butterfly heart haiku

i sometimes forget
your heart is set in stained glass
that explains its blush

pouring some out of the bottle for Brother Gil.

*the author takes a sip, exhales*

maybe it fits into the divine equation that
exists within and outside of us that brother
Gil Scott-Heron went home on a Friday evening
in the city that was always in his blood, even
as it was killing him to hear him tell it. i've
always been of the opinion that a lot of his music,
intentional or not, went down better with a good
deal of nightfall and all of its open frontiers.
how many of you out there remember your parents
busting out that LP of 'The Bottle' at a family
party or hearing it being spun at some funky,
sweat-inducing house jam? for me, the first time
i ever heard that song bless my ears was as i was
sitting in the back of my dad's blue Cadillac as
he and my mom drove up to my grandmother's house
off of Gun Hill Road in the Bronx. and every last
bit of it, even though i was nine years old made
perfect sense and would continue to as i got older.

see, Gil Scott-Heron was many things to all of us
while still being one of us. many others with talent
as he had find themselves removed from the souls that
inspired them, be it by celebrity or other influences
and motives. Gil never did that. you saw that in all
of his music, even in his writing. i still remember
my great surprise at finding his novel 'The Vulture'
in the library at Hofstra University back in the day.
Gil kept up with the people. they didn't have to keep
up with him. and he spoke on damn near everything
with Black folks with a sage eye, and a voice that
grabbed your soul and shook it up enough to make you
realize you've been there before. if not you, your
mother, father and their ancestors back on down the
line. timelessness.

there will be eulogies. there will be many tribute
posts, many roses for this poet and musician, this
griot of the streets. there's going to be many who'll
reference perhaps his best known work, 'the revolution
will not be televised.' perhaps the best light that
can be gained from Gil going home is this: thanks to
him and his work, our voice, the one that was neglected,
almost snuffed out in the slime of ignorance, beaten
down and medicated to a stupor has risen to a place of
power that cannot and will not be denied ever again.
and that voice will keep on keepin' on until something
or someone outs the light on this blue marble we call
Earth.

rest in power brother. and thank you for everything
you've done and were.

*pours out the last of the bottle, sighs*

the kid and the Big C.

as if the New York Mets and their fans didn't have
enough to worry about this season.

Gary Carter, better known as 'The Kid', a catcher
who was one of the more popular members of that
1986 World Series team the Mets had, found out this
past weekend that he not only had four brain tumors
in his head, but that surgery was not an option. for
me, Carter was as much a cool customer as Doc Gooden
or Daryl Strawberry was. when i started following
baseball, i noticed that i didn't root for a team,
but i was behind certain players all the way. and
Gary Carter was one guy who i liked to watch as a
catcher back then. even as i wound up being a Yankees
fan in the early '90s, i had a special place in my
heart for those '86 Mets 'cause they were what the
city missed since the Bombers' last title: winning
with grit and style. i hope he beats the big C just
like he did against opposing base-runners in his
Hall Of Fame Career.

haiku 5.31.11

*for brownin'*

when i look at you
i see that moonlight has learned
to walk with perfume.

sneak peek at the newest work!!

here's the cover for my upcoming work...i guarantee you
it is NOT poetry. stay tuned.

crabs in the barrel observation #3

sitting in a barber's chair
in the midst of hot air and cold beer
the only fade that interests us
is that which she possesses
now glistening with sweat
as she bucks like a bronco
within a ring of dudes
who will call her every delicacy
on the planet
but won't call her 'miss'
dollars cut blunt smoke the best
and tonight's shape-up
can be yours in the back
behind the arcade cabinet.

broadway junction and its underbelly.

even being a seasoned New Yorker, one station that
is always bound to set you on edge is Broadway
Junction. i don't care who you are. it's as if you're
in the African veldt, keeping your eyes out for a
sudden movement, a certain odor that differs from
the scent of stale Newports, fresh urine and a little
too much Blue Nile oil on someone's neck. why here?
mainly 'cause this is the junction where the A, the C,
the L and J/Z trains connect. this is as much a looking
glass into the soul of New York City as much as the
7 train is, just with less fan fare and more somber
surroundings.

i'll never forget two instances that happened right in
this station, situations that make for good B-movie fare.
the kind that would star Dolph Lundgren with a mangled
American accent and Ja Rule, if he wasn't in the bin.
the first was a classic Giuliani-era episode. if you
take the J or Z from Jamaica Center in Queens, in order
to transfer to the A or C you need to head up the stairs
and hit the escalators to the lower level. before you
get to them, there's a clearing which can take on the
aura of a sacristy because of the colored glass windows.
one Saturday afternoon, i'm on my way to Bed-Stuy. as
i walk over to the escalators, my eye catches something
on the ground. i slow my pace and realize that it's a
Ziploc bag of cheeba. marijuana for the un-hip. as i
stare at it, wondering why its here in the middle of
the train station, i feel as if i'm being watched. i
let my eyes trail up from the bag and meet the gaze of
this swarthy white guy in a hoodie and jeans with a
black baseball cap.

it's a set-up. or in other terms, a 'n***a trap'. Rudy
Giuliani as mayor vowed to clean up crime in the city.
he felt that one of the best wats to do so and have the
city earn some extra cash was to target weed smokers.
heavily. so throughout the city, the NYPD would leave
a bag of weed out and the person who'd pick it up would
summarily get arrested. and get a ticket for about $250.
i give the undercover cop a 'not today muthaf***a' grin
and get on the escalator. it wasn't until i reached the
street level that i saw the paddy wagon outside with
about two unlucky dudes inside.

the second situation? i'm coming back from Franklin Ave.
and making the trip back to the 'hood. all in all it
would take an hour. as the C train pulled into the
station, i hear a woman yell over the music in my ears.
'LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD JESUS!!!' we all step
off the car and look towards the stairs heading up to
the ticket booths and the street. this brother was
basically butt naked, dancing with a blow-up doll in one
hand and a 40 of Olde English in the other to some far-off
imaginary tune in his head. his clothes lay near the edge
of the platform. the woman who yelled took it upon herself
to perform her Christian duty and pray as she stood five
feet away from him. what did i do? i kept it moving. i
had a train to catch.