revel in all your shortcomings that make you human
Knowing you never come short of being a child of God
Be purposeful
And if you can’t be the light
At least be the switches
Help our seeds to avoid the ditches you’d unwittingly visit
Be open minded
Before you are open hearted
Be spiritual warriors
Don’t be anyone’s target
Be the you you physically never were
But were always spiritually destined to be
Be the I Am whom you be…
…infinitely
God
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Season(ing)s Change ©
Ode to the Thick Woman who's Happy with her Thickness
What’s up shorty?
Why you so mad lately?
Acting salty towards rosemary that way?
Whose been putting oregano in your dime bags to get you mad like that
Now is never the thyme to lose your spice for life
You used to have cinnamon kisses and peppermint wishes
Now all you have is tumeric talk and garlic disses
No more pepper in your passion, and that’s nothing to sneeze at
Some sages say you’re seriously salty at yourself
Sore because you’ve finally seen you ain’t as spicy as you
sought to be
But to me
You are everything you ought to be
So why you mad shorty
Surely you ain’t mad because people with diabetes can’t kick
it with you like that
Slim
Your sugar is the bomb
Truly…you have it going on
And I know those science guys break their neck to synthesize your essence
But always know that children will love your presence
Weight watchin’ women will be fearful of your fragrance
So know that I haven’t forgotten about you,
Even when everybody else cooks around you
Asking for the pepper and salt at dinner
Acting like omitting you from their lives is gon’ make them thinner
Babe
Without you
Kool- Aid would be played
You mixed with a cocoa bean on Valentine’s day got Hallmark paid
Sugar
However you dress up
Earth brown, or in that white gown
I dig you
Because seasonings change
But you make life so much sweeter…
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She Didn’t ©
She didn’t know she was so beautiful
Perhaps that’s why she did such ugly things
Like cover her face with another face that wasn’t hers
Maybe Maybeline gave her a greater sense of self worth
But her true beauty was hidden behind masks that were fearful of her Godly
nature
So when she’d cry the river Nile, her face would run
Didn’t she know that she’s a reflection of God
So why would she look in the mirror and be displeased with what she sees?
She’s so confused
But that’s all because…
She didn’t know she was so pure
Perhaps that’s why she’d let men soil her soul
Ka cannibals would devour her whole for flesh diving
Not once striving for soul bathing
Knowing her waters,
Like her emotional scarring ran deep
Deep like comatose sleep
So, from womanizing would- be suitors she did not keep
The nectar from her flower,
Yielding unto them all that was sweet
Keeping for herself,
The sourness of her sorrow
She’d borrow the temporary joy of sexual solicitors, pussy poachers,
and labia loiterers
She gave up her Godliness for a love and happiness that she was never
without
For it was always within her,
But she was never told to look there
She’s so lost
But that’s all because…
She didn’t know she was so God- like
Perhaps that why she did such devilish things
Told she was responsible for sin, stole the love out of child birth
So ideas of the miracle of maternity without child support were seldom
courted
Societies disapproval more than her financial restraints
Said she couldn’t afford it
So those ideas like her would- be children were quickly aborted
She gave up her Godliness on many occasions for a heaven that couldn’t
last
Not knowing that heaven is a state of mind
And you don’t have to wait until you’re dead and gone
Cause as long as you have God in your heart
Then it’s not too Komplex to believe you can have heaven in your
view, too
She’s so ugly
But that’s all because…
She didn’t know she is so
Beautiful
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Sometimes ©
Sometimes
I want to be anything but this
A messenger with a package nobody wants to sign for
Also known as:
A poet
Lord please don’t let these pretentious people believe they identify
with my struggles
Not when I was unemployed for over eight months
Not when I was selling fragments of my soul in my book for ten dollars
Not when I never cheapened my art by saying, “This is how I eat,
support me”
Not when I had emergency room bills with no medical insurance
Not when I had to pay $1,000 in rent I didn’t have on top of my
utilities
Not when I had $200 every month car insurance payments
Not when I never cheapened my art by saying, “This is how I eat,
support me”
Not when my back was to the wall, and I saw you buy corona’s so
you could look fly in a damn poetry spot
Not when the money you spent could've saved your life
But you don’t owe me anything
And I don’t owe you anything
Because we never met, but
You owe yourself
I mean,
Why did you come to the poetry spot if you didn’t want the words?
Why won’t you sign?
But,
Sometimes I do think you owe me enough
To never patronize me and tell me you felt me
After all,
That’s
that shit and I already wrote a poem about that
You can go to my website to find out what type you fall under when you
have some free time
That is,
If you want to sign off on these words
Because although these words keep me sane
They were given to me to relieve your pain
And they hurt when I hold them
So sometimes,
I wish I didn’t hear folks absentmindedly tell me they wish they
could be a poet
Not knowing all that being a poet entails
Not when you might have to write a scripture at three in the morning
After you’ve been awake for two days straight
Not when you can’t work until you finish that line, or stanza, or
poem
Not when you have to look at blank faces cause they don’t get the
fuckin’ picture
Not when people question your soul when they question your words
Not knowing their soul don’t tread as deep as yours
Sometimes,
I wish I could be irresponsible with this gift
Cause I love women too,
But I never have to write poem after poem about what I could do, when
I could very well do it
Ask your girl (she knows)
Not saying I don’t write those on occasion
But there are truly more important things
And constantly performing hoetry proves that in more than one way…you
don’t get it
Not when there’s AID’s
Not when people still falling victim to age old drama
Not when Willie Lynch is still claiming our young soldiers
Your words are supposed to bare the weight of the world's burdens on your
shoulders
Not on your dick
So sometimes I wish I didn’t get that fake dap
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to entertain you to teach you
But those times only exist when my third eye blinks and I lose the ability
to spiritually think
Then again,
Sometimes…I wonder what "sometimes" even matters
When time doesn’t even exist…
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This to That ©
I've gone from prissy chick to bitch
Skinny to thick
Multiple year time span to one- night stand
One position in the sheets to back seat freak
Withdrawn to clingy
“You didn’t have to...” to “What did you bring
me?”
No name Jane who acts all snooty
To the dark skinned dame with the fat booty
Uppity to chill
Fraudulent to real
Connoisseur of the pipe to dyke
Business attire to earthy
"What the hell was I thinking?"
To "I'm not worthy!"
And after all this…
I'm still a virgin…
Because I've never made love
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Selections from Meta/For You ©
The Fix ©
I'd like to fall over you
like sleepy bedroom eyes
Like…
Like Cassandra Wilson's voice in pitch black
with LED lights
Like…
Like inspiration
But you don't feel me
like lobotomy victims
Or Paralysis to the system
You'd rather get with him
like
Like…
Like X and Y-chromosomes,
sympathetic divided homes,
dwarves and gnomes at midgets anonymous meetings
But
He's feeling her like this
And she's feeling me like dick's in gay VD clinics
Me being the cynic I figure,
of course the shit gotta be like this
And I know it's senseless
But I ant you like…
Like…
Like the latest fad at Christmas
The feeling of beating somebody's ass on your shit-list
Intense since
To me you so damn fly
In your own little way
But
When you're here I can't speak
And when you're not
Words make an exodus from my lungs
like THC from weed smoke in the breeze
You see
I want you
like a motherfucker,
I guess would want a mother
I want you
L ike melanin in skin cancer patients
Like asthmatics want inhalation
Like T'ssount wanted freedom for Haitians
Like amputees want masturbation
Like half of America wanted Playstation 2
I want you
like, like
Like "like's" the final frontier
I want you more than wanting can metaphorically allow
So I use similes as my crutch to fix that up somehow
I want you to need me
like I like you
So then,
I could give you the cold shoulder,
And act
like I don't care,
Cause if you're
like me…
That'd make you
like me more
But until then,
I'll settle for half assed amends
As I pretend
This… Is the last time.
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Home/Bodies ©
Foreign beer would oft times be the gatkeeper of domestic fear
as angelic ancestors come to mourn
The silent scream of inner violence
Demons on call don't wait til nightfall to jeer and scorn
Born in disfunctional family units, the cycle revolves in its own ways
Love betrayed because of a brutal trade of battery leads to the dismayed
soul and a cold untrusting heart
Love taps evolve into murder raps
Belt straps of leather
Sunshine subjected to stormy weather, torrential downpours
Truly yours…nobody loves you like she, or he…
Verbal misuse, spousal abuse, vaginal and anal cavities battered and bruised
Like two left shoes hell bent on being together, yet apart
Hapless love, doomed from the start, to foolish to part ways
Unloving nights like endless work days as the insignificant other prays
for deliverance
Facial structure distrted, bones contorted, zero health insurance…can't
afford it
Bats, fists, dicks, and wooden boards
Slaps, hits, swifts kicks, and extension cords
No latex
Forced sex
Trauma
Drama
Distant poppa and mama
Hurt hearts, living bodies with dead souls and broken teeth
People die
Children cry
With no sigh (sign)…of relief (brace yourselves).
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Poetry in Motion ©
Shorty moves like cocoa
Oh no,
sho nuff
she moves like jazz notes
fo sho she
walks on air like clouds
look at her now
she moves like agony
slow and calculating
her physical spaces pushing air molecules away
she moves like poetry
and see
that's why I dig her
she ain't got the wine shape
but she's got that poetic figure
that makes the eyes envision her beauty that much quicker
she hits like liquor
My thoughts grow sicker
I'm about to regurgitate perverse notions
of how we
could move like sound through quiet and barren thickets
like sound jumps off the wings of crickets
I am on addict
I want her to show...
me...
How I could be more like poetry!
So she could notice me
meander down her soul
like rolling brooks
in diagonal and sideways motions like bishops and rooks
to the very essence of where her poetry bubbles and flows
I want her essence to clog my nose
I want to drown in her motions
and be baffled by her stillness
still this
thought riddles me
her smile belittles me
for she knows I want move
like poetry
ungilating between her legs,
tingling her dreds warming her bed,
monopolizing her head
Make her think red is blue, and blue is red
although mostly blue
Damnit, tell me how to move like you
So then her lips part
beautiful lips I dream of in wet spurts
they part,
and through them flows this poetic sound
the way she speaks
must be some practiced skill
You know what she tells me?
"To move like me...
just be still"
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She ©
She
can never compare to you
She
does not have your depth, your understanding of self or of me
She
does not feel the shades of Miles Davis the way you do
Her hips do not curve like ours
Your eyes receive light at a different intensity
You have tighter pores
Your hair naturally kinks
Your very nature makes me think…
"What was God thinking?"
Your back arches in a different way
There's more history behind what you say
She
can't captivate,
Nor illustrate my arousal like you do me
I stand bare
With full figured thoughts of you
Afro 'twined around my digits
The complexity of we to me is simplistic
As long as we are not divided in two
My soul stays with you
Like sun rays shaded blue by cotton candy clouds
And muted sunsets that speak in loud color arrangements
She
can't move, talk, think, breathe, sing, dance, laugh, walk, moan, or cry
like you
Inside I die for you
While
She
dies for styles you used eons ago
She
will never be what you are
My soul's centerpiece.
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Three Lefts... ©
Each poem I write
I get closer to God
And right now,
I got writer’s block
Preoccupied with life
Never satisfied with right now
After every accomplishment
I’m like,
“Which battle do I fight now”
Look at me
I’m twenty three and life is good (see)
But in my mind,
I’m never where I could or should be
So I’m writin’
Cause each time I write
I get closer to God
at odds with black and white issues
So I use
Extra black ink on this bleached white paper
Making sure I use Black English
Hashing out my soul externally
Because I don’t have boots big enough to tred through all this shit
inside
So when I’m writing
I push my mortality aside
And dial a direct line to the Most High
And these words are what I receive
And I don’t know about you,
But these truths are what I believe
These
Have taken the place of
The Lord’s Prayer, Hail Mary’s, and the Apostles Creed
And I ain’t even Catholic
I’m pretty sure that the people who read my words
And have a conversation with me are disappointed
Anointed with prophetic words
Yet they serve as no preparation for what I have to say
But see,
When I write
I get a step closer to God
So you’ll never know me that way
So go to church if that’s your thing
My alter is the open mic
Communion be impromptu
So do what you do
Struggle your struggle
I got this pen for my fight
Cause my words and creations are my salvation
So just let me write
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Selections from The Trial of Cupid ©
Amorphous ©
I existed before there was form
or form had form,
I was here before the stars lined the sky
so I'd perform for an empty audience,
because I was here before the crowd had form...
I gave form to form after I was born
for nothing could be like me,
I wanted form to be viewed as the order
outside of me...
And people these days are like
"See, that's beautiful,
that circular or square shape is great..."
but what about me
who seeks to remain beyond form
or aesthetic order,
I don't want no borders
cause those are limitations...
them shapes are tangible and often expandible
to other shapes...
they often have clear cut lines
and are neatly defined,
lines of color not to be crossed
while webster can't define me in the twenty ninth century,
only the picture of fear he has for his inability to understand me...
So I stay outside of form
refusing to conform
until I am accepted for the inexplicable splender I am...
the mysterious...
amorphous...
I am black...
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Get Up, Stand Up ©
Lately I have really been seriously questioning these feelings, gut
feelings I now constantly have
-Eastern religion's history is discounted, and the West only tells their
twisted half
Thanks to Hollywood, Roman, and modern influence, we have forgotten his
visage
-so when you see the black lamb with his hair locked, these so called
Christians ask "Who is it?"
Let us all know the glory of the Supreme Mother/ Father was manifested
in the East -Therefore be wary of he or she who is a false prophet yet
still has the doctorate to preach
Those who only teach what the slave owners instilled, profess the cloaked
visions that cried for Yeshua to be killed
-we must first destroy the false progression, find our foundation, and
then build
Many of you were conditioned against inter-religious thought, and set
in one way of life
-I'm not saying you're all wrong, just not all right
Many of you didn't fight for the beliefs you now hold
-you did no "soul searching" and accepted what you were tol
Hypothetically, if you were doing a research paper on your spirituality,
you would have to have three primary sources and various secondary sources
to look
-yet you only know random portions of the good book, you got caught...line,
sinker, and hook
And took no consideration of that which proceeded
-so you indirectly neglected that which you neede
I believe the three good books are part of a master plan
-but recognize and understand they were still written and revised countless
times by man
You and you alone must deal with eternal salvation or eternal damnation,
don't let any man or woman make your spiritual decisions (preachers, bishops,
popes, ministers, etc.)
-because they are most likely blinded by the same darkness that influenced
separation of and confusion between religions
You would rather see the differences with condemning words and actions,
yet with the similarities stand idle
-there are many correlations between the Torrah, Q' uran, and Bible ...
So...I guess I'm seen as a radical threat, my unconventional thought
seeming random and wild
-yet I smile, stand firm and say you're either Jew or Gentile
There are some glaring lies that have not escaped my detection
-Woman, you were put here with man, we are the two halves of God's reflection
A male white God is the European man's insecurities made false reality
-when you find your soul mate you become one...above physicallity and
sexuality
It's sad when you pour your last dime in million dollar "churches"
that are on every other block
-while those that need you physically and spiritually starve, while you
walk by and don't stop (and you know who you are...)
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The Hit ©
I want to call in a hit,
Cause I’m sick and tired of this love shit.
First of all, I want to put out a hit on Eros, otherwise known as Cupid.
Why they would leave love in the hands of a baby with a bow and arrow...
I’m clueless.
Who’s this cat anyway?
Nobody,
"I coulda been a contender."
I’d send my love letters at close range across classroom and get
a return to sender...
But damn, they’d take the candy and roses from my love telegrams
and still not really care who I am.
I wore my heart on my sleeve,
and did some old symp shit ya’ll wouldn’t believe,
some things I want no evidence of,
‘cause I’ve never been privy to the fantasy type love...
just that sixteen candles type shit,
that breakfast club psuedo love...
St. Elmos Fire burned it.
So I want two hollow tipped bullets laced with holy water in the chamber
of a nickel plate thirty eight,
One shot at Cupid,
A nd the other at fate.
And see, my beef with fate is I believe our lives to it is some kinda
joke,
So let’s see the laughter after the gun smoke.
Ya’ll better run folks,
Cause anybody caught in their path is a bystander,
An’ right now I feel like a Highlander of which there can only be
one...
Because this fate thing ain’t alway’s fun.
Who’d really miss Cupid anyway,
Most of ya’ll be like fuck Cupid on Valentine’s Day.
So the contract has been signed, and sealed with a kiss...
But deep down inside,
I hope those bullets miss...
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Sucka Love ©
I don't want no drama,
no stress
No pain
All I want is you
Who
Seems to love all the shit
I just mentioned
I don't want
To be 100% up front
I dig you like Louis Leakey in the sandbox at recess
We' just can't seem to connect like four-
Play you
Sonnets on my soul strings like you do,
Just to prove you got the proper moves to soothe an agitated heart
I'd like to start with mornings
Sunlight creeping right over your frame
mid- orgasm you calling my name
and exclaim,
"I'm glad I came,
and you could come with me."
But before that,
I'd like to lay on your breast
as you teach the strategies to chess
Feed each other fresh fruits
Consume knowledge like young hungry minds do
True
I want you like a mu'fucka
But only a sucka
Would take all the shit...
that comes with you...
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