M ... the Experience ...

One Mic...

2012-01-26T11:33:00.000-05:00

"Do we need to make some other arrangements with the police, maybe a guard?” “A guard? Nah, Dad don’t make me laugh, my face hurts. I’m small time, that’s movie shit, stuff but thanks for the concern. I’m not important enough to run up in a hospital for and don’t wet it as soon as I’m up, I’m outta here.” “Yeah, Donte I want to talk next steps when I get back. Your mother and I have some conditions. Rest up though and we’ll discuss.” I didn’t want to make a fuss. I fully understood since they saved my life there would be conditions attached to any future assistance. “Ok, Dad. I’ll be here.” He exchanged smiles with the new nurse as she walked in. She was a gem too, “We have to get you out of bed for a second set of x-rays, Mr. Baxter” and my face was the size of home plate. I hoped she’d mistake my quite approach for maturity so I answered with a smile. So lost in her caramel complexion and bouncy, dark black curls I rehearsed at least seven witty one-liners under my breath to spit her way. She had curves like a drug dealers girlfriend like a character from one of my stories and in a panic I realized my journal was back at the lab. It had to be what they tossed my crib for, “Umm, is there any way I could make a phone call before we leave?” Her smile was like cinnamon toast, “Sure, Sweetie, we won’t be ready for another five or so minutes. I’ll come back when your doctor arrives.” It made sense that Angel was after the book. I’m sure he read it before he dropped off the map. I started to write seriously in ninth grade after I read, the Catcher in the Rye but Tupac’s Soulja’s Story inspired me to write about everything on Boutin. In a panic I must have dialed the wrong number at least four times and she let it ring like twelve times, “Hello?” She was scared, “Eb.” Until she heard my voice, “DONTE! What the fuck, nigga! Where are you? What the fuck happened to your place, yo? The cops have been in there and everything, yo, it’s serious.” “I know, Eb, that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I need a huge favor. I need something outta my place. I need my book, you know the marble one I’m always writing in?” “Donte that shit has been in my place for like a week now …” “What?” “Yeah, remember we got fucked up? We smoked like twelve blunts that night. No wonder you don’t remember.” “Ebony, I love you! Oh, my fucking god, you saved my life, yo. You don’t even know.” “Whatever nigga. I do know and stop saying you love me unless you mean it. Where are you?” “I’m in the hospital. They fucked me up lovely, whatever my place looks like, I look ten times worse.” “Damn, yo, it’s like that? Should I be worried?” “Well, not really because they haven’t figured out if they should be worried. I mean it’s just my journal, you know, I’m just writing stories and shit. But that’s some snitch shit to them niggas. I’m just saying it’s not like niggas be keeping journals and shit.” She paused for a long while, “What floor are you on?” “I don’t even know but my parents are coming back later. Maybe you can catch up with them.” “What! And let your mother shoot me full of holes? No, thank you, D. I can get myself there.” I was scared for Ebony and her body language confirmed my concern, “You know they came back, right?” She quietly placed the notebook on the table “Who?” “Basil and those friends of yours Angel and Jones. By the way that nigga, Jones had a forty in his hand at ten in the morning. Who does that shit? Anyway, I saw them coming into the building while I was waiting for the elevator, so I took the stairs and went out the back. What did you write? You know what, forget I asked. Here’s your book. You’re mad cute, Sweetheart but way too much drama right now.“ She bent low, kissed forehead, “Forget you have my number and call your Grandmother, my nigga.” and she was gone.

Rich & Black. A visit to the future...

2012-01-09T12:39:00.000-05:00

Just a lil something to get our sea legs back...

M

On the Bus & Train (by guest Poet Ruth D. Caraballo)

2011-07-15T11:53:00.001-04:00

I stare with what I hope comes across as empty eyes lost in its own possibilities not preoccupations. I know they think that I think they're looking at me and I at them. They are. I'm not.

They've BEEN looking.

Since I can remember I was a topic of conversation warranted or unwarranted as a child and an adult it felt like spotlights from cameras followed me. Whether I'm in a large crowd or alone in a world of too many familiar faces who do what they do best.

So I'll close my eyes and hope I don't doze off, catch a cat nap and miss my stop. Like a dream I had or a song I wrote it's an undeniable truth. I have to work hard not to look at you.

See it's a distraction from all the things running in my head and heart. Distant memories of the past and future to come leave me indifferent and inspired.

It is what it is till it ain't.

Because I'm caught up in dreams realized, reality made factual and life normalized.

One Love Karma ...

2011-05-11T10:17:00.002-04:00

There's war going on outside no man's safe/I too youngin' was cut down in the prime of my imagination & violently mentored to succumb to practicality/publicly transferred from the Nebuchadnezzar to Captain the Ezekiel over the event horizon/yep that's us/flying the miracle wheel smoked out at the wheel high in the middle of the sky/we watched them posse up to cut down strength & gouge out eyes like she was Delilah to my Samson/all because a clear look into my Soul'll get you aroused like seven bare naked ladies/I remember vividly how them snakes hissed at me but they were too blind to see I was 45,000 miles away from home/just a Hip Hop buddah monk coloring blues in the hood/sonin’ them young G's like my name was JC Williams/maybe a muthafucka might be safer walking the block shaped like a 'S'/can't rock a vest but could easily be this month's star bullet collector/minus the spotlight in ya vestibule don't grab your wallet or your testicles/fuck who you are when we snatch your manhood & dignity/whether it be PIG or your friendly neighbor hood-ass enemy/because everyday it's 96 degrees in the shade stuck to the wall naming shit like I'm Adam/thank God I still got the pen but ya'll don't hear me though/self-inflicted images of preg Jenny's, seeds in back seats on star trek runs & 40 yard dashes from Jake & the Fat Man/all before I hid out on Pastor Fast Talk for More Bucks Caddy/pulpit or the corner them niggaz men-tal's the same/never forget though corner boys pump project heat/traded my post as ignorant light post ornament for the mirage of my very own puppet regime/now every sentence is a penance asking the Father to forgive both sins/I live it write it down then watch it blow up/you know who I am/you read about my life every night/M

Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself …

2011-05-04T16:36:00.000-04:00

While hazy greenery infiltrates my bloodstream/I see/plastic heart minions birthed from unchecked passions of an Ancient Harlot making moves in the name of the blood stained banner of Jesus/young broads with bodies built to lust for/C cup titties, honey-dipped thick, brown & round/graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21/yeh, I know, I be puffing a lot/as I live & breathe we’ve gone from/ez rock & base to pumping easy rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga/spitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla/the lust for paper will lead to/no hesitation in the disrespectful & brutal pursuit of respectability/please put down the pen & slowly back away/because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics/perpetually with my board in the shop/chopped from the frequent-high-flyer- mileage/like a decept I can transform from/cere-bral to bru-tal/producing 2 twin jet packs, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz & a rubber griped 9/supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other/when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture/biggin’ up my music birthed flow conduit/you ass salty, hatin' cuz my spit is foolish/so them rings and things you sing about bring em out/it's hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth/Biggie!

In The Ghetto ...

2011-04-28T16:52:00.000-04:00

I thought the ghetto was the worst that could happen to me
I'm glad I listened when my father was rapping to me …
Eric B. & Rakim-In the Ghetto

As a kid my Dad was like a super hero to me. In each story he was the underdog in the fight of his life against the world and the hand life dealt him. As I got older he appeared worn from the battles and bent low by the immovable force of my mother’s remarks. “When are you going to stop this foolishness, Toney? The Lord has been calling but you continually choose to stay in the shadows. Only sneaky people stay in the shadows, Tony and I know you think you’re hiding but whatever is done in darkness will come to light. I’ve been in my prayer closet, the Lord has showed me things and all will be revealed.”

He was never holy enough for my Mother, he sought too many carnal passions and she never had time for that type of foolishness. Away from her, on his beloved long trips with Miles, Coltrane and Nat King Cole in the deck he was a different man. “Your Grandma Ruby was a domestic. She cleaned houses for white people downtown. It was good work for women back then, back breaking but steady work. She was able to bring us good food too. She’d wake us up, feed us lima beans and sausage or sometimes beans and rice. But she had to take the A train, you know the 8th Avenue line by herself all those years. I’d stay awake by the window every night until she got home. My Dad was a Pullman porter for the Pennsylvania railroad, so he was gone a lot my Mom said he spent most of his time and money in the parlor car. He was a frustrated man, you know angry a lot. I couldn’t understand it then. I just thought he didn’t like me. He was hard on me, yelled and hit me a lot. I tried to stay away when he was home, but the place was but so big. Being a Porter was hard but prestigious work for a man in our neighborhood to have. Everyone knew my Dad went a lot of places but he didn’t bring much back except funny stories and cool nicknames that made me want to be like the guys he worked with. He mostly came back with complaints about the white people he served. The shoes shined, beds made, pants pressed, toilets cleaned, and every time he had to say, ‘Thank ya kindly, Sir’. My father hated white people and that made him a bitter man to be around except for when he was drunk. When my father was drunk, he was the nicest guy in the room. He died when I was ten and I got locked up for the first time when I was thirteen. It’s funny how quickly life can switch up on you”

*Editor’s note: There isn’t a full version video of the “In the Ghetto” available so I had to chose another classic.

Bridging the Gap ...

2011-04-21T11:37:00.000-04:00

Tony Baxter was born December 21st, 1931 right up in Harlem, U.S.A the second youngest of thirteen children. His birth certificate actually has him listed as “colored” that shit always bugged me out. I only met Grandma Ruby a handful of times before she passed away when I was thirteen. It’s like that with my Father’s side of the family we’re always reacquainted at funerals. I do remember the little sex toys all around her crib, my Mother’s facial expressions when she’d walk into the apartment and that we’d always stop at Junior’s to bring her a slice of Strawberry cheesecake. My Dad’s side of the family lived throughout Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. When I was a kid he’d take me with him on his monthly visits, every mission we’d locate an old friend and they’d retell the stories of a world filled with bittersweet.

“The family migrated to Brooklyn first from Georgetown, South Carolina, then to Harlem, and then my older brother, Harry, moved up to the Bronx. Hunts Point area but that was after, when he got older and knew Mom was okay. Before that, though, we were pretty much all together in Harlem as much as we could be. Around ten or eleven my older sister Ollie started to bring Billie Holiday around the house but I was too young for that to be a big deal. We had it all, right there in Harlem. As teens Harry, and I played for the Unknown Seven most of them went on to play with the Globetrotters. Your Uncle Harry had a good two-handed set shot, you know. You’d be hard pressed to find a better point guard anywhere in Harlem, better than Cousy too if you ask me but them white boys wouldn’t play us. I should have stayed with it, stayed close to Harry but it was easier to get caught up with everything that was going on. I’d hang out in the poolroom behind the Apollo during intermission and all the performers would be in there. ‘Cause, you know, they’d sell watermelon and crab cakes, man, those crab cakes were good. Slappy White was always there in the poolroom. Do you know who Slappy White is? Bill Robinson would park his shinny Rolls Royce right outside. How about him? Do you know who Bill Robinson is? Mr. Bojangles? He wore black face ok guess not. Pearl Bailey would always be in there too, She married that drummer I always forget his name.”

His eyes were far away packed deep with nostalgia back on his Harlem streets.

If it Wasn't for The Bronx ...

2011-04-18T12:37:00.001-04:00

Under the ever watchful eyes of new murals of Christopher Rios I've seen my peoples use EBT cards for mint balls on they way to the Methadone program/while Garcia y Vega remains my personal Melrose corner store devotion/sometimes it's like walking past the Vivero when 2nd floor neighbor stays having the hallway smelling like ham hocks, lima beans & Monkey ass/which keeps the mood sometimes shitty like the sidewalks on Stratford/the wrong look might get you stuck like a wanted poster on Soundview & Morrison/they say I'm a classic like Mill Brook & Mitchell rooftops or tenement hallways on 135th & St. Ann's/got a spit game championship caliber 161st & River Ave/Ok/but why is Kurtis Blow's walk a fame block like a semi dead end/Rock Steady & Dr. Ruth on the same block/Hmmm/they stay fucking Hip Hop/get it/I'm reminded how hood my hood is every time I'm startled by a white resident/Boro certified like the Bx 41, 15, 21, 4 & the 5 trains/graffiti covered landscapes inspire my youngest to catch upski's all over our crib's wall/you'd think I lived on Beat Street/Hip Hop DNA like Cedar Park & Sedgwick Ave/deep memory like the old Mcombs ball courts where pops blew buddah bless in my stroller's face/you can still catch me in the hood like Calino & Barnes living 3 blocks from my father's sister & not knowing till the funeral/spitting back to back 4's like it's a Red Sox's wrap around series/tune in/catch me at the Armory in Piper's Pit with the championship belt across my left shoulder talking maaaad shit ...

Between us ...

2011-04-15T11:31:00.001-04:00

You're light at the end of a tunnel/clear outta Heaven's sky you appeared as a gift/and you've heard these words back in our world but whenever I write, spit or spray on page our Love evolves/every smile is an intricate, elaborate cavern of laughs packed deep with nutrients/like, when my feet were mad cold cuz a nigga needed to eat/shit, I love you in a space where there is no place or time/Donny Hathaway blasting out the speakers of my heart zone coasting down the soulquarian expressway/this is most definitely the way a man should carry on/too tall too tough us two/back against the wall blowing smoke at the world us two/till we click up wit some down ass riders who be like/word me too/I call you Love because you are/the social network allows me to wish you Happy Birthday on FB, Txt & Twitter from my Blackberry to yours/our bodies twisted in bed cuz we got that Computer Love …

CT, NJ, Harlem, Q-Boro, LES, BX ...

2011-04-12T14:53:00.001-04:00

Figured out I went the wrong route but now I'm back/alive on arrival/which simply means my pen game is hella mean/every time I spit a round I drop a pound leaving my metaphysical frame hella lean/that kind of shit makes me a Lion in the hood/with enough Grace to extend Love to the Lambs of the hood/converting raw materials into verbal gems/dumping ammunition like Popeye chewing bullets after a can of spinach/a peak into my imagination is like a Soul Asylum/Pop's shot dope, Mom's carried scriptures in a flask/thank God I got off at the Gateway/hood holocaust survivor/too many years & countin'/but me no slack a minute till this dark path of flat pockets is finished/ain't shit to me I bear my soul on page/in gladiator mode soon to release snap shots of the story on stage/could give a thousand explanations but truth be told I simply stayed way too long/in the title trace the trajectory of all the places I've lived/easy to see I was born to be free/my life is a mosaic of East Coast hardships dipped in luxury/not yet attained super stardom & real nigga quotes/story of my life in 22 bars/God Damn I'm dope ...

Pain ...

2011-04-04T15:33:00.000-04:00

Smokin’ weed helped me take away the pain, So I’m hopeless, Rollin’ down the freeway swevin’, Don’t worry I’m about to crash up on the curb, Cause my vision is blurry, maybe if they tried to understand me …
2Pac

“Toney, please! Enough already, I heard you.” Her eyes rolled to the rhythm of my father’s voice, “You know, Jean, it really bothers me that I can never finish making my point. What, do you know everything? No one can tell you anything? I’m just trying to be on the same page …” With a wave of her hand, “And I said I heard you”, she turned her full attention towards me, “Hello, Donte, don’t mind your father. He’s in one of his moods.” “And your mother is impossible!” I couldn’t let them trap me back in their War of the Roses tractor beam “Dad said you guys wanna talk to me about something?” He took the cue, pulled a chair close to the bed and cut to the chase, “Yeah son, we think it’s better if you leave town for a while. Your brother and sister are still at home, the people you were in with might come looking for you and we can’t risk you bringing that type of danger into our home.” I hadn’t lived at my parent’s house in a minute so his start was mad fishy. “So we feel that you could use this time wisely if you were inside a structured environment. Redemptive Living would be a good place.” The beads of sweat started from the bridge of my nose again, “You wanna send me to the farm? I ain’t feeling being sent away, especially over there to that place. Plus I got it covered I already talked with Mom-Mom, I’m moving out to Camden.” My father’s face was as calm as I’d ever seen it and he spoke in an assured tone he rarely got to use with my mother around. “Look Donte, you don’t have as many options as you think”, it was a minor miracle she was still quiet. “We spoke with your Grandparents and they agree that under the circumstances you would better benefit from getting cleaned up first and then we think school is the best option for you but only after you graduate the program.”

My mother could hold her tongue no longer, “And the Lord has already showed you to me, Donte speaking His words of truth. Your father refuses to heed the calling so the Lord’s gonna pass over him and hand the mantle to you, baby. All you gotta do is grab it.” He knew she had killed his momentum, “Jean, is all of that really necessary?” My father’s face lost all the peace of the previous moment and they were at it again. I had almost forgot what it was like to be around them. They argued constantly and put each other down like two little kids out to prove the other is stupid. The block wasn’t even close to an option anymore, my parents had cock blocked the Camden move and it was obvious they not only disliked each other but their relationship was worse than ever. Redemptive Living didn’t feel like such a bad move, “How long am I gone for?” My dad stopped mid-argument, “It’s a twelve month process. If you’re serious I could take you up when you get out of here.” Twelve months seemed way too long to be trapped in Bible rehab and I wanted to angle for more time to think this all the way through. Like maybe things weren’t so bad that I needed to go out like this. My father sensed my hesitation. “You never know what a new start like this might bring your way. You’ve pretty much made a mess of things over here, and I don’t see many friends checking up on you. You might not get another chance. You probably don’t survive the next episode. The decision is yours but you really only have one choice.”

February 31st ...

2011-03-29T13:52:00.010-04:00

Would be the exact date I'm fuckwitable/not shooting to kill just trying to maim so please remember my face every time you feel the pain/some words you wanna make vanish cuz of the violent threats you made/tried to bury a nigga kid you played like that high top fade/bitter lonely bitches still trying to battle but I see none/this ain't for you though/it's really a special middle finger to the internet gangsta trying to talk tough but count gum stuck to the sidewalk when I see you/the flock flies together so your seed's on probably her fourth Daddy/I'm pretty sure your fast ass never cracked the Tortoise and the Hare/so I'll spit it like the Cliffs and you can walk it out from there/don't play yourself/you know you love my style/closet full of bad decisions because I ain't return your smile in '94/would pull your file but it ain't that serious just wanna thank you for more wood to the fire/didn't think I'd see you kicking ya lil discrete shit tryin' to keep it a secret/you a fish, a bird & a worm/listen you East Broadway lame play ya self outta position and mention my name/I know what's what & I'll see all ya'll later/and still be just as nice & polite greet you with a smile throw up them deuces and shout out/hi hater ...

Ballad of a Broke Nigga ...

2011-03-25T12:36:00.002-04:00

What's good cold world/it's your main nigga M/live from my hood to whichever hood you in/didn't plan to be a Vet but it must of been on the list/how do you explain pushing 40 still on the wrong side of the tracks with lean pockets & regular greens/caged up and ain't none of 'em fam/just hollow souls who'll stick your shit to the glass like Stevie Franchise/scheming tacatos kicking knowledge to wild ass seeds on the bus/plus them Cuban Linx niggaz quoting Nas, Mobb Deep & Wu/this is the life I chose or maybe it's just the life that chose me/phantom-like, black listed & part time black hearted/a brand new nigga or faded memory if you ask what's left of my peers/but shots follow the targets so I'll never have to chase ya'll/not sure what people know about out there but truth of the matter is shit's fucked up here/still plotting with mouse trap blueprints on how to snatch the cheese/wasted years due to fear stuck in a dead end career/didn't wanna make a scene but I had to get free/overlord in my kingdom of poverty belly of the beast living less than two blocks from Jake/Dragon red eyes that cry blood so let's celebrate and smoke an eighth of that potent shit/cuz we could trade places gettin' lifted in the staircases'/summer of '95 that was my favorite shit/inspect ya darts like I'm the New Wu dart inspector/God forbid I relapse to help them pulpit niggaz go and peddle they crack/deep inside my Soul swims the spirit of Leviathan/extended Grace to many who simply reciprocated with hate, ambivalence & fear/while I'm commissioned to check the condition of my battered, broken & suddenly bipolar heart/when the fridge & cupboards echo my demons of murder form a choir of screaming echo's singing fuck them, fuck that/trying to figure out why every extension of embrace is met again with silent echo's/still I write like the next word might change my life …

My Dialogue is an Alms …

2011-03-23T12:31:00.000-04:00

Alms are the highest form of giving. It is the greatest sacrifice of all giving. It is giving from deep within one’s substance, a literal giving of one’s self. This giving opens us up to all the blessings of God. Alms giving are unto the poor who cannot give in return. Any return is directly from the Lord.

Walk wit me, don't run ...

2011-03-22T00:44:00.000-04:00

From streets where kids play under hanging wire like it ain't there & throw dirty foam blocks at each other for fun/where future hood enforcers roll stacked deep/packed like rats back to back under a barrage of maternal annihilation & systematic paternal invisibility/a breading ground for fraternal homicide/a sorority of pussy & suicide
on the installment plan/like muthafuckaz is supposed to go from stroller to cell block/like the local delivery guy telling me Jigga's a sell out cuz he ain't put a gang of green in the hand of every weak non MC whack bar tossing nigga from the hood/like Hip Hop is the new Lotto-Welfare/lil cousin I'm tryin' to learn ya somethin'/take you down into the post locked on to the blocks wit it/ don't ever let ya' self get caught outta position on these streets/you know niggaz love chicken wings/Bob Backlund/for the convenience of cost your man'll bicycle the well cooked beef/seeds planted to produce the broccoli/ohhhh Rev ain't right they whole church ain't right/ya'll know we all saw what we said we saw when we told ya'll we saw it/but these fat cats is too gassed up on the GodFather & mini Jesus comparisons to cop to it/damn shame/niggaz bleed just like us/putting 'em on a pedestal denying intuition when you listen/BX NY nigga it is what it is/Chef told me niggaz die faster than a pastor fucks/they cake game tight on every corner you could even swing the EBT card like a spiritual bodega/don't mind me/certified OG CT born cursin’ & crusin' in a catatonic state/mind still fractured from code speak & double talk/high on a Hill like Cypress cuz Stoned is the Way of the Walked ...

Poinsettias on the Pulpit [Expanded Version]

2011-03-17T16:50:00.001-04:00

Metaphorically speaking, I went from pitching on the corner to fucking with the heavyweight connect but it's more like Cutty's journey to find Dennis/and yeah, just like moms I've washed clothes in the sink on Sunday before school/that shit might not have been new at the moment but it was always brand new to me/so I took to hanging in lots & on corners with niggaz who hate cuz it's a chance to breathe & breathe for a chance to hate/flash forward/the fact that every tabloid said she smoked crack never mattered when her voice boomed Holiday praise to the infant King for Sunday tithes & offerings/No! She can't sing in the play about His birth. She had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and want to sing too. Can't you see? We have Poinsettias on the Pulpit/huffing & puffing like she's the big bad wolf/Bitch! Carnivorous, throwing shade towards every brownstone chick doing time in the hood/doubling down on the eye candy burden/self confidence & self-esteem killer, black face wearer, self-hate promoter/beat biter, dope style taker, tell you to your face, you ain't nothing but a faker/meanwhile I'm giving all praises due like Malcolm to Elijah Muhammad/hated by the shallow shadows for an effortless flash of a few soul deep scars/took a few chances before I spilled a few bars/blowin' down maaad trees like a muthafuckin' hurricane/call me/M breath EZ/figured I'd tell the story of how 7 shots missed me

The Greatest Rapper of all time died on March 9th ...

2011-03-09T10:14:00.000-05:00

Enough said. RIP The Notorious BIG. We miss you, my nigga ...

Poinsettias on the Pulpit ...

2011-03-08T15:51:00.001-05:00

The fact that every tabloid said she smoked crack never mattered when her voice boomed Holiday praise to the infant King for Sunday tithes & offerings.

No! She can't sing in the play about His birth, she had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and then want to sing too. Don't you see, we have Poinsettias on the Pulpit.

Hooked Like Hope ...

2011-02-17T10:13:00.000-05:00

Cuz everyone of ya'll know no matter how smart, fine or on the grind
about his master plan and shit/don't none of ya'll want a broke ass nigga who's on the grind & ain't got shit/so I broke it down then called a favor to see if the hook up would still cook up/bagged it up too close to distrust/fell deep into concentration and inhaled the
earth's creation to clutch the figures my ego still lust-ed/stamped it for slaughter and pitched on the fiend filled block/a conjurer of word pat-ter-rens/could easily find some words to assign for rhythm & tone/but then you'd never see this as more than just a poem/it's the pain, fear & rejection ten deep in my dome, it's the procrastination
practice that kept my black ass far away from the throne/I figure why carry it wit me when I can spit it & shine/from the classic green North Face like a 5 year bid to/the best advice from a short life like BIG's/living life without fear, putting 4 krts in my Baby Girl's ear/Tell me your version and I'll work to believe but DAMAGED GOODS is
stamped prominently across my packaging/won't always be locked behind this self-imposed door/chambers are dark & ugly psychological affects on the terminal poor so we'll see what type of monster this cheddar breed for sure/acid dipped razor sharp words like hate saw the fork in the road went back & smoked a L /cuz I sling bars that get ya hooked like Hope/insensitivity at inception left me on the bench way past crunch time shooting prayers for an extra frame/just wanted to make 'em clap for this like Jesus, keep it real like Big Baby & prove to the Stained Glass Gestopo they could never ever stop me/constant evolution & perpetual motion all while perpetually blunted

I'm a Bubblehead, I Never Listened to Nothing My Mother Said ...

2011-02-02T16:43:00.000-05:00

I passed out again on the way to the hospital and woke up in triage, “Come on, son, they’re ready for you. Take your time getting up.” The pain made me self-conscious of how I looked, “Name?” But it was the nurse’s pretty face and dreamy hazel eyes that made feel like a super-herb, “Mr. Baxter, I see you left the incident portion blank.” I looked like Martin in that Tommy Hearns episode, “Yeah, Ma you can call me D. I was attacked, but I’m not sure what happened, it all went so fast. Whatever went on I probably had it coming it’s a bit complicated, ya know.” Her head snapped up from the clipboard with a no your busted ass just didn’t look tattooed on her face, “No, I don’t know, Mr. Baxter, please do not refer to me as ‘Ma’ and whatever you choose to divulge is your business.” My father’s eyebrow shot up but my attention was still locked in on the nurse, “Donte, if you’re not going to say anything or file a report, I understand, but make sure it’s for the right reasons. Revenge will not fix anything and though you may decide to disappear, the rest of the family still lives here.” Revenge had never entered my mind. Who was I going to get enlist to fight this invisible war? “Nah, Dad, I know. I’m done. Really, I am.” My father nodded with a slight smile, “Ok, son. Miss, our family doctor should be here shortly. Appleby is the name, Dr. Appleby.” When the police came by for a statement they were clearly bothered by my lack of recall abilities. I think the taller cop wanted to spit on me as he left the room, “Son, I have some things to take care of back at the office. I’ll need to reschedule my donor meeting but I’ll be back to check on you. You think you’ll be alright? Do we need to make some other arrangements with the police? Maybe a guard?” My face felt like it would fall off if I laughed but that was funny, “Nah, Dad. I’m small time, that’s movie shit, stuff but thanks for the concern though. I’m not important enough to run up in a hospital for and don’t wet it as soon as I’m up, I’m outta here …” He stopped for effect, “Yeah, Donte. I want to talk about when I get back. Your mother and I have some conditions. Rest up though and we’ll discuss when we get back.” I didn’t want to make a fuss. I fully understood since they saved my life there would now be conditions attached to any future assistance. “Ok, Dad. I’ll be here.”

He exchanged smiles with the new nurse as she walked in. She was a gem, my face was the size of home plate and I still wanted to kick game. Pathetic. “Mr. Baxter, we’re going to need to get you up and out of that bed. It says here you need a second set of x-rays, so we’ll get you in this wheel chair and be off.” Fine and awesome customer service, “No problem” I figured she’d mistake my quite approach for maturity and see how far that got me. Visions filled sheets of mental paper and it seemed a perfect story for the Chronicles. And in a panic I realized I didn’t have my journal. That shit was at the lab and that couldn’t be good. Ebony was the only person who actually knew about, The Divine Sinner Chronicles. I started to write seriously in ninth grade after Mr. Carol compared my style to the Catcher in the Rye. That had to be one of the things they looked for because they didn’t take much of anything else, “Umm, is there any way I could make a phone call before we leave?” Her smile was like cinnamon toast, “Sure, Sweetie, we won’t be ready for another five or so minutes. I’ll come back when your doctor arrives.” It made sense that James was after the book. I sure he read it before he dropped off the map. Inspired by Tupac’s Soulja’s Story I stared to write about everything that happened since I moved to Boutin. My mind went into panic while I dialed Ebony’s crib, it rang forever, “Hello?” I knew she was scared, “Eb.” Until she heard my voice, “DONTE! What the fuck, nigga! Where are you? What the fuck happened to your place, yo? The cops have been in here and everything, yo, it’s serious.” “I know, Eb, that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it’s hot but I need something outta my place. I need my book, you know the marble one I’m always writing in?” “Donte that shit has been in my place for like a week now …” “What?” “Yeah, remember we got fucked up? We smoked like twelve blunts that night. No wonder you don’t remember.” “Ebony, I love you! Oh, my fucking god, you saved my life, yo. You don’t even know.” “Whatever nigga. I do know, and stop staying you love me unless you mean it. Where are you?” “I’m in the hospital. They fucked me up lovely, whatever my place looks like, I look ten times worse.” “Damn, yo, it’s like that? Should I be worried?” “Well, not really because they haven’t figured out if they need to be worried about anything. I mean it’s just my journal, you know, I’m just writing stories and shit. But that’s some snitch shit to them. I’m saying it’s not like niggaz be keeping journals and shit.” She paused for a while to process everything, “What floor are you on?”

Broken English Soufflé

2011-01-13T16:43:00.000-05:00

Supremely decorated, part-time hated most faded/become a witness to life nostalgia reupholstered & non carbonated/the dude your pops warned you about mixed with the man your moms wants you to marry /adjectives & verbs my special gift to reverse the curse of life lived in neutral reverse/still hadn't grown up enough yet, learned enough yet or confronted the scars deep within my soul enough yet/just in the pews with gospel flavored candy ears where the Locus & Canker worm chewed me through/now I stay/ bent leaned back like rickshaws stomach full of growls like, fuck you nigga/everybody got they vice, mine is weed & the pen/learned at Pop Dukes knee the schemes to contemplate a veer from the razor sharp teeth of the Pen/though I could never smoke enough to fill the holes in my development/spit knowledge on project rooftops, beat boxed in tenement hallways and stumbled over punch lines in many corner store ciphers/Divine Sinner, yeah that's me, during the come up I make my home in the corruption capital of NYC/where State Senator & son throw tax payer’s paper like Puff on the boat in Hypnotize/CT born but I rep LES to my B Boy stop, till my mind don't plot, which means my casket, dropped

Countin' Backwards 2010 ...

2010-12-17T15:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, while I walked down 5th Avenue this beauty, so rare walked past my ipod induced daydream but when I turned to see if she, was you, she vanished
(Ten)
I broke my neck to reclaim my unspoken desire and stumbled into a cloud of last Thursday’s fantasy
(Nine)
I saw rice and white dresses, picture bulbs flashed and our sister’s cried, friends laughed and well-wishers wished us well, our first dance and a champagne toast fit for two people blissfully in love
(Eight)
A subtle shove from a frenzied commuter invited me back to reality in the City’s busy streets but my imagination declined to take reality seriously, and I drifted into, stories of your busy day while on our couch in sweats, your pony tailed hair and face radiant from its natural beauty
(Seven)
The melodic sounds of your laugh while we surfed the net for vacation packages, planned dinner parties and decided what we’d do for the weekend, I know you’re not perfect, please don’t get me wrong but shit, I’d …
(Six)
Spend my life loving your wounds, bathing your soul and adoring your body but I might be speeding just a bit
(Five)
Your looks a gift from God but I’m infatuated with your heart,
just then a cabbie swerved, an interruption to my delusional journey before I witnessed your glow when you carried our baby, could there be a more beautiful, delicate pregnant woman?
(Four)
Birthday parties, sleepovers, family trips and school meetings, this ain’t about the here and now, some passé physical attraction, I’m talking soul mates, soul connections and soul survivors 10 year anniversaries and Hawaiian vacations
(Three)
To my surprise I’ve been standing on this street corner for the longest because the thought of you brings all possibilities to life
(Two)
That’s when I noticed that she, was not you, at all, not even close and I’m left with so much to say and only myself to tell
(One)

KNOW THE LEDGE

2010-12-15T14:48:00.000-05:00

“Standing on shaky ground to close to the edge,
Let’s see if I know the ledge …”
Eric B. & Rakim

Hungry and still jittery my mind was on a shower, a fat ass blunt to the face to calm my nerves and some sleep, “Fuck the block, fuck the money, and fuck all them niggaz! Man, God what did I get myself into? I fucked shit up this time.” The first L only heightened my paranoia so I rolled up again in search of a more comfortable comatose. Smoker’s candles threw the perfect dim and furniture shadows danced as the cherry moved like an orange beacon through my heavily slanted eyes. After another deep, long exhale sent cumulous clouds towards the ceiling I listened for God’s response. “It’s not like I expect an audible voice and Shekinah glory mist from the heavens, just some help, to figure my way … “ the phone rang and almost sent me into cardiac arrest, “oh shit, Jesus, you on the mainline?” I answered with a nervous excitement “Hello” her voice was warm like fresh Pumpkin bread, “Donte,” with a smile that washed me with thoughts of safety and acceptance. “Mom-Mom?” I pointed towards the sky to show my approval in His method of answer, I consider my Grandmother one of The Kingdom’s best emissaries. “I should sound so surprised, Donte you’re a hard fellow to catch up with. You’ve been in my heart and on my mind for a few weeks now,” that I was on her prayer specific radar confirmed the amount of work my guardian angels had put in to protect me. “Yeah? Well, thanks, Mom-Mom I’ll never turn away prayer,” I wanted to tell her everything, all the trouble and how lost I was in one breath. “You sound tired, Donte. I know you’re a young man now and I don’t want to pry but maybe you should come spend sometime with your Grandfather and I. We’d love to have you.” My Grandfather’s voice called out in the background before she covered the phone, “hold on, say again, Jeremiah? Your Grandfather said he’d meet you at the bus station. Maybe it’d be good to take some time, clear your head and we’d love to talk with you about what we can do to get you back in school...” The line clicked for the door buzzer and my instincts said ignore it, “You know what, Mom-Mom I’m not even gonna front, you’re like an answer to prayer right now. I do need to figure some stuff out, get a change of scenery, ya know what I mean,” the buzzer clicked the line again “but I’ll call you right back because someone keeps buzzing my door, better yet I’ll call tomorrow so we can really talk and figure some dates.” Her tone became heavy with concern, she wanted to say be careful, to make better decisions, use wisdom. “Ok, I hoped we could talk a bit longer, I just got you on the phone and your grandfather is waiting to speak with you …”, wisdom begged for attention.

I am Lady Wisdom, and I live next to Sanity,
Knowledge and Discretion live just down the street.

Just A Lil Bit More ...

2010-11-16T08:51:00.000-05:00

When I turned to tell the kid he should go somewhere safe he’d already vanished like a guardian visitation. I couldn’t stay there much longer because someone might come out and become an eyewitness. I tucked the gun in my pocket, threw my terror filled body back outside, ran through backyards until I figured my way to the railroad tracks and hoped instincts would lead me to South Norwalk train station. They hit Bones four times. Twice in the ass, once in the back and once in the testicle not a good situation but sometimes karma strikes back as quick as a bitch. Bones told the cops some guys tried to stick him for his jewels, that I was an eyewitness to his attempted random victimization and where they could find me. His cooperative nature left me just enough time to stash the gun and change my clothes. The beast nonchalantly stomped their way up the porch with super bright flashlights and confirmed the decision to go home as a bad one. They asked so many questions. I didn’t know what to say and wasn’t too sure what really happened. I honestly had no idea where those guys came from or why they rolled us.

I’d only been inside the Norwalk Police Station once before with my after-school program. The interrogation room was much brighter than I imagined it would be. On TV they’re always darker and greener. The cops knew from jump I was in way over my head. They each spoke in a smooth and assured tone about how it would’ve been shameful for my father to lose his oldest son on some back street after all the good he’d done in the community. When they were done the taller of the two placed his hand on my shoulder, reminded me again to do the right thing and slid a pad in front of me for my written version of the night’s events. But I was way too scared to write anything and simply repeated I had no idea what happened nor did I know any of the people involved and basically was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A huge rookie mistake, which left me open to gross exaggeration when they questioned Bones again. For the rest of my traumatized night they showed me pictures of places I’d been, people I had hung out with and smugly reminded me whomever threw shots might try again. It felt like they questioned me for six hours before they politely drove me back to my block in the front seat and placed a down payment on my casket.

Just A Lil Bit ...

2010-11-09T12:53:00.000-05:00

I should have closed up shop right there because last time I saw him all this zigzag drama started. We already smoked a few godfather blunts that night when Bones pulled out some sniff. James and I created this Stand By Me type pack not to experiment with a new drug without each other (sounds corny, I know). But when James untucked his gun and did lines with the rest of them like I missed the department memo I thought I shitted on myself. I was so sincerely terrified that none of what I sniffed provided the Superman sensations I prayed for. That’s the same night Bones threw a gun in some winos mouth just to see if he would piss himself. “What the fuck your corny ass talking about, nigga? Been here all day, yo”, I didn’t bother to watch him as he walked up the steps with his usual forty of Crazy Horse. “Whatever nigga, I need you to come with me somewhere.” I took a few quick puffs from the L, grabbed a hoodie and followed him to the car without a question. When I saw Casper at the wheel I nearly vomited. Bones’ face turned dark and I swore smoke floated around his head like Mysterio before little devil horns popped out, “We going to see Earl, that bitch nigga still owe me some money. Take this shit. It’s all set you just have to take it off safety.” It was a chrome .25 caliber, a small little shit. It’s not like I never held a gun before, I fucked around and bucked off on rooftops and shit like anyone else. But this situation was a bit more than some reckless rooftop shit he wanted me to shoot Earl. Earl’s family lived on the other side of Marlin Drive. Every summer we both went to Carver for camp and had an epic still unresolved foursquare dual back in seventh grade. When Earl showed up on the block, like Fredo I rolled with because I wanted show him a good time but Earl had debts and enemies, “You know I grew up with Earl right? What the fuck, Bones his parents are friends with mine … ”, his head whipped around so fast I thought it was on a swivel. The dark brown vessels, which covered the white in his eyes blended with his dark brown pupils and made the backseat feel like total darkness. “Because I don’t believe you, D. I don’t know why you out here, but we”, he made eye contact with Casper and they nodded in agreement, “making sure you ain’t leaving. Now you shoot this nigga or this 12 gauge and me are gonna light your fucking ass up. Best believe that, my nigga.” He was on some evil shit. Fear and frustration told my imagination I could shoot them both dead but the gun felt wet and heavy in my sweaty palm puddles. They had me out of state lost every time we turned another corner. I wanted to stay quiet enough to disappear but the caked on smell of nicotine and weed choked out a cough when I wiped my sweaty nose. Casper crept his brown hooptie slowly beside a huge, mangled yard bush next to the driveway and cut the headlights. The dingy one-story house had shadowy outlines that moved like animation on the front window shade, I sighed a short prayer and started out the car. Divine providence answered in the form of five niggaz with murderous intentions packed deep in a metallic blue, four-door Chrysler. “Get the fuck outta car!!” They jumped out like the A Team with guns pointed sideways “Get on the ground. Face down!!” I recognized the faces but struggled to decide if they were friend or foe when the situation, “All of you” went from danger with few options to death flavored danger. My self-preservation forces were down because I entertained his order for a flash.

“POP, POP-POP, POP, POP, POP”.

It didn’t sound anything like in the movies or on TV. That shit sounded like death. I noticed Bones started to run when they started to shoot. Bullets hit the ground and skidded the fuck wherever car alarms bleared and back windows exploded like we needed stunt doubles. I heard a flesh-thud, hot zip sound when the bullets hit Bones before he fell, “Fuck! Goddammit!! That fucking shit burns Aahhhh fuck nigga!” Sirens blared in surround sound like they staked out the backyard and I couldn’t think or feel. My body moved so fast it levitated off the ground to help me outrun a sinner appointment with Hell. A road sign gave off a reflective flash and broke my trance, which helped me think clearly. I slowed enough to hop a lawn fence in one motion, it seemed like a dream when some kid opened the door and motioned for me to come in and hide. Everything felt cinematic so without a thought I ran inside, crouched by the doorway and professionally fumbled for the gun. My hands shook so bad I almost shot myself, “Why the fuck did I get in that car!” Everything played in my head. How these two duded showed up one after the other. How nights like this had become more the norm than exception. Things had become way too hectic. My nerves were shit. A car backfire, a balloon pop or anything close to the sound of gunfire had my ass leaky.

Tical

2010-10-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

What’s good Family?

As I hammered out the first draft of this literary novel inspired by events in my life naive confidence filled my imagination with all sorts of grandeur. Now, as I edit draft number six time is taken to dig deeper into the visions circa ’93-’95 when they flash throw my eyes. I particularly see those Grant Hill Fila sneakers (the kicks Meth has on in the first video below) and my old hood. Which at the time looked extremely similar to every other hood in Rap music videos because LES hadn’t yet been swept by gentrification. Stories fight for more clarity and words mature to fashion my depth of regret for opportunities squandered. So many wasted years wasted on wasted pursuits. I lived like a drifter because I never dropped an anchor or set sail.

Tical was probably the most anticipated album release of my Hip Hop existence. NaS’ Illmatic basically dropped out of nowhere like the best kept secret but Wu Tang Clan and in particular Method Man had been on the come up for almost three years. Meth trooped with me in my headphones, chaperoned by Ron G and Double R mixtapes to the LES and South Bronx then back to Brentwood, LI. His lyrics rang out on street corners, building hallways and project rooftops while we puffed stimuli. I scuffed my Tims on St. Anne's, Clinton, Stanton, Rivington, Sherif's Park and many others long before I walked those same streets as a youth development professional or youth pastor dude. There was a romantic aimlessness attached to that version of me.

I scrap to properly project the pictures in my mind as words on page. So i can share a portion of my complete angst with readers over the misapplication of time in an era long gone. Why did I take up residence in a world I vowed to never become a member of? Why did I trade in my precious road map for a cardboard cut out? As a child I was taught to look towards scripture for inspiration, instructed to study characters that faced similar life obstacles and survived. Like Moses, I killed too soon and found myself banished. At best banishment has produced ambivalence though I do carry the earmarks of solitary interaction with sheep (my kids). You can sense my persona because even if my worldview is large my circle remains small. I’m about the book because the book is about me. Blessings.

M

From. My. Soul.

2010-09-29T23:50:00.001-04:00

When my head finally cleared a little this morning I realized I felt like million bucks, a hundred thousand feet tall, like a new,
refreshed version of me.

But I couldn't place where all that good
energy came from until it hit me right in the middle of dishes.

It's you.

It's the massive success of the completed task. The task that you
spoke into existence and then carried through to fulfillment.

On days when you felt inadequate, you pressed on. On days you felt
lost, you pressed on. When you felt overwhelmed and under supported, you pressed on.

And though I've said it I have to say it again because not only am I
proud of you, I'm inspired by you. You've reminded me, just like when we first met that dreams are not only to be chased but captured then set free to chase again.

I. Love. You.

And I can never say it enough.

Next up? I believe that's me ...

From. My. Soul.

M

On & On ...

2010-09-24T17:15:00.002-04:00

When I turned eight we still lived in Queens with Bishop Masterson’s family and my mother planned to celebrate my birthday with an elaborate surprise party. She worked hard to make their separation seem seamless but we saw the cracks in our Dad’s countenance when we jumped back in the blue Buick and went home to sleep in our old rooms. She spun through the kitchen, not her favorite room like the Tasmanian devil in an effort to wipe away her mistakes with the same elbow grease she used on the counter top. After Tanieshia and I slid across the floor for the fifth time like it was second base she rushed us outside with orders to stay close. I had just convinced Tanieshia to follow me to Jamaica Park when I received news of my mother’s frantic eruption. She looked in the basement, attic, walked to each end of the block and was about to hit overload when she saw Willie Spence who told her I was on my way to the park. She fussed the whole way back about my hard headedness, how Tanieshia always got in trouble because she followed and how much time it took her to bake a wonderful German chocolate cake. I relaxed after I felt her hand motions were too slow for an unexpected smack and muted her after she said I’d get none of the birthday cake. It didn’t matter because German chocolate was her favorite. That day started a streak of bullshit birthdays, which wasn’t broken up until my freshman birthday season, my first as the mellow weed smoker with a cool sense of self. After a few brutal months at home because of deferred acceptance my twentieth fell on the first day of classes. I roamed campus free as runaway slave and happy to be far away from parental interference.

Finally with the college mix in full swing I planed to catch up with all my high school friends. The first trip without the click took me to the University of Delaware to check Courtney Smith. The initial road trip super excitement died as soon as we hit up his dorm. In typical white boy fashion bitter beer face delights Milwaukee’s Beast and Natural Light were ready for consumption. I was a lightweight all the way in high school. Any game with alcohol and me soon resulted in chunks everywhere. In Rowayton I still hold the record for most failed attempts at Cardinal Puff and most remembered for the night I had to be wrapped in a pop tart bag. But when they broke out the six-foot, fire engine red bong it was heaven. After they pulled the end table over for me to stand on filled with amateur overconfidence I gave the signal to light the bowl. I planned to smoke the whole thing but caught cold feet when the chamber filled. The rush of smoke knocked me backwards off table on to the couch wrapped in a convulsion of coughs. When they ran over to see if I was okay my tears made them look like Sleestacks. All I could manage between short little choke breaths was, “That shit was … dope … can I … try again!”

Like most kids I didn’t listen to my parents because I thought every word out of their mouth was sheer lunacy and lacked relevancy. For a long time I felt they wanted to change me because I was the defective version. Since I couldn’t understand the messengers I disregarded their message and missed out on solid parental wisdom that could have kept me out of rehab on my twenty-first birthday.

Today’s video package features Erykah Badu who is a definite top five on the all-time list of artistic evolutionaires (like that word, I just made it up). Maturation is the name of the game. Peace and blessings manifested with every lesson learned …

M

Can't Forget About You ...

2010-08-28T18:45:00.000-04:00

NOTE: If you're reading this on Facebook please click this (http://marcusjsmalls.blogspot.com/)

What’s good family?

When my eyes opened this morning the front row of my imagination was jam packed with themes, ideas and Hip-Hop music videos. What’s new right?

My personal and professional life has gone through significant upheaval and transition over the past four years. I’d say I’m located in some vague area between pariah and phantom. Nostalgia is a hue I wear well. Whenever I think about perceived contradictions housed within a MC, Pac is the first name on my list. Because of the mountain of information via his music catalog, interview footage and the many college classes dedicated to his work Pac is now viewed through a nostalgic lens. But Pac was yet another young black man cut down in life transition. Pac much like BIG was hardly a finished product. Jay-Z and NaS are in their late thirties and early forties respectively while Pac and BIG are remembered on murals and RIP t-shirts.

From the moment I heard NaS’ flow on Main Source’s “Live at the BBQ” joint I’ve been an unabashed (minus Nastradamus) fan and supporter. The Illmatic release date was April 19, 1994. Now, I can’t call it. But I do know after I ripped that wrapper off the cassette tape (yes, I said cassette tape) it was played in every Sony Walkman or cassette deck I could bogart. The ability to simply stay alive has granted Jay and NaS the opportunity to mature in reality and perception. My life path has provided the same opportunities for lane merges and roadway transitions. From roof top blunt smoker into a church leader and back again. But this time I have slightly more than a pot to piss in and a family in my caravan to the promise land.

We’re in the double video bonus round today so we’ll focus on NaS’ career growth from crowned prince of the projects to the rebel voice of a generation. As you watch the second video “Ya’ll My Niggaz” visualize my words on page to be the kid with the headphones on in full jam mode. Like him my message is destined to ring in the streets.

M

How I Got Over ...

2010-08-12T14:55:00.000-04:00

What’s good Family?

I’ve been away, I know. I have an awesome explanation but we promised not to stress such things because we love enough not to bore. On the plus side my situation (that’s what we’ll call it) put me on time out from everything except for Twitter and Madden. I’m sure that type of admission won’t elicit any sympathy but perception and reality seldom confirm one another.

Twitter (as I’m sure you know) is an amazing invention, a genius collection of micro bloggers all sharing their vision of reality in 160 characters or less. Right now, it’s also by far the quickest way to network your life genre so not only have I found a group of agents, an agent has found me. Whenever I tweet (which is a lot I'm almost at the 1,000 tweets milestone) the agent receives a micro blog post from me and I’m 99.9% sure she reads them because it's right there on the time line and I’m a witty dude. I have 13 confirmed readers on this here M the Experience blog (with no complaints) thank you all for reading but I have about 118 on Twitter. I’m in my greenhouse way too frequently to still have super math capacity power but those numbers equal a super percentage increase in followers. Which is important because the goals for my literary novel are lofty. My ambition to be a mash up of James Baldwin and Junot Diaz is like a personal trainer who barks encouragement and ridicule. My edit process drives me in search of perfect word harmony.

My life, like yours is layered with themes from environment and experience so my choice to write with a transparent creative license allowed me to dig deep into how I grew up. Hard earned maturity gave a better vantage point on the junk I carried as the black sheep/chosen one and oldest child in a fractured family of Para church ministry professionals. How those themes taste when they blend onto the page for the reader’s deep consumption will determine if I am worthy of the Pulitzer and other awards. Though I do not completely understand the publishing industry I know it’s a business. As an Author the book is my product so financial aspirations are a natural connection for me. Or in plain speak I’m most def trying to get this paper because I have Hip Hop sensibilities (which is the hook my literary novel rest it’s hat on but more on that when we get there). Chapter five is the halfway point of the book and puts me halfway to the next phase (beta readers). But halfway up a mountain is halfway up a mountain the reward is at the finish.

Thank God The Roots new album How I Got Over is in my itunes/ipod! They’ve consistently provided theme music for the ear, mind and soul since Shante (my sister) and I first saw them on Rap City way back in the day. The utter joy provided by Video Music Box, Rap City and Yo! MTV Raps is too large to fit into any blog post (another reason I wrote the book). The Roots can tell you more about themselves through their music than I could in the space I have left. So please sit back and enjoy my departure from posting only Golden Era Hip Hop videos. Though The Roots are most definitely Golden Era artist.

“So breath in breath out and let it heal all your exit wounds …”
The Roots – The Day (How I Got Over)

M

This is it ...

2010-07-23T14:40:00.003-04:00

What's good fam?

It’s been a bit of an uphill battle at times but the first four chapters are finally edited. I'm 99.9% sure that it'll require more edits in the future but its solid enough to proceed. The book has begun to look more like the product I’ve seen in my head since its inception.

As you may remember the query letter for this book has bedeviled me for a good three years now. But praise be to the good Jesus my twitter detours have paid dividends. Along with the strippers, celebrities and porn stars I’ve found agents, agent interns, editors, and publishers. My fly-on-the-wall-stealth approach has landed all sorts of cool twitter chat groups. #Queries, #askintern, and #askagent are but a small sample of what's available to peruse.

My ability to contact the other side has pleasantly multiplied and I’ve become a better consumer in the process. I no longer pine for an agent to swoop down from the angelic perch, which all agents live (hyperbole) I now research intently for the proper match for my literary novel and me. I’m reminded how this process has really followed the path I dialogued with God about in our strategy sessions (yep God still takes my calls). I want to develop a solid relationship with my work. I believe that requires people with other vantage points and an eye for detail who give a shit. I believe when wisdom speaks we should pay attention.

#Askintern is a clever chat run by literary agent interns. Agent interns (in my humble opinion) are the drawbridge operators to author-land and the first line of defense against shitty writing for the gatekeepers. I've long maintained that any chance to meet the wizard resides in my ability to wow the person who lets down the bridge. She (the intern whose name I won’t blast off just yet) shared that aspiring authors can send their query letters and she will give feedback at no charge. What!!!! The chance to finally receive unbiased, knowledgeable feedback made my heart skip several beats. And I knew I was good money because I didn't allow my imagination to think this was some pathway to the magical kingdom of authors. I saw it for what it was, a professional critique of my query letter.

Her feedback was rich with the right questions, things I could have thought about on my own but when your close to something it begs for perspective. I've sand bagged my post so I’ll end here but please do come back for more.

On the way out please enjoy the Camp Lo video they're still one of my favorite crews.

So this is it/what/Luchini falling from the sky/let’s get rich/what …

Can't Knock the Hustle ...

2010-07-08T03:10:00.002-04:00

What's good family?

I’ve kept my nose to the grindstone, hustled for my dreams and showed extraordinary dedication to the task of editing. But then there is this Twitter addiction I’ve recently developed. When that red light blinks on my blackberry delicately requesting my attention for a brief jaunt into the musings of celebrities, strippers and the latest Lebron James rumors (please dear Lord let Bron-Bron choose the Knicks) I must answer her. Twitter is my side piece she only ask for whatever time I can spare until I actually look at a time stamp and see it’s been forty-five minutes of virtual voyeur practice ... but I can’t stop, I have a problem, I need help ... even though I can quit anytime I want to ... I’m just not ready yet #classicjunkyspeak. See! Even in the blog she finds me! Ok but let me get back to the Knicks.

Saturday May 29, 1993. Game three Knicks and Bulls in the conference finals. The Knicks were up two games to none on the mighty two-time defending champs. 2-0! Held court at home, didn’t let them steal one. It was game time and I sat with my game face on flanked in the day room by Boo, PJ, Tiny and the rest of the New York squad. Our shit-talk to the Chicago dudes was on fire. All those years spent watching mediocre basketball at the Garden with my dad and Shante went to the playoffs while I watched it on TV in rehab. Bob Fennimore, a friend of my father worked for WOR-TV back when the Knicks played on Channel 9. I felt like a season ticket holder we went to so many games at the Garden. We had floor seats behind the basket. Back when they were red. They became lavender when Dave Checketts and Pat Riley took over. I use to go when it was Red Holzmen before it was Hubie Brown before it was Rick Patino and the Bomb Squad. Holzmen was my dad’s dude. Ray Williams, Michael Ray Richardson, Truck Robinson, Sly Williams, Rory Sparrow, Marvin Webster, Bill Cartwright. I was raised on the Classic Roundball logo listening to the Garden sound system blare ‘We are New York and we know basketball, we will win it all, cause we’re the New York Knicks.’

But I was also a tongue wagging-long-shorts-black-ankle-socks-wearing-Air Jordan poster-having kind of dude too. To be a Knick fan and a Jordan lover is pure self-hate. Oh and in case you wondered the last time the Knicks won the championship it was 1973 and I was one. The Yankees and Giants have taken our team/fan relationship to its zenith. The Knicks have continually delivered heartbreak and disillusionment. But in the ‘92-‘93 season Pat Riley had us believing. They were 60-22, the number one seed and on a collision course with the Bulls who had knocked us out the playoffs three of the last four years. And just like Jordan had to go through Bird’s Celtics and Isaiah’s Pistons we knew all roads went through his Bulls. And of course what do the Knicks do in game three? They shit the bed. The Bulls toyed with them. Just embarrassed and frustrated the Knicks. Of course John Starks got ejected when he went after Jordan. Like he was gonna touch the franchise. The Knicks had TWENTY turnovers in the game! The Bulls scored sixty-two in the first half! Outside of Ewing’s twenty-one points nobody stepped up. It was tough to sit through. Most of the bandwagon New York niggaz turned on the Knicks before the end of the third quarter. Starting with that game the Knicks lost by twenty, ten, three, and eight. But game five was the worst! I still see all six-foot-eleven of Charles Smith’s-I can’t-understand-why-he-didn’t-just-dunk-it-ass getting his shot blocked while leaking blood from stab wombs as the refs swallowed their whistles. It still remains in the top five worst sports moments of my life.

These wounds of a life long Knicks fan have healed with time. And tomorrow’s announcement brings the anticipation that one day my dad and I will celebrate with delirium as the Knicks play late into June.

What better video to play?

See you on the other side ...

M

It's a doggy dog world ...

2010-07-02T00:21:00.001-04:00

"Forced to sit still for instruction I realized how out of control I was ..."
Donte -

What's good family,

As a child by far my favorite time to shop (besides Christmas of course) was for back to school. The new smell of crispy trapper keepers, notebooks, pencils, rulers and anything else that had an official school feel to it, sent chills of excitement through my little heart. My parents knew full well each purchase would be buried in my locker, under my bed or lost in my book bag by mid November. But every year my mother shopped dutifully filled with hope that this was the batch, which would magically jump-start my procrastination. But procrastination and I were old friends melded together by a deep bond. Why do homework when I can play video games? Techmo Bowl for the NES dominated my senior year in high school every day straight home, to my room, book bag thrown on my bed for my daily quest to the super bowl. By ’93 Super Techmo Bowl came out for the Super NES and I was glued to the television thoroughly impressed by the awesome game play additions (season long stat tracker, post season awards, field flip at halftime and a halftime show with cheerleaders … yes! I’m a football video game geek.)

Back in ’93 West coast Hip Hop boomed heavy from my speakers at the same rate as the East. Cypress Hill, King Tee, Pac was still bi-coastal, and of course Dr. Dre and Snoop. (Lifetime goal PSA: Snoop is high on the list of people I want to puff with.) Life held so many undefined possibilities but I chose the path of dream vagabond and was taught the effects of soul erosion.

Much like his journey from Snoop Doggy Dog to Snoop Dog, time has also provided me an opportunity to change my direction and redefine my image more in the image of me.

Thanks for the company at the table of my mind.

Watch and enjoy one of the coolest Snoop videos ever.

Blessings,

M

check the rhime ...

2010-06-29T12:15:00.001-04:00

What’s good Family?

I’m knee deep in the zone over here in my world.

Editing a book is much like mastering an album. Not that I’ve personally mastered an album but I used to be an emcee in another one of my former lives and was very much a studio rat so I’ve engineered through osmosis. Much like the engineer or producer allows the track time to expresse itself my eyes scan for rhythm in word.

I have this hip hop/friendship theory and Boo (Boo I wrote a book and you’re in it!) was the confirmation of that theory. In short if we agree certain albums are fundamental we'll naturally link up by the Jedi-b-boy-force. The Low End Theory dropped at an important period in my slacker life, still early in my smoke career when the whole idea had the new car smell. Back when Verses from the Abstract rattled my whip and I hadn’t yet recognized the sharp curve road signs along the path. When Boo and I chopped it up in the day room up in the mountains of Pennsylvania almost twenty years ago our mutual admiration for A Tribe Called Quest started the conversation. ATCQ is such an important group, pure Hip Hop strong enough to provide a conversion point in two versions of twenty-something reality.

Back then I was too immature to recognize the tone of my inner voice, which was compounded by a reluctant focus towards my own potential energy. I just hadn’t figured out how to be me yet. The book (DSC) is like the music of my human relationships harmonized through memory, my libation for those who travel with me in spirit.

Peace & Blessings,

M

“You on point, Tip?”
“All the time, Phife.”

S*** is real ...

2010-06-24T13:40:00.006-04:00

Peace & blessings family,

I know it’s a tad bit late but … Happy Father's Day!

Can you think of another awesomely under appreciated and hot button topic of a "holiday"? I think no other compares. On Father’s Day most Dads are sent to the background in place of angry and bruised memories of men who abandoned their post. Single Mother’s who carried the load are ushered to the front for a shared bill on the marquee. As a Dad I work hard to protect my son’s against swindlers and imposters that filter in front of their eyes. I know first hand how much time is stolen when it’s wasted in the procession of the unproductive.

My father ran a rehab center. 35 Chestnut Street was his first one. That was the house I came home to as a newborn. As I grew up I was convinced my life was void of adventures and empty of characters. I felt it wasn't as vivid as tales spun by the addicts who fought their way to recovery in my father's program. Back then I didn't see life’s contradictions and complications as a process towards my humanity. Time taught me that life is tragic, hope filled, explicit, and blessed. The Divine Sinner Chronicles is my Illmatic, Reasonable Doubt, Ready to Die, and 36 Chambers. It is the reflection from a sketch of my past and insight into my future. Some stories have been shifted to protect the guilty but it’s reality as I knew it and lived it.

So now more than ever the word of the day over my life from me for me for my life is ... Consistency. Consistency is the route from writer to author, tenacity will get DSC off of my laptop and on to bookshelves world wide.

Today as we delve back into the Golden Era I leave you with my main man Mic Geronimo. When this joint came out back in ’94 we still made gritty walk-a-bout videos with blunt guts and assault rifles for all to see without self-edited blur outs. Much has changed in Hip Hop but we must leave more for another time.

I roll up & park it like everyday is a 420 holiday …

Blessings,
M

I am Legend ... Almost

2010-06-14T01:33:00.005-04:00

What’s good family?

I pray you’re all well. And I’m glad you’re back for another visit into my smoke filled thoughts.

I’ve edited about half of the book on hard copy so far and like what I’m working with. It wasn’t like that at first. After we printed the first draft, it (the manuscript) simply sat on the glass table in my bedroom for maybe three days. I’m sure you all have the same type of table in your room … the-everything-table. Mine holds old ticket stubs, prints outs from work, coupon clippings and of course clothes. I couldn’t bring myself to read it. I wanted to enjoy the moment because once I started the edit process the paper would bleed.

But now I see a clear path and know exactly what is needed for the project to polish. In my last post I sounded a bit desperate for the attention of a lovely agent. Now, I still want some attention but I’m ready to take it slow. Maybe some sample chapters as a first date to see if we like each other. Before a more serious move like an introduction to family members, the truth is I need a bit more time to shape this book. So the twenty or so query letters that are in the cyber universe will have to suffice.

Actually DSC wasn’t the first vehicle I started with. My first idea was named the God of Grace and pulled from my time in seminary. But then I realized no one wanted to read that shit, I mean I didn’t even finish Seminary. I dropped out four classes short of my Masters but that wasn’t the right path for me. To be a little more transparent I was a youth pastor at one point in a prior life … I’ll give you some time for that to settle in. As a PK (Pastor’s kid/Preacher’s kid/aka Ministry kid) I figured I could run for only so long before I had to give into the family business. When I received my credentials I became the sixth or seventh generation in my family to throw on the minister’s collar. It’s a good thing that idea went away though because I would’ve had creditability issues on that one. I probably would’ve quoted Marcus 4:20 too many times …

The next idea was a graphic novel, which is still on the idea board with three chapters written. But Science fiction wouldn’t have been a good first book for me, mainly because a fictionalized version of my life is way easier to write. And with that The Divine Sinner Chronicles was born. If you’ve spent time talking with me you know I preach the message telling your story and chasing your dreams. This book is the collaboration of both.

Any good strip tease pulls a little back so here is where I put some clothes back on …

I will be away on Jus’ fifth grade camping trip until Tuesday so I hope to post again after I survive being the male chaperone. I will however be throwing up some pics and stuff via Twitter (http://twitter.com/MarcusSmalls) please follow … as long as my celly isn’t cut before I get back and pay my bill. The life of a broke writer on his way to a wealthy Author …

Tonight’s a daily double. I was listing to Ready to Die while editing tonight and Big Poppa is simply one of the tightest songs ever. You can actually pick any BIG verse and dissect it for dopeness but we’ll do with this one tonight because I love the video. And the other is my dudes Black Moon with How Many MC's.

It’s the Smalls baby/who you think it’s suppose to be …

And if you don't know, now you know ...

2010-06-09T01:25:00.000-04:00

What’s good family?

In my last post I said I would try to post daily. I ask for your forgiveness and also ask that we don’t dwell on my broken promises. How about I promise to be consistent that’s a more attainable goal to hold myself to.

I have however been hard at work editing the first draft of the manuscript. The stages of writing a book seem never ending but I learn important things about myself at every stop. Like when I started I thought I could circumvent the process by writing my query, synopsis and proposal first. Then I learned that fiction doesn’t need a proposal. Taking a shortcut sent me the long route. And I’m not sure I feel any stronger about the query or synopsis because everything is done in such a vacuum. The only feedback I’ve received so far from the world of literary agents is silence, which compounds my financial desperation. The literary world feels somewhat elitists and I based that on a few factors. 1) I think I’ve found ONE person of color so far in the land of agents. 2) It’s 2010 and some of the larger agencies still ask you to submit via hard copy with a SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) to send your shit back with if they don’t like it. I don’t know about you but I can’t afford to send some company stamp money when I can use the Internet just the same. Feels like they want to help me self-select. And 3) I can't wrap my head around the idea that I need to spend money I don’t have right now to go to any number of conferences to hear them (agents) speak about the industry while starving writers (me) hang on their every word in hopes of an invitation to submit.

Meanwhile I just want to get into the jam cuz damn I know I’ll slam.

So with my cloud of witnesses and the weight of the dreams of my family on my shoulders I persist. In the immortal words of Puff I can’t stop, I won’t stop.

In honor of calling those things that are not as if they were I’ll leave you with B.I.G.’s Juicy. The street manifesto for the brother on the come up. In this video they were clearly showing us the lifestyle they wanted to live before they really had it. Dreams. Never let them go and never let THEM convince you to do so.

Spread love that’s the Brooklyn way …

M

Ill+matic ...

2010-06-03T14:15:00.000-04:00

Hello family,

I'm back again. I won't bother us with hollow apologies because i have a legitimate excuse for my absence. I've put the pen to paper and finished the book. The Divine Sinner Chronicles first draft is complete! It's a novel inspired by true event in my life from childhood up to 1994. I took the Memorial Day weekend to celebrate with most of my family back in the hometown of Norwalk. It's been a crazy ride writing this book.

I've pledge to post daily (pray my strength in the Lord) to update the world at large about the process and journey of taking this book from my laptop to bookshelves across the globe. Dreaming big with flat pockets.

I've already finished the paper edit of the first three chapters, so I'm liking my pace right now. I'm also sending out the query letter. The query letter is the bane of my existence. I've worked it off and on for the past three years now ... it drives me crazy. I've purchased my copy of 2010 Writer's Market a while ago and got advice from my writer friends but I still can't say I feel I've nailed it. I know they'll like the book if they would only read it but the query is the bridge. It's like the first song on the demo tape. You're still alive if they want to hear the next joint. I know it's a numbers game so I'll remain persistent in sending five query letters a day in due diligence.

Now the reason Nas & Damian Marley are the lead on this post is because their new project. If you know me personally you know Nas is in my top 3 of artist in any genre of music. Illmatic is such an important album in my life. 1994 was an important time in my life, a crossroads and Illmatic was the soundtrack in my ears. '94 gave me a few classics ... we'll the stop the train here. I don't wanna give it all away in one day. Small steps, baby steps ...

Enjoy this piece about the Distant Relatives project.

420 is everyday ...

M

reworked w/no name yet ...

2010-05-10T14:26:00.000-04:00

Verbally back at it with tele-spaz-matic tactics/heavy like metal jackets and effortlessly charismatic/many who thought they doubted know really they saw it coming/all good cousin/dough always cakes when slow burning in the oven/now let me begin by asking you to shut the fuck up/gliding on crystal eye drops draped in grassy green bon fires/I spit dope like the smack my pops shot persistently penetrating with subversive culture like a rectal intruder/jumped from/assed out dirty bags to home grown wit super powered pressure lungs fashioned from steel casings/certified spliff technician and card carrying green thumb enthusiast/re canting karma dimming activities cuz I'm a nigga with an attitude and a man on a mission/a carbon dated trophy collection from verbal sound clashes bears witness to this phantom menace

more jay Electronnica ...

2010-01-19T16:53:00.000-05:00

what's good fam!

another gem i wanted to share. if you don't know you gotta ask somebody cuz this kid is the truth. might have to go all the way back to Illmatic to feel something this fresh ...

MySpace - Exhibit A (Transformations) by Jay Electronica

2010-01-19T12:25:00.000-05:00

what's good fam?

Yo, if you don't know you need some of this Jay Electronica in your life ...

please have a listen and be on the look out for that CD ... good music to guide us through this Great Recession ... check your cassette deck/hip hop has not left yet ...

Blessings,

M

MySpace - Exhibit A (Transformations) by Jay Electronica

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Anti-gay bigots plunge Africa into new era of hate crimes | World news | The Observer

2010-01-07T10:00:00.000-05:00

what's good fam?

i've been meaning to drop my two cents on this issue for a lil minute.

i wonder why these church cats are going all the way over to Africa to get people merked? why do evangelicals love smashing the Mother Land? why haven't we heard any of the major cats speaking up and checking their brothers? no time i guess when you still pumping the vision like crack ...

click the link below, read the article, and if you want, hit us up with your thoughts ... church people, no sermons please.

hold ya head my people.

M

Anti-gay bigots plunge Africa into new era of hate crimes | World news | The Observer

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Mad old school shit ...

2010-01-06T21:05:00.000-05:00

In a former life I use to roll with these cats. See if you recognize the last MC's voice ...

Line up: Rain, Real, Precise, & Miz w/Corey Red on the hook and beats by Severe. Can't front, a bit of a misguided classic ...

M

Listen very deeply ...

2010-01-06T20:37:00.000-05:00

Manuscripts...or cookies? Well, let

2009-12-16T14:42:00.001-05:00

Blessings Fam,

A very happy holiday season to all.

Found this cool blog called Getting Past the Gatekepper. Awesome article and just an awesome and helpful blog altogether.

Click the link below to enjoy the wisdom and I'm back to getting ready for January submissions.

M

Manuscripts...or cookies? Well, let

G.E. Agrees to Sell NBC to Comcast - NYTimes.com

2009-12-03T10:49:00.016-05:00

hey all,

i've been hella delinquent with posting so i'm going to be using share this more often. this way i'll be able to post some cool and useful stuff.

the book is still moving along, we're making the next round of edits on the book proposal and chapter synopsis. not gonna lie, it's a pain in the ass sometimes but it's gotta happen because it's gotta be hot.

as soon as some of the legal stuff is finalized i will most def be a lil more specific concerning the book and starting the blog for the book. keep your eyes open.

as for the article please read this is big move for comcast and has been in the works for a minute ... click link below to read the story.

M

G.E. Agrees to Sell NBC to Comcast - NYTimes.com

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Summer of '92

2009-11-13T18:41:00.004-05:00

The summer of ’92 was probably the craziest summer of my life. Looking back now I understand it to be the first set of cataclysmic events in my early adult life. I was writing again back then, it’s surreal to reflect over that version of myself. It was my first attempt at writing the story of my life … the twenty year-old, kicked out of his parent’s house, crazy-weed-smoking, college drop out edition.

Most of my life is time-lined by music and Hip Hop dominates the majority of that time-line. Well, the summer of ’92 has two distinct songs on said time-line. One by Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth and the other by Dr. Dre & Snoop Doggy Dog (before Snoop Dog to Snoop). They Reminisce Over You & Deep Cover are just classic Hip Hop songs. My life changed so much over the course of that summer but the music always brings back good feelings.

Watch and enjoy the way back machine.

M

Blow Your Mind

2009-11-10T17:55:00.003-05:00

One more for the road. If you know than you know. If not, just wait for the book.

Big shout to all my smokers out there.

Cough up a lung where I'm from ...

M

Throwbacks ...

2009-11-10T17:41:00.001-05:00

New Wu

2009-11-10T17:28:00.002-05:00

What's good beloved,

Got a Raekwon video to share. His new "Catalina" video is on the net right now also but I can't get that embedded version just yet ... so on to the next one.

Not much in the mood for talking (sorry to all who have called and got the voice mail). So I'll let my Wu brother's talk for me. Still grinding and trying to get someone to pick up the book project. I'll holla soon with some sort of update and shit. Plus Mirandy Candy is still on deck, she just needs some editing.

Until that time ...

M

all day

2009-10-30T13:22:00.002-04:00

The pen is mightier than the sword they say/so I solemnly swear to take aim all day/you say my pops is like a father but you ain't no fucking brother/pack my clips to the tip to fill your hips all day/taking my kindness for weakness/wanna slap you but you sweetness so I'll be sitting in the percent wit the pigs all day/while my aura has you running I'm from the lower all day/got niggaz who smack wit toolies cuff chains and puff wit mollies my nigga I'll say again we from the lower all day/don't force my hand cousin I'm a resourceful nigga/if my shooter don't wanna shoot I'll gladly squeeze that grip all day/ask my mom to pray for him and told God to talk to 'em/shit'll get dark to 'em put a spark through em/ya head is dripping got blood up on ya Pippin's/still puffing on that pipe you fucking joke/all day/peace to Champ in that Champion hoodie/he'll vouch when I almost jigged that cat wit the screwy/church said I was screwy/spirit drifting like buoys/this is spit in ya face/muthafucka/hok-tuey

Guess who?

2009-10-30T12:13:00.001-04:00

Niggaz mad my swagy bubbled to redickle/get off my pickle you've been left behind like the rapture/ or like you failed 5th grade math pick your chin up & get outta my path/I might resort to my bullying ways/hit you wit a flying fuck tucked as I turn buckle tussle like my name was bob backland/suplex your anatomy fucking tool/join the academy/and maybe you'll be worthy of some Shepparding action/niggaz in my faction got history of gun clapping, get ya jaws to flapping you'll be yapping to the captain/wake up missing in action/Sunday they'll be asking what happen cuz his passing got me feeling that this shit could really happen/not this time but next time I'll probably name names/M.I. shitting on pussy collars from on top of the game/who shot ya?

a lil somethin'

2009-10-29T16:51:00.001-04:00

I am a word warrior/sho-gun samurai of sentence structure/a fire spitting dragon of biblical proportions/endorsements settled upon endorphins attached to hair pin turns & European glide seating/my language is a hieroglyphic magnificently manufacturing spit deep within the caverns of my spit factory/i saw a glitch in the matrix/does that mean agents are near, maybe it means they're soon to appear/I'm my version of neo so does that make me the one/its hot shit when ejecting verbal projectiles cuz I'm a son of a gun

it don't get much better ...

2009-10-28T12:17:00.003-04:00

Last night, I DVR’ed the BET Hip Hop Awards strictly for the ciphers. There is a whole list of issues I have with BET but on this one they get it right each time. Do the research.

I skipped through most of the awards show (Gucci Mane & Soulja Boy Tell Em performed like four times each, which is a sign of the times for a dinosaur like me) to get to the prerecorded, black & white cipher. It was a vestige of pure Hip Hop smack in the middle of what the culture has become. I’m not a hater (though some might think so) I’m just old enough to know this is not completely what we had in mind when Hip Hop dreamed of conquering mainstream culture.

The last one of the cipher’s was my favorite by far, just for the roster of high impact lyrical MC’s closing this thing out. Other Cipher’s had stand outs like the teacher, Blastmaster KRS ONE, and my dude Buckshot but it’s really hard to fuck with a lineup that has Mos Def, Black Thought, and Eminem.

If you’re not sure what us old school niggaz are talking about when we lament over what Hip Hop is missing, its real simple two turntables, a mic, and MC’s with skills. With Primo on the one’s & two’s this segment quickly ascends to classic status … again, if you’re not sure who DJ Premier is I dropped a classic Gang Starr video in here.

Watch, enjoy, and soak in what true MC’s bring to the mic.

Hip Hop … One Love

M

The waiting game ...

2009-10-21T11:48:00.003-04:00

What's good my people?

Chilling on this side, playing the waiting game. I think I'm close to signing with an agency for my book but things are still stuck in neutral. So, for now I'll share one of my favorite things to hit the web in a minute.

Ed Lover's C'mon Son!

Just might be one of the funnest things ever. I've been an Ed Lover fan from Yo! MTV Raps, to the Hot 97 Morning Show, and now his stay on the Power 105 Morning Show. He has consistently represented the Culture.

Watch and enjoy ... and to those still fronting on a nigga ... C'mon Son!!!!!!

M

Haiku’s

2009-09-14T13:00:00.002-04:00

I’ve seen too many
Tripped up too many times, true
So today I fly

Basking in the sun
Blinded by mysteries hue
Dazed, confused, tranquil

Missing in action
From assembly line playgrounds
Still jumping from swings

Saw two stars last night
Playing games, watching TV
My son’s, my gifts, love

I think in riddles
I speak in hieroglyphics
I am alien

Hov

2009-09-02T02:35:00.004-04:00

What's good my people?

This is hands down the hottest Hip Hop commercial ever made and I remember the St.Ides commercials and the Sprite freestyle commercials. Both were classic and true to the culture.

But this is Hovi baby, the possibilities of Hip Hop incarnate.

I'm working on a Wu-Tang article right now but after that we'll have some Hov reflection.

Sit back and enjoy a genius at work. Nobody's done it quite like he's done it ...

Blueprint 3 drops September 11

M

It’s just a hobby that I picked up in the lobby …

2009-08-25T20:11:00.040-04:00

See these fans can’t resist the rush/they Wu-Tang for life/scared for life they forget the cuts …
Method Man - House of Flying Daggers – Cuban Linx 2

Wu-Tang Clan is moving back onto the Hip Hop landscape again and sometimes it seems like it just yesterday when they were the dominant sound by the summer of ‘95. The RZA’s distinct Shaw Brothers, dark production provided a canvas for each member’s unique style. There was a time when every hood in the tri state area and beyond was booming with one of the many Wu offerings. As almost every group member also signed solo deals with other labels. This business model is followed by almost every modern day rapper crew, one of the many testaments to the Wu’s forever imprint on the culture. Before Culture control belonged to Death Row, Bad Boy, The Roc, or Young Money there was Wu Tang. They have trail blazed in the form of MC’s having their own clothing line, the Wallabee era, music production for the MC fan, (you will routinely get a minute’s worth of beat at the end of songs so you can kick your own shit.) Web sites, video games, and my two favorite contributions slanguistics and the idea of alias ’ each having his own mythology and influences. To only name a few.
Cuban Linx is perhaps the most influential of all Wu-Tang solo projects, Rae was really the first to kick it with that deep cinematic imagination. His creation of a narrative album format revolving around cocaine trafficking, criminal activity, and a rise through the ranks of the illegal industry set the template for Criminology rap. You can see the much-argued imprint on albums from Jigga Reasonable Doubt, Biggie, Life After Death, and Nas It Was Written. Rea was our new G Rap

During the summer I was talking with my dude Julien about Cuban Linx 2 and some of the young bucks were chilling with us. One of them said who is Wu Tang again? That’s Method Man and that other dude right?

Like these cats run around spitting they little lyrics and talking about who is the greatest MC alive and they didn’t know Wu Tang! I almost blacked out on homeboy but instead took the opportunity to school them all on how Wu changed the game when they kicked in the door back in ’93 … and that’s when homeboy was like Marc, I was born in 1995, yo.

RIP ODB … Wu Tang FOREVER!

Miarandy on blast …

2009-08-19T23:30:00.005-04:00

What is good my people’s! It’s MC and I’m back on the seen with my fly ass gangsta lean.

So, my girl Aida (yes she’s Dominican) invited me to her youth group again and since Devon (my ex and so much drama) was home from Job Corps for the weekend I decided to go. Now I ain’t gonna front I was a type thirsting to go back and see that nigga Gabriel, he’s cute but again I have way too much drama going on to add some other dude to the mix. Even though a church boy might be a good look right now Devon would stay trying to play him. I hate him sometimes he thinks he can just make people do whatever he wants them to do. Everything to him is about niggaz respecting him and how they better recognize how he puts it down … what the fuck ever! Put what down? Respect what? I mean I ain’t trying to play him or anything but he JUST went away to get his GED and learn some type of trade, I mean that nigga is 22. I use to worship the ground he walked on, he was so cool to me and he treated me like his princess … but you know shit happens and you move on and that’s what I’m doing. Building a bridge and all that shit.

Anyway her youth pastor, his name is Eli (I thought it was cool that we could call him by his first name) he was talking about how we are all in the family of God and how he knows everything about us and still loves us as his children. Because he’s our father and he loves us more than our own parents and that’s when Eli started looking at me and I could feel the weight of his words on me. I must of looked like he was making some connection because he kept looking at me when he was making a point but my mind was on the 5 train and I was eight years old. We were coming back home from Fulton Street and me and my little sister were playing around on the train. You know giggling and shit like little girls do and my mom was sleeping with her head leaning back and the train came to like a quick stop and start again the they do sometimes and my mother’s head jerked forward and she woke up mad quick. When I think about it now it was mad funny … like my ass is laughing right now … but we weren’t even paying attention to her, we were laughing and playing Powerpuff Girls (it had just started coming on Friday nights on Cartoon Network, that was my shit, yo) she locked eyes with me while I was in mid laugh and her face turned bright red and before I knew it she reached over and smacked the shit outta me. Right in the face like five times and hard as shit, yo. I was sooo embarrassed. I hid my face for the rest of the train ride, yo. I didn’t wanna see none of those people on that train, yo. NOBODY … I could feel all of them looking at me and it made my skin all hot and clammy. The worst part is we were like at 86th street so I still had to get to 149th and there were mad white people on the train to see that shit. Their stares made me feel like savages were raising me. That’s mostly what I know about family. My Tio & Titi are trying but they have they’re own shit and we ain’t his kids. This school year is really important for me, I have to do well right out the box because my junior year was shaky with my drama and all but I know I can do it.

WTF!!! This nigga Devon just hit me up on AIM talking about he wants to take me to dinner to talk about our future!! WE don’t have a future muthafucka! He must think I’m still that stupid lil girl that gave up her first child because he didn’t want three baby mommas …

modern day lament...

2009-08-19T11:51:00.001-04:00

In the park wit strange & pale faces in a foreign country just a boro away/they was all in front of them but they so use to not seeing ‘em that they didn't even see ‘em/that’s visions view of kid's from the hood/they see Jordan's and failure and adults who prey feasting on their souls while over working and below standard living of pay/lil niggaz throw the word nigga so loosely/lil chicks is niggaz now too cuz that's just like calling her yo bitch/it don't matter bout no color, no hue of brown just lil white niggaz missing from the party now/but we know they think they niggaz too and they insides is brown/the word nigga is a funny word/a nigga like me might love to say the word nigga but hate to see the word nigga come out the mouth of lil young niggaz/shit nigga niggaz in the hood ain't changed/tough sledding in the range while she picked my brain became the favorite imaginary bar of every corner store mc/my patience level is low while puffing crime stopper tree top high high high/in the hood is where I learned to master my smarts, master my fly, master the fear of failure, while mastering my high/shazam a muthafucking lighting bolt shot straight through the sky/my powers include the ability to work out multiple payment plans while chasing my dreams ... Phew ... this might be the realest shit I've written today

Mirandy Candy

2009-08-17T21:54:00.005-04:00

Hi, my name is Miranda Dulce[1] and I’m 17 years old but all my peoples call me Mirandy Candy. It’s summer here in NYC and some of these days have been as hot as shit, that’s my word yo. Especially these dog ass days in August … not that I know what that means really but my Tio keeps calling them that.
Anyway I’m from Bronx River Houses (BX STAND UP!!!) right on 174^th street the row of stores sits diagonal from my room with the same shit that’s on every project strip. A hair solon/nail place, Chinese food spot, a bodega, laundry mat, Pioneer grocery store, $.99 cent store, and Spanish food place … it is what it is right. Anyway, I live with my Tio & Tia until my parents settle their little “situation” but I’d rather stay where we are because its way less drama.

My little sister is 13 and she’d much rather Mami and Papi get back together so we can go back to the block. We used to live over on Webster; it’s mad wild over there. Not like Bronx River ain’t hot but at least home ain’t just as hot, that’s the kind of shit that make a nigga stay outside and that’s why my little sister Jami wanna go back. Her ass is getting way too fast yo. It’s not like anywhere is a safe place though, gangs are everywhere you just have to know who your friends are. I wanna get out of here though, I mean I like to chill with my friends and shit but I want to do more. Like, I’m Puerto Rican and I can’t even fucking speak Spanish, yo. I do my best work when I ask for “Bestic y Salsa with arrozz con gondules”, yeah I know that’s beast but I like that combination ain’t nothing wrong with a little pepa … I went to my friend Aida’s youth group this past Friday, I’ve never been to one before it was kinda weird and kinda cool at the same time, the music was mad hot yo. I would like to sing like that some day, maybe when I’m older because I have way too much drama now to be up in some church. I don’t think I really fit it but it did feel nice, real peaceful you know what I mean? My shits were fresh that night though I had my white & blue 13’s on, crispy out the box, my favorite Seven Jeans, and my white top with a blue tank top under it … I was killing them bitches, simple yet fly, you know they was hating on this bitch.

Like a week later the youth pastor saw me on Fordham the other day, I was with Trina, Skinny Jessica, and Jose we were looking for those grey Prada shoes. I didn't even recognize that nigga. I just thought he was some nasty old nigga in the street trying to grab up on me and tell me how his old shit will stretch me out good. So when he reaches out his hand I pulled away, natural reflex I guess. Sometimes I wanna smack the shit outta them busted niggaz. But I ain't stupid enough to acting all rah rah. I see them girls always hitting niggaz but they like to hit back and that shit hurts. Plus they like to play you hit my chest I get to hit yours... Always trying to cop a feel cuz niggaz always wanna fuck. But ain't none of them bum ass niggaz getting me pregnant and leaving me pushing no stroller. I wanna be a lawyer, I told my advisor that I wanna focus on John Jay this year, I either want to do Criminal Law or Forensic Science, I love that CSI, NCIS shit. I watch them all the time, that’s where I got the idea from really. That way I can carry a gun and no one would fuck with me but I don’t have to worry about chasing niggaz around or kicking doors down. That shit ain’t safe.

Anyway the youth pastor talked about a lot of shit that made me think but I don’t feel like getting into all that right now, so I’ll just end here … Mirandy Candy signing off! BX STAND UP!!!!!

[1] Miranda is a fictional character created from the mosaic of young ladies I have worked with over the years as a youth development professional. She can be followed here @ http://marcusjsmalls.blogspot.com/

public repentance

2009-08-17T11:51:00.002-04:00

Prolifically I write poetry like a radical mastectomy with a need to get
shit off my chest/assaulting myself, tearing into myself, shading into
myself more than was ever first intended/this has become the new
reflection of myself to me inhaling death into myself like the fresh
effervescent dew of victory/after every newport pull the surgeon
general reminds me stogs contain carbon monoxide/every exhale another
day short from the future's landscape/two sons and a woman to love at
home/but I also have a brother, a sister, a mother, a father, a
grandmother, and cousins I couldn't pick out of a crowd of one/so why
I wanna chase death mesmerized by ass from a block away/her presence
dainty morsels of misery twisted & sal-tayed by self loathing and
unkept promises/I've quit so many times I've actually quit quitting
because simply I need to quit/no more loosie spot loving fresh air
walk break taking watching wherever world I'm in go by/its been longer
than previously scheduled but now I choose to live and pray time
receipts my repentance

PK

2009-08-14T13:43:00.003-04:00

I am a PK/a preacher's kid, a pastor's kid, a previously viewed under
expectation in some church people's opinion/I am the product of sofa
side church services, a survivor of living room tent meetings/leaving
for school with oil from the horn of Moses dripping from my forehead
and a sore neck from her violent spiritual convulsions/I am Friday all
night prayer, Thursday night youth group, Tuesday evening choir
rehearsals, and three time dope on Sundays/I am the potential
spirituality of my parental prophetic positioning carried low under
the weight of high-minded biblical interpretations/groomed for
succession irrespective of my personal aspirations/I am the rumors in
the mouth of sister so & so and tightly bound hugs in the arms of
Mother White/the son of my father's jazz-fusion and the perceived
apple of my mother's ministerial eye/the pause in reaction to my
grandfather's bishop stare and gentle words in the smile of my
grandmother/a preacher's kid reduced down to a single definition, a
one dimensional reflection of my fears/I could never walk away cuz I
can never get out/I was trained to be planted by the rivers of water
and fought for the right of irrigation/pivot ministries was the pre
ordained ministerial occupation/but my face was set like flint & my
back in perpetual slide/cuz never would I conjure verbs and nouns in
phrases behind pulpits for oracle's of God/a preacher's kid and I'm
slanging my special brand of gospel message

Unbroken ...

2009-08-11T23:34:00.001-04:00

From deep inside my fractured soul I spit fire in the form of
quotes/tattered dreams litter potholes sealed with disappointments
from/years lost, ideas squandered, & promises left unspoken/i've
been/crushed by the foot of the cross and branded by calling's scarlet
letter/however clever were my theories & musings/dainty morsels to the
ear of those blinded by their self-righteous mediocrity/but I remain
unbroken/a niggaz gifts shinning a spotlight all on his crusty ghetto
flair/how could I ever prepare for the total disillusionment that was
to follow/spiritual shape shifters, fork tongued prophets, and gossip
stained pork bellyed harlots/all zombie walking with stretched out
hands/memory heeds my mother's warning/not to give away my precious
inheritance/but I remain unbroken/dooped for the location of my
philosophies and personal space by a charismatic con man carrying a
briefcase full of personalized paradise road maps/pointing towards the
alter for the sacrifice of my personal hopes & dreams/but still I
remain unbroken/like a fountain in the middle of the park I spit
publicly/like a mountain to be scaled cautiously when in private this
nigga is a fly vet-teran/scuffled tough terrain from LES to East L.A.
Sac town to Twin Cities and will always rep my prep school
beginnings/because still I remain unbroken

Cloud Room Manifesto

2009-06-07T14:55:00.001-04:00

It have my nose running like bad ass kids ‘round old school family parties/sweetie’s bubble tush painted my eyes stained glass lush fantasies played by the smokey exhale bonged out on bubble kush/ vivid translations of reality unedited, unloaded, and unfuckwitable/to quote Allan Jones/nigga I can’t see it/B who I be kidding M-I be easy I stay crushed dawn till dusk/tight brown sweaters /hella heavy on top refined professional swing printed on jean back pockets/if life was the mic/Miz would be in vocal booths building ciphers within scriptures holding the L too long/get a frame nigga take a picture/No, I don’t know none of ya’ll niggaz, yeah we chilled a few miles & got tatted off bless/but to truly know someone is Co-D-ing scared knees from their struggle/can’t get close to a nigga like me cuz back stabbing bullet proof walls are perpetually under construction /with a blurry eyed foreman who stays tron tronned up dealing truth about buildings I may never see again/Pork chop Davis soap box sharing visions of dream travel from gentrified Columbia Street to revitalized 1-6-1/plus other places on the map we soon to see/could I be anymore Stokely Carmichael/black fist pick reference introduced by Chandler Bing/looking for a few weeks/sunny skies & a pound to crush/still can’t see the Divine in me/from birth I’ve been bathed in the sinner’s misery

Live from somewhere ...

2009-03-28T20:16:00.001-04:00

Forever blasted, in effort
To shelter me from the
Presence of your absence

My heart weighs heavy
My lungs challenge maximum capacity

Relentless negotiation with time for more
Nostalgic concerning each day’s unique imprint
Because today my son, you are 8
But tomorrow, you will be 8 and another day

Each story quickens my memory
While every developmental milestone exhumes
Our journey into endless infinity

My goodness you were right

She did come, the lady with stuff
To make everything … better

Back to the Blog ...

2009-02-28T15:22:00.002-05:00

Well, I know I have been away from the blog universe for quite some time. Most of my attention has been spent on the first three chapters of my novel … The Divine Sinner Chronicles – Inspired by True Events.

The title does indeed give it away, it is a fictionalized version of my life … well to be honest some of the people and places are fictionalized but its pretty much going to cover the perpetually blunted adventures of Marcus Smalls, as played by Donte Baxter. I plan to create a blog for the book, so please be on the look out for the Divine Sinner blog coming soon …

I’ve missed blogging but I needed to focus on completing my sample chapters and book proposal. I have now reached the point where I’m doing query letters for perspective agents and I must say the task of sexing myself up for an agent is way tougher than the actual writing of the book.

So much has happened since we last blogged together … President Obama is whipping Capitol Hill into shape, the New York Post is fucking up as usual, and just as an aside I’ve been boycotting the Post for the past 10 years at least. The Yankees have opened spring training for the third year in a row with a steroid cloud hanging over them. My opinions on this “steroid era” are way too long to get into right now, the same goes for my opinions on most pastors … ya’ll niggaz is still whack.

Oh and my Mac died, which is what started the blog drought in the first place.

Ok, that is more than enough of my sub-conscious drivel. I will bring back my award wining Marcus shit soon but for now … L.E.S STAND UP!!!!!!!!!

Blessings,

M

History

2008-11-06T18:01:00.004-05:00

It was an amazing evening this past Tuesday. I started the day by heading back to my old hood to scoop up Jus and take our historic trip to the polls. Our personal history as father and son bumped into us on every street corner as we walked through the only hood he’s really known in his nine years. We moved to the Bronx this past summer and I was careful not to do any change of address with my voter registration. My healthy-black man-paranoia-spidey senses told me to watch out for “the man’s” tricknology. So up in the morning, to get that 5 train to the J to Essex back to the Lower East Side to vote.

I was a little concerned my name might not be in the book like during the Democratic Primary. But that wasn’t any conspiracy theory against my first Black President and me. That was because I’m registered as a socialist (The Working Families Party to be more exact), which I need to change but that’s something other to discuss. Jus and I stepped into the voter’s booth after a rather short wait in line. Which is not a comment on the hood because I saw mad regular hood cats on the block community organizing.

“Yo my nigga! I better not see you on the block till your ass voted muthafucka. True story, our vote counts my nigga, we could have our first Black President. Are you even registered? I bet your ass didn’t even get that shit done”

“Nah yo, I registered. I’m just gonna get this dutchie from Sharif’s spot so I can have the ‘I voted’ L when I get back upstairs.”

“Aight my nigga, that’s what I’m talking ‘bout! Niggaz standing up and being accounted for and shit.”

“Whatever Farak Ofama.”

When we got in there, I felt a little overwhelmed. If memory serves me correctly, I’ve voted in every major election since I registered at eighteen. And it’s always been about the lesser of two evils except for the couple of times I got to vote for David Dinkins. But on Tuesday, I was about to do something that I think most of us thought would be close to impossible in our lifetime.

When I was a kid one time this lady asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said “a football player like OJ Simpson he’s my favorite player. And President, and maybe a drummer.” Looking at me with a smile, she said “There has never been a black President before maybe you can be the first”.

Just an aside, yes OJ Simpson was my favorite football player as a kid. Had an action figure and everything, he came with weights and shit. No! He didn’t come with a knife and glove! I was a kid and who knew.

In a rush, the first thing I did was go for the little turn down pegs but Justin stopped me in mid motion. “Dad! You have to pull the red lever first, can I pull it. Then you can do those things up there.”

“Shit Jus, I’m glad you’re here I might of fucked … um sorry, messed that all up. Barack needs my vote, I better be on point.” And just like that, we sipped history much like our hero’s before us when they we able to vote for that very first time. “You know dad, Barack is like George Washington. Not the first President but the first Black President.” It was awesome to be sharing a historical moment with my kid that we were both aware of.

Politics never really materialized for me but Barack did. And not only for me but for thousands of kids like me and like him. The American Dream. For the first time in my life I felt like the American Dream included me. It was strange to feel my cynicism towards this country melt as I sat on my couch mesmerized listening to his speech. I felt like … I can’t believe I was thinking it, I felt like an American. Like those flags placed behind him as he spoke were waving for my family and me too. Its funny how a moment in time can begin to shape every moment that comes after it.

These are indeed exciting times.

M

Biggie Tribute

2008-10-05T12:04:00.003-04:00

I don't really post on the weekends BUT I was skipping around the world of the web and bumped into Biggie!!!!

Mr. Cee's Notorious B.I.G 10th Anniversary Tribute Mix ... 4 hours of BIG on a Sunday!!!

Sit back, steam a L, and enjoy the memories of our nigga Notorious.

M

Mixtape Memories/Summer of '95

2008-10-01T16:39:00.003-04:00

It was the summer of ’95 Raekwon’s "Incarcerated Scarfaces" was booming from just about every car stereo or apartment building. You have to remember this particular summer if you’re a Hip Hop head. Illmatic, Enter the 36 Chambers, Ready To Die, and Enta Da Stage had all dropped plus the mixtape DJ’s were putting out classic street albums.

This was a different world, we didn’t even have Reasonable Doubt yet but we did have Doo Wop, Double R, S&S, and others all holding us down with classics cuts … like the first time I heard the “Method Man remix”! We were on our way to the Willis Ave. spot to cop like six nicks each (yeap in ’95 you could still get fat nicks in the BX) and when that song came on the S&S tape I must have rewound that shit like eleven times.

“Yo Miz! You killing my batteries nigga! Fuck! Next you gonna be rewinding that Black Moon shit.”

Boobie was right because “Shit Iz Real” to this day has me reciting every lyric in time with Buck Shot like we're doing Hip Hop karaoke.

But my favorite mixtape cat was Doo Wop & The Bounce Squad. Not only did I get the Bounce Squad setting the tape off but I got mad joints by Money Boss Players (an extremely personal favorite). Minnesota was a beast on their beats and Lord Tariq & Eddie Cheeba were talking that slick “SEX, MONEY, MURDER” shit back when the only place to hear it was on the mixtapes. Gangsta Rap was still getting minimal airplay during daytime hours in “the old days”.

I think the mixtape (which were CD’s by this time) that gave the official coronation, as King for me was Doo Wop’s Wopduizm Pt. One. This joint had a super hero type track listing.

Doo Wop started off with the “Ten Tape Commandments”, freestyles from Money Boss Players, Bounce Squad members Uneek & Don Black (Uneek was a monster and Don Black had a real slick style).

Ok and that was just the warm up because of the AWESOME track “Keep Your Hand High” by Tracey Lee and Biggie. That’s when BIG spit the infamous “them rings and things you sing about bring em out its hard to yell when the barrels in your mouth”. That was such a hard song, it never really got airplay and it seems like a forgotten Biggie verse to me.

Any way Smoothe Da Hustler & Trigger Tha Gambelr spit on “Smith Bros.”, which is like the last song I think I ever heard from either of them. “Beast From The East” Redman and Canibus on the same fucking track! That’s all I have to say on that song. “De Ja Vu” long before the video and song were everywhere, the “Step Into A World” remix KRS & Puff Daddy … yo, I’m just saying. And “Triumph” before it was getting play and I know I was still looking forward to any Wu releases back then.

That is a champion mixtape.

But back to the summer of ’95 I was still so young and raw and this shit was the soundtrack to my life. The best of my rooftop or project hallway smoke/slap boxing/freestyle sessions were in full motion during this summer. It was all about “the women, the weed/sticky green” even though BIG hadn’t gone back to Cali yet. That was back when the most anticipated album by me was Method Man’s Tical. I mean every time Meth was on the mic on any song it was going to be fire. It was pretty hard to find cats who disagreed with that sentiment.

So much has changed in Hip Hop since then but I will always love the Golden Era, which for me goes from ’86 to ’98 (which still allows The Score, Capitol Punishment, Hard Knock Life, and a few others).

Yes, the Golden Age does end suspiciously for me after BIG is murdered and Big Pun dies.

But more on that later.

M

Ready to die is why I act this way ...

2008-09-26T11:25:00.003-04:00

This is HOT!!!!

I must admit this is old but I'm sure there is some Biggie fan out there (just like me)that hasn't found it yet ... so this joint gives us the uncleared versions of some of the illest joints & other portions with unheard lyrics from Ready To Die.

This is just so f**king dope!!!!

B.I.G Forever!!!!

M

http://www.hiphopdx.com/index/mixtape/id.507/title.dj-semi-the-notorious-b-i-g-ready-to-die-the-o-g-edition

The Notorious B.I.G

2008-09-24T19:48:00.003-04:00

“The Greatest rapper of all time died on March 9th”
Canibus

It took me a long time to recover from the news on that Sunday morning … the news that Biggie had been shot. For a minute the game tasted mad sour to me, I was jaded and angry that Big had decided to go back to Cali.

The usual, sloppy attention was paid to young black death but I knew the world had changed. Right then, 1997 and even though Puff said they wouldn’t stop … I did and did so for a good minute. It was just too hard, too vague, too many fake rappers that wouldn’t get half a mic minute if Big was still here … Too many unanswered questions, too many names not yet named, Big never got that third album … the one that explained what we could only pick up in word play bread crumbs.

Ten plus years later and the movie is almost here. We’re trying to get an interview concerning the movie over at Beyond Race but this is more than another story for me, this is Biggie … B-I-G Forever baby!

Enjoy the clip …

M

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Y9dLZoZ1O0

Skinny-dippin in the nude

2008-09-23T22:31:00.002-04:00

Woke up to this world so cold and lonely/a damaged soul left me exhausted, dazed, & confused not yet ready to speak out in disapproval of sanctioned self-torment/ knowing the fruit from those seeds inspire the darker side of me, soooo …

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you!

The path of my better man calls as my ignorance dissipates and I see myself naked and finally no longer ashamed … See! And that’s just what I was figuring on, so as a matter of record let’s throw all our cards on the table, discarded the joker before fishing my Ace, undisputed King wit my Queen shuffling the deck - feeling lucky so let’s roll them dice cuz we got angels on both of our shoulders tonight – sticky life changing challenges kept our backs to the wall like Joe Cool spittin’ fuck that! Exclamation mark comma quotation marks screams, “we puffs that ganja”

Late one night on television Soul Food said the fastest growing new cases of HIV/AIDS is black girls under 21/like throwing Hebrew babies in the Nile/like taking Black motherhood from the future of Black girls/like does that mean we need Black teen mothers to survive? Walking through a wasteland of jackhammers, scaffolding, wires, smoke stacks, new boutiques, and alehouses/coffee shops, imploded school buildings with specifically selected Educrats … only corner store bodegas remain with their nostalgic reminiscence/ we were all sent running for shelter, peace of mind, and a more cost effective community to start over again in … revitalization is what I think they call it

Ghetto birds be clockin’ me and chicken heads stay chicken hawkin’ me because magnificent missiles be heat seekin’/but let me take it back to the kid wit the white on white Puma Baskets … red + grey/blue + white/solid blue, red + green fat laces – on that very first day of prep school I came in rockin’ pre Fresh Prince of Bel Air but post Beat Street, LL Cool J in my walkman, and the summer of ’86 on my nasty little mind

“My radio believe me I like it loud/I’m the man with the box that can rock the crowd/walking down the street/wit my hardcore beat/while my JVC vibrates the concrete …

Ghetto fabulous before I could proudly say it, a black novelty suburban B Boy before I could clearly display it/stuck in between with a vaguely staccato stutter in my step and a self conscious glitch pruning the branches of my social development/violently taste testing the surplus my stubby working class fingers tips just couldn’t clutch -

Growing wit the times you learn to adjust a lil quicker/doubling up on them L’s, while slowing it down on them liquors/bloodstains from my battle scars sketches out the peripheral of an unique figure/though deep in my heart I still remain that Illmatic nigga/’94 Metro north to the 6 train Willis Avenue spot/4 fat bags please my nigga/on project roof tops we slap boxed, beat boxed, & free-styled pausing to dissect the city’s missteps sparked by our superior cipher rhetoric

A 70’s kid who awkwardly developed into an 80’s teen forced to become a 90’s hustler … until my scorpion infested purgatory @ the most high/holy virtue/solo only voice of God/but I swear we love everyone church/temple/sanctuary of God/incorporated … As I recollect the dialect from my mind/ its prone to function much like a tech 9 with the inclination to jam at your most inopportune time/convincing yourself of the need for deeper investigation, pleasing your inner detective/you'll find me horizon hopping with two of God's stars neatly tucked beneath each shoulder blade

This black nigga/blacked out from the blackened tar left around the chamber/graduated from high school before I dropped outta college/before I dropped outta seminary... Get it/irrelevant cats’ spazed when my ecclesiology rendered the establishment a non-factor within my paper-stacking factory

Sadly, I was forced to make a cameo appearance on that liquor store video with them twin calicoes/house slippers and a raincoat/Newport long in between my lips/talking incoherent history from my former existence/when I'm being watched I watch back that's the policy/I am so dope/like the haze with the purple feathers/now you'll take what I give you & we'll both call it help in the meantime daily challenging my uncanny lung capacity/when I fly we be so high yet remain chastised for spinning the bottle while kissing the sky/Magnificent Aquarian Righteously Creating Unrest Semi-annually connect the first letter twisted within the contents of my honey dipped blunt & see the name that'll prove my point

Pop Champagne

2008-09-23T16:29:00.002-04:00

Everyday I'm becoming more of a Jim Jones fan.

I think his ability to deliver a good sound bite keeps people from seeing a genuine & savvy individual ... Respect the grind.

You can catch him on Hot 97 w/Angie Martinez about right now, this joint is hot.

M

How to roll a blunt ...

2008-09-18T12:14:00.005-04:00

What up world.

Check out the link below, Redman was in concert in ATL cashing some checks off of Scion Toyota.

Its good to know that in this climate of downloads and ringtones someone as important to Hip Hop as Redman is still doing them shows and ripping the mic.

It’s a 20 minute clip and time well spent as he hits some of his classic joints … class is in session!

Divine Sinner

Redman Performing @ The Loft in Atlanta from Broccolicity TV on Vimeo.

Mad Healthy

2008-08-01T12:48:00.003-04:00

“What’s really good son?”

“Nothing, chillin’ yo, kissing the stars taking this shit to the face. What’s really good with you yo?”

“Nah, you know it ain’t really nothing, blowing it down wit wifey on this side. You know how we do son … zone coasting”

“Word, I hear you my nigga, what happened last night mad niggaz thought you was coming through”

“I know yo, but wifey made this bangin’ dinner last night and that shit was mad healthy. A nigga get that belly full and wanna have that good night L”

“Word, but what kinda shit she made yo?”

“She made these pork chops but she didn’t fry them shits yo, she like made them shits on the stove and then she made like this zucchini shit yo … boom and that shit was like mad healthy yo ... hold up ... what babe? It was eggplant? Well, whatever yo! That shit was mad healthy yo yanahmean?”

Seven Seconds of Ecstasy (The Kiss)

2008-07-30T10:32:00.001-04:00

The symphonic expressions from the traffic surrounding us
No longer seemed to be … it simply just didn’t
I’ve imagined this actual moment
So many times, rehearsed my smoothed-out-Mac-playa-response
And now?
Now?!!?
I’ve got nothing …
Because I’m so melted to my core
Butterflies I haven’t seen in years
Are bouncing off of every corner
Of my insides

The tilt of your neck exposes
The smoothest skin I’ve ever encountered
Your lips,
Shimmering from the sexiest lip-gloss …
Puckered out, stretched in my direction
Like a gift and today ain’t even my birthday,
Not even close …
Your mouth begins to open,
As your eyes begin to close
(Now proper kissing etiquette demands that I close mine too)
But I felt it virtually impossible, and down right criminal
Denying myself the privilege of looking into your majestic, angelic face

Your tongue had a bubble gum flavor
From the gum you were chewing,
(I love a woman that keeps it hood)
And your lips had this, apple-like essence
I was hypnotized by this physical interaction
The feeling of our bodies’ close, our arms wrapped

I explored the contour of your top lip
With the moistened motion from the bottom of mine
Listening to the rhythmic pattern of your breathing
Alerted me to your approval of my style
Permitting my mind to drift off into the regions where my ego abided …

Liquor Rhythms

2008-07-29T17:14:00.002-04:00

Staring at you from across a steamed out dance floor, magnetically attracted we glide together to that pulsating jungle beat mixing with the intense, and intoxicatingly erotic liquor rhythms

Gyrations bio-chemically produce invitations I sweat, from the heat as our eyes speak to what our bodies are really saying watching, as countless human representatives surrender willingly to their seductive natures

The incoherent and, fuzzy baseline disengages my mind-body-and-soul,
enticing my reflections on disregarded segments … of … our … past … history ... visions of Harriet Jacobs, Robert Smalls, and Frederick Douglass disapprovingly gaze as I caress your ass, on the dance floor in the span of 2 or 3 songs I had a dream we slept together, when I woke up and called you-you told me it was all good

Is my misogynistic machismo the final definition of my illuminating charisma?

Or does the smoke-filled room provide protection as we disrespect each other’s personal spaces violating both our situational and sexual ethics … now don’t get me wrong, rubbing up on a sistas breast while romantically reciting the lyrics of the
late … great … Notorious B.I.G in your ear,
is what I consider to be living

But while walking back to my table-aggressively occupied by my boys, with you digits in my pocket I presently realize that because of our recent past history, we have absolutely have no chance, for a future

7 songs later our lust reconnects us 2, on the dance floor with our physical familiarity
multiplied by 9 eagerly anticipating signals pointing in the direction of a liquor induced proposition, effectively redeemable for 1 night 6 advil, 12 hours, and 4 organisms later
we awake to the alarmingly devastating notion

That because we presently use each other as past reference points, we have effectively destroyed any chance for a future

This is for the hater in you ...

2008-07-28T12:44:00.003-04:00

Over the weekend, I was hit with some hate from outta nowhere. So I figured I'd post this Maya Angelou joint that was sent to me ... So to all them haters out there please read and digest ... and then maybe you can live your life while I live mine ... PEACE!

A hater is someone who is jealous and envious and spends all their time trying to make you look small so they can look tall. They are very negative people to say the least. Nothing is ever good enough! When you make your mark, you will always attract some haters ... That's why you have to be careful with whom you share your blessings and your dreams, because some folk can't handle seeing you blessed ... It's dangerous to be like somebody else ... If God wanted you to be like somebody else, He would have given you what He gave them! Right? You never know what people have gone through to get what they have ... The problem I have with haters is that they see my glory, but they don't know my story ... If the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, you can rest assured that the water bill is higher there too! We've all got some haters among us! Some people envy you because you can:

1. Have a relationship with God

2. Light up a room when you walk in

3. Start your own business

4. Tell a man/woman to hit the curb (if he/she isn't about the right thing)

5. Raise your children without both parents being in the home

Haters can't stand to see you happy. Haters will never want to see you succeed. Haters never want you to get the victory and most of our haters are people who are supposed to be on our side.

How do you handle your undercover haters? You can handle these haters by:

1. Knowing who you are & who your true friends are *(VERY
IMPORTANT!!)

2. Having a purpose to your life. Purpose does not mean having a job. You can have a job and still be unfulfilled. A purpose is having a clear sense of what God has called you to be. Your purpose is not defined by what others think about you.

3. By remembering, what you have is by divine prerogative and not human manipulation.

Fulfill your dreams! You only have one life to live ... when its your time to leave this earth, you 'want' to be able to say, "I've lived my life and fulfilled my dreams, Now I'm ready to go HOME!"

When God gives you favor, you can tell your haters, "don’t look at me ... Look at who is in charge of ME"

Watch out for Haters .................... BUT most of all don't become a HATER!

Maya Angelou

The Aftershock ...

2008-07-25T20:36:00.003-04:00

Fresh off of my newly minted conquest within the industrial sith-lord messianic complex, I was confronted by porch monkey theology seasoned to perfection by a twist of gone with the wind nostalgia

- niggaz don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies -

watching knowingly while my avatar is savagely clunked on the head by the oreo magistrate,

beaten, and lynched in honor of emmett teal, fred hampton, and amado diallo

What wicked manner of evil is black on black soul assassination when carried out with an ivory accomplice and reprobated intentions

ghetto church birds chirpin’ tales of transformation while seeking counsel all day about whose the dopest pastor - dollar, olstein, or long

- shit sister thompson digs the sanctified stylings of peter popoff but if you ask me my eyebrow arch might slap the shit outta you ...

Sorry, I can no longer believe the words you utter,

all will say what they want to get what they need

pearly jibs shinning

and soul pockets filled with violent thoughts of body crevice invasions upon a proudly indoctrinated army of impassioned opiates

- now I'm not trying to shake you fat lil figs outta line, not really trying to service sight to the blind, but I'm persistently pursuing that dream when life is blowing wind up her summer dress with a thong and no panty lines -

vividly translating desire because it seems I'm dangerously ahead of my time

Verbal Photography

2008-07-24T11:01:00.002-04:00

Eighteen syringes strapped to niggaz wit fifteen plastic glocks, tripping off that bom-ba-zee/die casted into pseudo classic positions of honor within their psycho-religious Caste system/I’d rather be, racing dolphins having deep-sea diving competitions with the wind and watching myself overdosed while engrossed by Lilth in an Amsterdam coffee shop

Now the new me is back, such a paradox, and the chances of my return are slim to subliminal none, further enlistment for another tour of duty will only serve to delay the inevitable advent of freedom - begrudgingly, I find myself lavished with the lush reflective praises from contemporaries previously hating amazingly on our Logan’s run, where cumulus clouds of greenery inspire blurry-eyed choke sessions

Depending on which side of the bullet you was chewing, blessings from my gun permit rejection notice having already selected infa-red melon invitations for jelly back bitch niggaz from bk to the bronx - apologies are in order to the fathers of all the daughters … consequently it was consensual when I was diggin’ that out

I’ve got peoples who stress the mistakes made out of state, niggaz who can’t kick dream shattering habits, and my minds eye fixated upon the location of the prize … I’m focused man, so focused … from day one parallel parking in the back of my black hearse the queen has more than tripled her kismet net worth, elaborating on the selection of her future collection coming standard with beautiful Her-mes pur-ses

Presently collecting applications for a friendly, all recently assaulted bitch niggaz need not apply

Introducing me …

2008-07-23T15:15:00.002-04:00

As nicotine and in-dough-nee infiltrate well-traveled and convoluted paths through out my bloodstream, I see silhouettes of, plastic hearted minions, manic perpetrators in well-intended destruction. It is altogether use-less for you to con-test the pleasurable in-gest, of this sticky green blow town induced lyrical maa-lest-station specifically delivered into your inner listen. Birthed from the, unchecked passions of an ancient harlot makes me the sum of witnessed brutality to soul and spirit, “all in the name, of the blood stained banner of Jesus”

Young broads with bodies built to lust for C cup titties, honey dripped thick, brown, and round, graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21

As I live and breathe … We’ve gone from ez rock and base to, pumping ez rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga, splitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla, the lust for paper will lead to, no hesitation in the disrespectful and, brutal pursuit of respectability

Please put down the pen and, slowly back away because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics

Perpetually with my board in the shop,chopped from the, frequent-high-flying-hover-craft type mileage like a decept I can transform from, cere-bral to, bru-tal producing 2 twin jet packs from my back, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz and a rubber griped 9, just in case revolution sparks before we finish this splif

Supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other, when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture, biggin’ up my music, birthed flow con-do-it, you ass salty, hatin' that the swag is foolish, so them rings and things you sing about bring em out, its hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth

And now, a word from our sponsor ...

2008-07-18T15:41:00.006-04:00

Have you had the wonderful misfortune of ever meeting my nine? Whether chrome or black, plastic or rubber gripped she pines for the time when she can stand @ attention, waiting in eager anticipation, selecting standing ovations with pre assigned projectile evictions.

Now this next paragraph might makes ya laugh, when a brotha rolls a blunt and his breath smells like pure ass - ok class, 10 hip hop pts if u idee the lst paragraph

But back to the clap talk for a second, it was always my favorite helped an angry nigga feel the hate inside his ears - wondered if he had it in em when ordered to park hollows in between the ears of his peers, but that's when them other cats flashed that chrome, licked them shots, and missed my dome.
Was like 20 back then, that's when I developed the phantom, ghost like qualities back then, listened when NaS told me sleep was the cousin - so never was I sleeping again nah cousin.

Decided to grab the mic for real, back then. Burnaz captured my minds eye metaphor back then, 4 fifths, 380's, 12 Gage, & dessert ezy spitting loogies wit intention of twistin icons & leakin em wit they chest breathin' wheezy, stayed eazy nigga ... wasn't fashioned to be blastin, matriculated up the field to avoid my under achieving ass from being sent to Iraq - fuck it black - tried to forget while I smoked where I was rollin it at … That’s about the time when I met a man whose neck, ear, wrist, and pinky ring gleams with a unique gift for touching the nerve of young ghetto dreams ...

This is dedicated to bad bitches who moonlight as day time chiropractors, sexuality discreetly bubbling like espresso foam in a warm Amsterdam coffee shop. If I could figure out your name with my psychic pheromone capabilities, I'd stop my preoccupation concerning the hue of your Vicky inspired thong and bra ensemble, I respect your gangsta though, bx authentic hip hop on that first night splashed beyond recognition I peeped you zoning to Rakim's "The Punisher", instantly celebrating the location of my kismet ...

Took the ladder to success escalator style, the personal blueprint of spago blowing muthafuckaz twisted in 7 jeans, D&G eye covers, and newborn baby clean footwear, crystal clear ice skating rinks with rainbows fruitfully multiplied throughout the land

My style is sick like high school mono, when I spit that heavy shit transformational conversions opens doors to unlimited choices as vehicles for cultural revolution … While still clockin fat ass' on project chickens sportin’ 5411's blasted from the scent recoiling from the body of my buddy.

It was either the pistol, the pulpit, the mic, or the pen

The gospel according to m

2008-07-17T17:13:00.004-04:00

Live the sounds of the block, sprinkled with city grid inspired pay phone stalls attached to the ears of …

“Yo! What’s up mamita? Yeah you, looking nice wit that thick ass-ass … Yo son, for real I’d fuck the shit outta her!”

17 years old, 34C almost close to a D, pretty brown round and trying to run with these thoroughbreds – lil niggaz breathing every breath and living with their appointments for death and in this game offsides, personal fouls, and missing a sign could lead to murals for life after death and shorties screaming, crying –

“He was such a good kid”, “That was my nigga yo”, “Fuck the police and fuck them crackers too!” “He was my baby”

Welcome to the block where summers are hot, hood stars catch fire, and the stories live – because each voice has a face and every face has a scar. Young souls grow colder faster while innocence develops a resistance to the infinite possibilities of hope. Stop. Take a breath. Look around. Soak it in. So deep are her impressions you can smell, hear, and taste her affects. She gave me my swag and taught the importance of watching while listening, her points were made crystal clear every time she laid a nigga down. Hollow points tear the fabric of my pride every time my oldest is forced to eat his 4th favorite dinner with juicy juice punch though at best I can only muster ambivalence towards his mother. They long ago received their nostalgic triggers – 3 days ago my nicotine retirement and the ever-present aroma of indo scent. Their souls will remember my frequent misremembering, trips out of the room for “What the fuck did I come out her for anyway?” Kisses while they slept and conversations concerning their grandchildren’s well being.

I love my sons!

The divine creator’s gift to my existence, two treasures, and newer visions of myself in this predestined voyage of free will. Now to be fair, maybe he was too damaged to love his approval came with chutes + ladders type consequences self loathing, self pity, and self destruction, ya headin’ for self destruction – but ya only get one pops right?

Provoked by transformational re-creation we can now see past, each building erected in efforts to shorten the boundless nature of our horizon, each high-rent luxury condo complete with swimming pool world class fitness facility movie theater and other exclusatory amenities. We can now see past every hood hustlin’ high performance vehicle driving voice box for the Lord. Can I get a witness ...

I think slow & far now, the future is my reality. Gone is the trigger from his verbal cannon replaced by love + praise, for those truly are the seeds of any impassioned childhood. The older I get, the more I like him. The older he gets, the more I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone. The more I look in the mirror, the more I see him …

The Genesis

2008-07-07T17:26:00.003-04:00

1972 was the year, January 22nd triple-double’s for the first born on the third day of Aquarius. Grew up in a green van with ex-fiends, rolling by currently future relapsing ex-fiends, leaning without touching the ground in mix matched, knee high, tube socks. The van was always filled with songs of redemption, vocalized by those on the receiving end of newly found divine forgiveness and a well worn family distrust. You can’t sell the kid’s Atari, your wife’s jewels, and your momma’s TV and think a few popcorn testimonies will bring that ass back home …

But at my home, “you a stupid ass nigga” and “well, your fat ass is a bitch!” Yelling, pushing, scratching and … “you betta get the fuck outta my house!”
A dizzying transportation of internally diminishing child cargo Norwalk, Harlem, Camden, Harlem, Queens, Norwalk
It’s early A.M. and the same lips that cursed the fat, stupid nigga is now praying down heaven all over my face in attempts to purge my dark and sinful nature.

Was not too long before the two kids were packed with all the gospel records she owned and the combo 8-track, stereo, record player … she figured at least as much for time served with his funky ass. Even though it seemed like she didn’t really take much else. But who wants stretch marks and some other niggaz ankle biters? My sister and I were simply snot-nosed cock blockers “give that nigga back his kids and we might got something baby-girl”, in his plushed-out green and ivory seats, laundry mat stopping big daddy caddy. And every time my mind would make note when he came outside, looked around, and went to the trunk.

They say patience is a virtue – I say, patience is a virtue matured through layers of pain. Fighting to make sense of failure … and disappointments, realities altered, and innocence compromised. The years have polished over thick remnants of ash, the last testament to my volcanic rage, though I witness its simmer in the eyes of my childhood reflection. A child’s eye was never meant to recall in such sharp and vivid detail the liberties taken in under supervised and anointed environments – though we beg to forget.

But that was about the time my soul had a rhythm for the pocket. 1978 was the year and I secretly realized at the tender age of 6, my prepubescent gift to memorize all the shit them roach clip rockin’ niggaz kicked. Intrigued and captivated by the stories told, places the imagination of a lonely, frightened, and traumatized boy could escape.

She was so fucking selfish and he was soooo fucking bootleg – but for he, she popped out three all while praying for the day the other would “just drop dead!” It’s what their hearts say while faining misery’s bliss.

caste, creaming, and others - pt.2

2008-04-14T12:14:00.002-04:00

Due to the fragility of the American cultural psyche it seems we have limited ability when confronted with issues of human suffering. Much of this could be connected to the church and its refusal to acknowledge its own history of oppressive behavior.

When the American church endeavors to find her voice pertaining to oppression of any kind she is confronted with the truths surrounding her conspicuous silence on issues concerning the disenfranchised in the past. This usually forces the church into a position where she is fending off questions, which attack the epicenter of her motives and intentions. All of this is indeed difficult but certainly not an excuse, which exempts her from entering in.

For example, how can the church speak out against the suicide bombings in Israel while refusing to speak against the daily terror perpetrated upon the Palestinians by the Israeli armed forces? How can we highlight the suffering in Serbia while neglecting to ever mention The Sudan, or Rwanda? How do we explain our years of silence concerning apartheid in South Africa? This is without mentioning the years of suffering in Latin America, Haiti, and Asia.

Understanding and listing our process of inoculation is one of our favorite past times. The question we have grown extremely adapted at dodging is “Why can’t we consider pain?” This problem is not relegated to a certain sector of our Christian society, meaning this is not simply a “White” problem. The African American and Latino church in the opinion of some, are actually at the forefront of silence, choosing rather to preach the godly pursuit of the American dream. They try desperately, as a diversionary tactic, to convince us that poverty is the indicator of sin in the lives of the oppressed.

Some light might be shed on “the why” as we consider our cultural inability to embrace personal pain without attempting to invert it for the purpose of an Evangelistic commodity. An extremely lucent example would be the reaction of the American Evangelical Church in the after effects of September 11. The now retired Rev. Dr. James Forbes of Riverside Church called the reactions from the Christian community towards people of Arab decent ”Pornographic Patriotism”. Others have referred to it as “Evangelical Nationalism”.

Because the American Evangelical community is in possession of an Imperial theological viewpoint, there was small belief that an attack of that magnitude could ever be perpetrated on American soil. Our belief emanated from our views that we are God’s chosen people called to evangelize the world, within God’s chosen country, which we believed to be endowed with a certain amount of Heavenly protection.

This viewpoint disallowed the opportunity to genuinely reflect on the magnitude of human suffering, which was taking place for those who lost family members, friends, colleagues, and spouses. We also were not able to sympathize with those undocumented workers who were now without the low paying jobs they attempted to support their families with.

What we were extremely adept at doing was assigning blame on a people group and their countries, moving towards them as an inspired angry mob. America went forward, believing that God had called us to “crusade” towards justice and the annihilation of those whom served “other gods”.

Using religious rhetoric as a cover for our brazen pain and outrageous racism, we sang obstinately for God to bless America at every church gathering. Knowing that are hearts were actually asking for God to curse Islamic Nations while in the process of blessing “our great and godly nation”.

Our Evangelical Nationalism was so prevalent that some actually preached from our pulpits that Bin Laden was beyond the reconciling grace of the Holy Spirit. All of our prayers concerning the innocent people in Afghanistan seemed to come across a forced and hollow while we remained eerily silent as countless numbers of Islamic peoples were imprisoned and tortured by our God-fearing government officials. We simply could not deal with our own immense pain so we defaulted to religiously finding fault with our Islamic brothers of Arabic decent.

“God whispers in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences but shouts in our pains … it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world”
C. S. Lewis – The Problem of Pain

sonic transitions

2008-04-04T16:09:00.004-04:00

I love music … I know we all love music but I love it in an – its almost hard to find a song that’s not my jam – kind of way. One of the things I love about music is that it has the ability to transport you from where you are to where you were in life when a particular song comes on. What you were doing, how you were living, what you wanted, what that song represented at that time … all of it at the same time. The song is so rich and fresh, transcendent and melodic, that it’s even able to withstand being butchered by our less than perfect renditions each time. Amazing!

Or how about the anthem song? The one that always seems to come on when you are looking for that mystic conformation, its becomes your soul’s warrior cry even after all the radio stations and video shows have played it out. It always will always have that special space in you.

I’m also one of those types of people whose favorite cuts are the album cuts, the ones that never get the light of day in radio play. Even though that is changing with artist taking more control, going independent, and having more control over the selection of their single but that’s not the point right now. I’m feeling nostalgic.

Though tempting, I won’t use Hip Hop as an example because it’s only since the early to mid 90’s that Hip Hop has made its rush to where its everywhere. I’m old enough to remember when we had to wait for Kiss and BLS to bring on Red Alert, Mr. Magic, and Chuck Chillout, (back when Funkmaster Flex was carrying crates for Chuck Chillout). Back then we were happy to get what we got on the radio and buy the tape – yes tape and I had mad tapes. I bought everything, there are some artist that should send me a letter of thanks because I was one of the 37, 212 that purchased the album. Like, Steezo or Paris … see?

And I can’t go old school because most of that was about making hit records. Though you will always have to make exception for artist like Ray Charles, Isaac Hayes, Barry White, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, and James Brown who twisted genre so much for so long until they created their own. And so I do not act like I’m living in a James Brown song because it is not a man’s world … Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Ruth Brown, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, Tina Turner, and Patti LaBelle.

Anyway, lets use a song like “Spanish Joint” off of D’Angelo’s “Voodoo” CD … yes, CD. Or “Ready for love” by India.Arie, or anything by Goapele and Amel Larrieux, those types of songs never make the radio but you know the artist made it from a special place and it reaches you at a special place. I will not even bother to argue against the sheer aesthetic and lustful genius of the “How does it feel?” video as a first single choice by D’Angelo because that’s just business right there plus we really have yet to hear from him since. I hope all is well and he can get back to giving us that good soul music.

And music has mood shifting capabilities also, no really it does. Like when I’m on my – Hov, hustler, half a billie in the bank roll shit – or my – Kweli, Black Thought, Mos Def “Fake Bonanza” shit.

And that’s just the Hip Hop side of things. There are so many songs that have the ability to change my mood before the song is even finished.

I also am the kind of person who has lyrics from Rap joints constantly floating around in my thought stream, like …

“These cats drink champagne to toast death and pain, like slave on a ship talking about who got the flyest chain”– Talib Kweli

“I look into the eyes of the nigga, who fell, I hit my head on the concrete to beat defeat, ch-khaa! Another dead nigga in the streets, bulls eye direct hit don’t miss, now how many MC’s must get dissed” – Black Moon

“Hold up, call the coroner, there’s gonna be a lot of slow singing and flower bringing if my burglar alarm starts ringing” - Biggie

“Black fresh from Iraq, wild look in his eyes missing part of his arm, what the fuck is the prob, oh lord fake bonanza” – Mos Def

I’m the guy that knows all the words to all the songs in my iPod, every playlist has like 300 songs because I can never stay on course. So, no playlist has ever been heard to its completion but I cannot apologize because I love it. I can leave the TV off all day (after the Yankee highlights from the game I sat and watched the night before) and just listen to my iPod play all day long. There are some shows that will have K very confused because he’s going to think that when the characters speak to one another they sound like Nas, Sly Stone, or Jill Scott because I leave the shows on with the music playing.

Dialogue replaced by lyrics, you’d think I’d love musicals too but sadly enough no I don’t and there is not enough space to explain all of that. Ruthie and I have already started a playlist of all of our favorite songs, so they can all be played at the wedding party but when you have a reputation for creating playlist that can last 4.5 days some songs just might not make it.

Jus loves Kanye, so the cycle is starting all over again. What will Hip Hop give my boys?

I figure they have an advantage because when Hip Hop and I grew up together, she was always the friend that my parents didn’t trust me hanging out with. But for them they have a father who knows that Hip Hop is a grown woman, making her choices and working her way home.

Extremism lacks imagination …

2008-03-26T20:49:00.001-04:00

Those of you who know me, know that I always feel as if I am one of the smartest people in any room that I may find myself in … except for when my lil’ sister is in the room, yes my biological sister.

Shante is like 32 I think (if you have more than one kid you’re lucky if you even call the right one the right name at the right time, so you know ages go out the window - I can barely remember mine sometimes). Anyway, she is ADB at NYU and just has a whole host of accolades attached to her name, so it seems while I played Techmo Superbowl in my room on my Nintendo all through high school she was apparently in her room doing homework or something.

And that was way before Madden, that is my adult obsession but Techmo Superbowl was the don dada, that was the first football game that your guys could jump to catch the pass in, had a halftime show, flipped the field at halftime, and a nice little celebration after you won the super bowl … Oh, and most importantly it was the first football game to start keeping stats unheard of in the late 80’s. My team was Houston; back when they had Warren Moon and I used to cheese that fly pattern with Earnest Givens as the “Y” receiver… no one wanted it!

So the other day she responds to the family paradox post and raises all these wonderful questions and uncovers all these wonderful insights, which in turn inspired me to write again on the topic spring boarding off of some of her observations.

Oh, and Google her when you get some time (‘Shante Smalls’ or visit http://www.shanteparadigm.com), she is one of the most talented, intelligent, generous, and well respected people I know and I am so glad that I get the honor of being her big brother …

Shante is a practicing Buddhist, who was raised within the same family environment - that in itself is perceived as a paradox because the Christian tradition believes in homogeneous regeneration. Meaning that if one is raised in a Christian home one should turn into a Christian, I believe this is loosely based on “raise a child in the way he should go and when he is older he will never depart”. I know from my personal home experience that people who believe in the supernatural (atonement, transformation, etc.) can also suffer from a lack of supernatural imagination. “Raising a child in the way…” seems to suffer from an extremely narrow interpretation. Some might say that I suffer from a heretical imagination but we won’t digress there at this time.

How is it that most Christians have better relationships with friends of their choosing than they do with their own family members? We could offer the weak excuses, which usually place the blame at the feet of the “unsaved loved one” or we could question our practices, which have subtly taught us exclusion over the years. Reaching quickly for our “unequally yoked” line of reasoning, or my favorite “when I’m there they all know to watch their language - yada, yada, yada” and in the end that seems more like a barometer on our own spirituality than an true demarcation of whatever positive impact we may or may not have left.

This much I do know. I am the culmination of all my experiences at 36 years of age and that includes all the Evangelism pitfalls I am always railing against, the old school Pentecostalism that boarders on mysticism at times, and the whole Ecumenical exposure throughout my high school years that has truly shaped most of my spirituality. When I tally it all up at the end and watch the witness of my sister’s life I’m hard pressed to believe that this Gospel message is really reduced down to who is wearing what color jersey … not when God’s word tells me that He seems to be concerned with the condition of a person’s heart. Besides, by Christian standards I’m on the outside looking in as well … so who am I to defend the prosecution?

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 3

2008-03-26T13:38:00.001-04:00

An interesting imagery submitted into discussion, suggested the word had grown to Pandora like proportions rendering us incapable of ever claiming any ability to reframe or reform the word or its usage. How can a people group compete against a musical genre culture, which purports that it is the voice of that people’s group youth culture? Plainly stated, Urban Black America created Hip-Hop culture to redefine our savage, concrete reality while celebrating the elements of hope oxy-moronically thriving within that bleak existence. Thirty years later it has become the largest revenue grossing music genre in the world as well as the pied piper of African American misconception while simultaneously enticing and seducing an entire generation to eagerly seek the destructive inheritance set aside for those who aspire to become “niggers”.

One of the older brothers stated he believes the word has become so “watered down” that it doesn’t even hold the same significance toward African Americans anymore but instead points more in the direction of a demonic mindset being projected into and onto the lives of this generation of young people. It is almost impossible for me not to interpret his views through the lens of geography; he has lived in New York City for the majority of his life and is a product of the Black Power and Civil Rights Movements. Though I know he empathizes with the views of our Southern brothers, I think it is unconscionable for him to infer that the word “nigger” has lost its ability to puncture the soul of any African American, particularly those who’ve suffered the indignity of repeatedly being called this word to their face, beginning with the vulnerable and formative years of their youth. With all of that being understood, I do believe this brother has uncovered an extremely interesting point.

How are we to view this newest evolutionary twist from the word and its most recent carriers; it now travels through the lips of Chinese, Mexican, Indian, and German youth-just to name a few-as they communicate with one another using the word in terms of inclusion and affection while equally interchangeable with anger and inanimate identifications. Basically they have learned to use the word in the same manner we as African Americans do because we have taught them extremely well. Their tutelage has followed the same trajectory as that of our Puerto Rican brethren whom we share neighborhoods, buildings, and schools with as well as the creation of one of our greatest accomplishment, Hip-Hop Culture.

The one question, which left the majority of my interviewees with some sort of bewilderment, was when I asked them if they could explain why we were the only people group to use a term of destruction as a term of endearment towards one another …

a voice from the under

2008-03-25T12:17:00.004-04:00

The subject of finances and spiritual wellness are prevailing conversations within the African American and Latino Church community simply because most of the congregants are economically challenged in some way. Narrowing our ways of seeing God and reducing His capacity to mostly fiduciary, we desperately need to believe in a God that will supply our every financial need because our financial needs are so overwhelming.

Those within the same faith community who do not suffer from the ravages of under employment and under education seem to attribute their success to God’s favor and blessing over their lives. While it is extremely difficult to argue this thought process, it is juxtaposed to the reality of those without the same benefits but seemingly serving the same God. Therefore to equate God’s blessing with financial wellness is affirming to some and debilitating to others, if for no other reason but that it presents a hazardous question while offering no solid answers.

It is these issues as they relate to financial wellness, which present one of the largest inhibitors to our ability to hear or see the Gospel message with clarity and power. Neither position - those asking for money or those who are asked to provide it - are able to be in agreement, while most of those on the margins of life continue to suffer.

Ironically enough, as we continued to discuss the church’s inability to listen to the voices of the marginalized some within the discussion felt as if they were being pushed off to the margins. It became clear to me that all one needs in order to qualify as a marginalized individual is to simply feel that way. This became the case, as some felt extremely uncomfortable with the direction of the dialogue, seeing it more as an attempt to tear down and indict the Church instead of an objective conversation concerning the perceived blind spots of the Church.

In response to this feeling, those of the marginalized viewpoint began to become vigilant protectors of all things church, conceding nothing - even against certain personal convictions. As this took place the ability to listen to each other began to be replaced with the desire to convert one another, and true to our human blueprint we eventually began retreating from those believed to be in the camp of the opposite point of view.

It was amazing to me as I observed our inability to sit and honor the pain we were witnessing within each other. We were a group that gathered together on some level of commonality, we all at least believed in a theology from below but as we attempted the ministry of coming together our ability to listen to one another began to disintegrate under the weight of our own world-views.

When reflecting on what I saw as I watched Tim during the week I noticed that I had little to no ability to sit in the presence of his pain, no ability to enter into his pain because his pain opened way too many of my own issues. It knocked up against too many of my own “do not enter” areas, so I left him … standing there … alone. Even though he asked me to stand there with him. This is in no way an over dramatic account of the information but more an observation on how I couldn’t do what I feel I am in some ways really called to do.

Look at and understand the pain of others.

I seem to think that I’m able to observe and on some levels understand the utter dysfunctional nature of the Cross - the exceedingly grotesque nature of it all - but as I watched Tim I realized I couldn’t even listen to him. Forget about mustering enough courage to look at him and I get the feeling that most others couldn’t either … not without passing judgment in some manner. When he reached out, I turned my back, and if I could do that with him (a man I have an intense admiration for), I know that I’ve done it with those I work with and believe that I work for.

caste, creaming, and others - pt.1

2008-03-19T12:35:00.003-04:00

Structurally speaking, the focus of church youth programming or ministry can become extremely compromised whenever the offspring of the most prominent church attendees are involved.

This is hardly an outrageous phenomenon within the context of adult interaction and youth development as often proven by overzealous parents and your local youth sports league. Growing up playing sports was a wonderful experience that equipped me with all the proper axioms, which now consistently attempt to govern the terms of my everyday life. The coach’s kid was always the star quarterback, pitcher, or point guard; unconsciously living as the vicarious vehicle of lost dreams.

Systematically, church based youth development operates under the same principles - straining to provide an equitable environment for various family representatives while subtly mandated to leapfrog the youth with a “specialized family calling”. Church-based programs seem almost bound by the rules of spiritual succession though it is never spoken but almost certainly implied. I don’t think I have ever met a young person whose family was prominent in church-based ministry that had not heard they were also “called” to follow in those footsteps simply due to the nature of their genetic composition. What I believe develops over time is an absolute genuflection of services and opportunities in the direction of that family member and a freeze out of sorts for those not fortunate enough to bear the family crescent.

I am increasingly disheartened by this system of hierarchical creaming, which attempts to influence outcomes by simply herding young people into predestined slots. Plainly stated, kids whose parents have little or no power always seem to get the proverbial short end of the stick, while those in power continually convince themselves that simply providing the best situation for their own teen will somehow create a spiritual Reaganomics type trickle-down theory.

Confronting issues of entitlement, which are so entrenched within the fabric of church culture, leaves one with little ability to protect the infrastructure of the youth ministry/program from the impending stress fractures. Being an eyewitness to these types of interactions have moved me to believe in, and call for complete reformation in our youth ministry methodology. I fear we have become nothing more than an elaborately adorned Christian version of the Caste system. Seemingly less interested in the possibilities that could reside within a communal vision of redemption for our family systems because of our single-minded focus on the establishment of our own family legacies and transferable titles of nobility.

Before discussing some options that might be considered when trying to reform the current system there is an additional portion I would like to explore. This portion deals with the American Christian family’s inability to embrace, enter into, and develop an understanding concerning human pain and suffering. To completely blame the American family is extremely irresponsible because our present church structure is ill equipped to even attempt a basic conceptualization.

Our ecclesiasticism (or principles of thought) is one that seems to promote a “glory to glory” type of Christian experience leaving those with hardships to wonder if they are lacking in faith, knee deep in sin, or simply cursed. Why does the American church gloss over human pain and suffering as if it were an outdated Old Testament ritual? Where did we acquire the viewpoint that any hardship we encounter must originate out of the sin of the person who is suffering without ever considering issues of systemic corruption? Have we become like the witnesses found in Job’s story that only sought to assign blame as a result of a particular person’s sin?

a day like today ...

2008-03-11T15:09:00.004-04:00

I love days like today, the ones in March that have a hint of spring to them. Even though we know New York won’t see real spring-like weather until the fall … we always seem to skip from winter straight to summer.

On a day like today, you would find me in Mrs. Warner’s 7th grade Spanish class. The only drawback to this situation was that Spanish class was right after lunch and it was an elective. I elected to take Mrs. Warner’s class not because of my love for the romantic language of Spanish but because my 11 year-old, distorted - by puppy love – mind had convinced me that this was a good place to work out my crush.

Any way because I chose to play with the language of love, I had to sacrifice recess with my crew … Tony, Stevie, Mike, Kenny, Allan, Allen, Malik, Scott, Paul, and whoever else was rolling hard in 7th grade with us. We played football everyday, seriously everyday. And it must have been some sort of championship tournament because I remember getting mad at Tony one day and trading him for Allen in between plays … like some George Steinbrenner shit … 7th grade recess football was serious and I was missing it for a crush …

Well, they all laughed as Tony told the story. He was looking directly at Jus and K, his head tilted towards the floor slightly and fighting very hard not to allow any of those tears behind his shades to slide down his still chubby checks. “Your father was a good man,” he told them and after a pause he very gently returned to his seat.

I was standing in the back so I really couldn’t see who was next to speak but when I saw that gait I knew exactly who it was. It was almost like looking into a mirror, those deep brown eyes – so hard to read sometimes, the walk, and the confidence, it almost dripped off of him. Shit, I knew who that was no hesitation … that’s my boy. My oldest. I couldn’t believe the sheer amount of satisfaction I was able to feel at that moment … I knew I did it, I knew I had accomplished what I had set out to do … I had been a good father, I raised a man. Someone who could stand on his two feet and decide for himself, feel comfortable within himself but blessed with the capacity to go outside himself.

“My father was a lot of things to a lot of people, if I had to choose a word I would have to say he was an ‘enigma’. Most people just really never understood him. A lot of people thought they knew him, thought they had him figured but you never really know a person until you lived with them – my dad use to say that all the time – and I lived with him … and sometimes I didn’t understand him. I think his mind just worked too fast for most people and by the time they caught up to him he was some place back where he passed before on the journey. He always saw life as cyclical, ‘it all comes back around’ he use to say.”

At that point I saw my boy start to break – he started to fall under the weight of the reality that he wasn’t going to see me anymore and I wasn’t going to see him. He knew we couldn’t play catch again or playstation, or any of those types of things again. The things we did when he was little and in turn did with his children. He knew we played hard for every inning of the game, we held no regrets because we loved hard.

I couldn’t look any longer; I had to get out of there. My tears were racing down my cheeks filling my mouth with the taste of salt and sadness as I watched them let me go.

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 2

2008-03-11T10:00:00.002-04:00

As an example of art, imitating life, imitating art let’s review a classic movie from the Black Exploitation or “blaxploitation” genre as it is better known, to observe this phenomenon a little closer - a personal favorite - SuperFly.

Priest, the main character, is the prince of the streets. He is a slick and charismatic pusher who dresses super-sharp and always plays for keeps. Priest wants out of the biz for good, but to buy his way out of the gutter he has to make one final score to earn him the cool million he needs. As he fights and hustles his way to his fortune, he must approach The Man, a shadowy kingpin who runs the entire rotten and corrupt drug trade in the city. When The Man wants Priest to stay on the streets and keep on pushing (because Priest is “a class A pusher”), Priest fights back, triggering an explosion of murder, revenge and double-crossing.

It is extremely interesting to examine how we, as African Americans are able to encase our protagonist in the vilest of situations, have them be devoid of moral repercussions, and yet still have them represent Justice. Symbolism abounds within this movie. The hero is a pimp. Though we never see him sending any of the female characters off to have sex for pay, he does interact with them as if they are the finest portions of his disposable income. The fact that he is a notorious drug dealer and murderer is credited to the circumstance of his condition, which has been created by The Man and is also in direct conflict to what he is really searching for, peace and freedom from the corrupt systems that birthed him. And if all of these symbols were not enough, his name is Priest while the character of The Man remains nameless, virtually faceless, and exceedingly contemptible.

I believe one of the major reasons this film resonates within the African American community is because of its complete inversion of positions held by the establishment and Black America. This inversion of power, interestingly enough could only be articulated in the person of a convoluted and troubled man, he had to have dirt on him in order to reverberate the reality of the Black Experience in America.

It is interesting to note that none of these "inversion of power" issues were even that relevant within the context of the older southern blacks because the word “Nigger” was like an atomic bomb to them. For them there is absolutely no mistaking or misunderstanding within the usage of the word, the convoluted and ambiguous nature of this words post 60’s Northern existence has absolutely no baring in this portion of the discussion; it was purely an act of hatred.

Ironically enough, even though I have no interaction with any portion of my family that might live in or come from the Southern United States this conversation with the older black men from the south was very much like talking with my own father.

My father - Rev. Alonzo J. Smalls - was born in New York City in 1932 during the tail end of The Great Depression, his birth certificate actually sates his race (Colored), so even though he was born in the North it was still a very oppressive New York City - with New York and New Jersey being the last two northern states to outlaw slavery - his experience as a “colored” in the “North” is eerily close to that of a “nigger” in the Jim Crow South. I use this example to bring out the point that geography plays a huge factor into - but is not the only factor when - investigating the views of this word. Up until about the late fifties and early sixties most African Americans had little use for any double-sided meaning for this word and I suspect the idea of a counter cultural usage of this word might have emanated from the radical West coast and Midwest Black Power movements. This radical movement, powered by the angry children of Jim Crow swept across to the Northern Ghettos of the United States where the idea of wholesale systemic change was not only conceivable but also absolutely necessary.

Black Imagination – what’s a nigga to do? Part 1

2008-03-10T13:09:00.002-04:00

In his book, The Souls of Black Folk W.E.B DuBois describes the existence of the Negro male in America as “a problem.” He explains the Negro as a social problem because he lives in “a world, which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world.” His existence as a problem is further complicated by the far-reaching implications of his perceived problematic status and the manner in which it manifests within the institutions of family, community, faith, and economics.

In Race Matters, Cornel West explains this phenomenon as Nihilism, “the lived experience of coping with a life of horrifying meaninglessness, hopelessness, and lovelessness. The frightening result is a numbing detachment from others and a self-destructive disposition toward the world. Life without meaning, hope, and love breeds a cold-hearted, mean-spirited outlook that destroys both the individual and other.” I wanted to find a way to track the effects of the word “nigga” on the life of the African American male and its ability to create for us a subconscious and outwardly manifested nihilistic destiny. That is when I realized I would also need to find away to weigh the effects this word has had on Urban Pop Culture, which is better known as youth culture. If image is indeed everything, then the challenges facing a generation of youth who have been raised with this word inhabiting daily residence within their sentence structure is two-fold.

Primarily, there must be a reintroduction to the vile historical connotations attached to this word and then an education of what the power base’s intentions are for a generation, which proudly identifies themselves as “niggaz.”

I mean if “nigga” is indeed just a word.

If it is true that the image, which is impressed upon you, is the image which one literally owes one’s life to, then what is the outcome when the image that is being sought is one of a “nigga”? I wondered about what historically had been the outcome for African American men and those family members closest to them who suffer because of the misogynistic repercussions attached to this word? Or what the cultural/family/economic implications could be for subsequent generations?

This particular topic presents numerous challenges due to the inflammatory nature of the word - Shit, I throw the word around like a beach ball myself.

I felt my only chance at capturing the true essence of the extremely convoluted emotions attached to this subject was through the medium of media. I interviewed twenty people with rural and urban roots because I figured the perception of the word could also have a lot to do with your own geographical orientations. I also only interviewed African Americans because I wanted to limit the discussion to those who live with the ramifications of the word on a daily basis, asking them seven questions with eight follow-up questions.

I began each interview asking them to share with me the first image that comes to mind when I said the word “nigger.” And I ended each interview asking their opinions on why other race groups do not use the derogatory epithet directed towards them as “terms of endearment” the way we do as African Americans.

The standard interview process lasted approximately 20 minutes in the beginning stages of the project but the conversations steadily began to grow because each person who participated left me with even more issues to bring to the table in subsequent interviews.

Each interview also provided opportunities for symbiotic learning to evolve between people trapped in the same prison; subtly separated by the issues produced by gender, time, and perspective.

It was quite evident that as African Americans we deal with an enormous amount of duality, openly conflicted about our “love/hate” relationship with this word. On some level I thought I was alone in this journey but as dialogue took place I learned I was certainly not the only one who felt the abysmal weight of this graphically profane dysfunction. We shared in our travails with what we proposed to be an outwardly endearing term, which intrinsically produced profoundly unspeakable violence to our inner essence. It was almost like recounting our shared experiences at the hands of a vile abuser.

Every time we tried to give context to the reasoning we had for allowing this word to live amongst us as African Americans, we would promptly and almost instinctively disqualify that particular line of reasoning.

Another interesting finding was how this word surfaced in our interaction with our European (White) brethren: the older the person, as history would dictate, the more violent the usage of the word. With the younger participants the murky and convoluted nature of the word was perpetually present in their interaction with people of European decent. Almost every inclusion of White people into Hip Hop culture produced awkward moments of misidentification on the sides of both parties, causing the “cool white-boy” to feel so comfortable that he would chose not to edit himself when reciting his favorite rap lyrics. Some reported even deeper levels of self-loathing by admitting the allowance of some white people the “honor” of saying the word “nigga” as well as inclusion on terminology, “that white-boy is my Nigga” or “ya’ll my Niggaz”, to present a few examples.

This point also uncovered another layer within our discussion, the inclusive effects of Hip Hop culture, and its easily accessible counterparts - misogyny, murder, and materialism. When we settle in to examine and exegete the content of Hip Hop Culture we are bombarded with images which emanate from the Black Experience.

“Pimp”, Player”, and “Hustler” are words which are rooted in the African American psyche as we attempt to identify ourselves. We search for markers, which symbolize our independence from supremacist thought process, while simultaneously presenting an image of edge and danger.

someone had to be judas

2008-03-10T11:06:00.002-04:00

I think it is safe to say that most of us live in the abyss between the pseudo and the chaotic. We are continually vacillating between the two stages hoping to find a place beyond something … a place that is real, new, fresh, and alive.

Why is there so much disconnect? Can most of these failings be directly connected with and attributed to the lack of authenticity found within our church experience? Does this make it difficult to see oneself as a vital member of the body of Christ? Or are we simply asking too much from the community of faith? It’s been said, “church is the place where natural enemies gather. That, in essence, is what the Kingdom is.” I have also heard it said, “Grace is always manufactured from the outside but is God’s gift. It will always be external forces that push the church to be the church that God intends for it to be within His creative intention.”

Another question I found myself exploring, as a youth minister is why we were so “in-reach” focused. Not a week went by without my office being inundated with flyers, club cards, and other “ministry explosion” invitations. All of these events promised that the Spirit of God would be there and lives would be altered. Within this invitation there is little to no mention of their own local community, which they are called to serve. Instead these invitations often ask that we invite our community youth. Why has the expression of our faith reached entertaining proportions? Why have we identified what is pseudo as reality and identified reality as heresy? What are we so afraid of?

On the one hand it can be said that we lack the ability to dialogue with the world outside of our church walls. But it may actually be that we lack the very desire to even go outside. What are the effects of this mentality on our core mission? Do we still see ourselves as salt? Is it still part of our functionality to be a light on a hill? Or is that expectation not only lacking in cost efficiency but also woefully inefficient? It is my opinion that Sunday morning may be the largest, ongoing pseudo-event happening. Mercifully, God’s thoughts are so far above our own that life sometimes will simply force us to consider a wheat & tears theology (Matthew 13:24-30).

Another crazy question I started to ponder revolved around the inclusion of Judas into the Twelve. Was Judas’ inclusion into the circle of the apostles more for the community of the twelve? Asked another way, were there human elements deep inside of Judas, which could only come to the surface through the blessing of authentic relationships – which in turn would draw other human elements out of the other members within that circle?

Is Judas the ultimate “wheat & tears” example?

It seems we have, for years focused on the “spiritual” component of Judas’ selection. We understand that someone had to betray Jesus. But are we also able to see Judas as someone who had no desire to understand the principles of the Kingdom because he almost seemed to become disillusioned with Jesus and His Messianic pronouncements?

I think what we fail to highlight is Jesus’ inclusion of someone whom He knew was already disqualified and seemingly had nothing to offer. Could it be that Judas represented the possibility of someone who was regenerated while their mind still resided within the depths of Hell?

Failure of imagination is the loss of the ability to envision life any differently than the life already being lived and experienced by the person. Could Judas have suffered from a failure of imagination? Could this have been his main assault to the Kingdom? Was it his inability to imagine a life separate from what he already envisioned the Messiah to be that doomed him to be the one who would betray the Son of Man?

I wonder if this could another glimpse at some of the root causes behind our stagnated Evangelical youth movement. Are we ready, as a community of faith, to not only seek to convert souls but actively seek the conversion of the even more difficult to reach imagination? Are we willing and able to allow God to convert our imaginations? Can we imagine this Grace, which the Lord will bring from the outside, to be what will most definitely propels this conversion?

Although there are so many questions standing between where we are and our destination, one thing I do understand is that this does not happen in isolation. It can only take place within authentic community. This is indeed the very hard journey to finding a way of understanding and enjoying God through our family of humanity.

opening statements

2008-03-09T01:28:00.001-05:00

When faith crashes into culture there is that silent, sickening anticipation of the violent reaction to come from those who are watching this collision. This would correctly describe the experience I have just completed. I now have the long journey of making sense of what I have seen, heard, and felt during this intense time together. We began this journey from a place where everyone could come together in agreement. I believe that we agree that mission is more than a department in the church but as soon as we began down the road of what mission “is” we were plagued with conflict for the rest of the journey.

How could it be different things to different people if our Jesus is the same as their Jesus? If God is bigger than culture than how can culture affect what we see and why we see it? And the biggest question of them all; has the church, as an institution, co-opted people into a twisted theology of power? These questions are very hard questions to deal with. They are also questions that require a multi-layered approach. I understand there is a hesitancy to approach the issues in a multi-layered manner because of fear of what the end result will be to our “personal” relationship with God.
And yes, this is yet another shot at the oppressive thought process of Western Evangelicalism, but I also believe there is an inability of some sort to address such issues in a health manner that won’t send us off into tangents

The frustration and tension I felt during the intensive and in the time spent afterward was not with those who can’t see the multiplicity of the coded power theology language, but rather with those who defend the oppressive language of the institution because of fear; the fear of what is behind the veil of the wizard. The flipside of this journey is the calling of authentic community while still honestly differing in viewpoints. I must resist the inclination to either convert or walk away. Falling into that trap will make me an alternate reality version of the same institutional perversion that has created the tension I am now walking through. I so desperately want out of this matrix, knowing that the reality that awaits me is not Utopian, but grim and humiliating.

I willingly trade away any rights of passage into Power Theology for the painful, conflicting, and somewhat lonely journey of Street Theology (or what I like to call the Theology of the Oppressed) because I believe in a counter-culture, left of center, God of the oppressed more than I could ever believe in the four spiritual laws and ‘pray until something happens’ way of life.

the human family paradox

2008-03-08T20:26:00.002-05:00

The Human family is a paradox, for it is larger inside than out
G.K. Chesterton

I believe it is safe to say that the journey of humanity runs squarely through the township of family structure. There are many who have come before us and presented an image of the human journey that is “inward and upward.” During the course of our journal time together I will explore family themes, which lean more in the direction of “downward and outward”.

These two themes are held up in contrast and tension against one another because of their obvious diametrical nature. As I journey through the painful, shame filled and awkward pieces of my family system I have observed how those dynamics have empowered and dismembered me simultaneously.

What is it about the family system and its ability to be both life affirming and dream shattering? Why is it virtually impossible to find a family system that creates and recreates only the healthy elements? Is it because that system would then become the norm, spawning untold amounts of virtual replicas? The system usually does both at the same time, building us up and tearing us down with each breath. I wonder why this is. Are we doomed by the unfulfilled dreams of our generational predecessors? Is it the unrealistic expectations created by popular media culture? Or is it simply the sheer complexity of our human nature? Somehow, I believe it is the pure synthesis of all these, working against and within.

The very thought of the topic actually forces me to re-enter my own family systems. With age I have grown more comfortable with the journey of reflection but I think it really comes from simply submitting myself to the process more regularly. One of the joys of growing older - in a somewhat healthy manner - is being able to remember and almost relive the interwoven spoken and unspoken themes of ones family history with distance and perspective. My developmental journey is filled with dogmatic religious viewpoints and its violent clashes with the embryonic stages of my own world-view and desire to individuate.

My family history is one of grassroots community work. My parents both showcased their Christian beliefs by working with the people who were found on the underbelly of life. My father is a recently retired executive director of a prominent Christian drug and alcohol rehabilitation center, while my mother works with women who suffer in situations of domestic violence as well as other types of misogynistic abuse. The success of our family system is also seen in the career choices of my younger siblings who have chosen to be educated and work as musicians and artists in the area of social justice. It is safe to describe us as a family that feels compelled to work in areas of compassion ministry though I am the only sibling that professes Christianity as my faith foundation.

Though both of my siblings are committed to working and fighting for the equability of all people groups, this desire does not seem to stem from an overt Christian sensibility. They have been able to identify the obvious disconnect between what we as Christians proclaim as the core of our mission and the way in which we carry out that mission. This disconnect can also be traced to our upbringing. Though our parents practiced an enormous amount of incarnational methodology with those they served on a daily basis, we were not able to benefit from that belief system in the home. We instead were the recipients of their supremely dogmatic Pentecostal worldview and in retrospect were robbed of the genuine compassion they displayed to “those in need”. It is amazing for me to think back and recall two people who were so cutting edge outside the home and inflexibly old school inside it.

Another portion of the dogmatic mindset that dominated our home life was the unspoken law that “ministry” or “the Lord’s work” came first. Family gatherings of any sort were very rare because one of the parents was always scheduled to be “ministering” elsewhere in some capacity. Suffice to say this created a bit of resentment within our understanding of church ministry and God, though not necessarily towards the people who were the object our parent’s affection.

The most powerful and lasting influence on a young person’s life is the family of origin. No other system has a greater impact on the long-term development of their faith. The power of the family system increases rather than decreases with age .

When reviewing my family system, the above statement is probably the best explanation of how I have subconsciously and methodically reconstructed my present family system into a paradigm more to my liking. Just like my parents, I have worked within systems, which allowed me to directly impact the lives of families. And even though I have tried to run away from anything church related, I walked right into being a member of the clergy. My life seems to have taken a very familiar path.

So with all of the frustrating experiences this world has produced for us we have still decided to answer the call, maintaining that we have discerned The Spirit primarily active in the community and not chained inside the church building.

To that end, we have consciously attached the redemption of our family system to the simultaneous redemptive process within our own community. Meaning that we believe there is no way our family system can truly experience its complete redemption while those around us, living within the same community are left out to fend for themselves.

I often wonder about the drawbacks of this decision to journey towards communal redemption but I definitely have seen enough evidence to dissuade me from trying the traditional church method. We will simply take our chances.

today

2008-03-07T15:53:00.003-05:00

They tried to kill me today; I mean I think that they think they’ve finally done it. I’m not part of this inner circle, not by blood at least; my family hit the ceiling at high-level line workers, actually it was my father. He never made those proper moves; you know that ones that secure your family’s future, those proper alliances with the proper power brokers. Nope, not my dad he always was just fine being small potatoes, just enough for his get high and he was good with the hustle. He didn’t sniff that shit anymore, it’s was the money and the women this trip around the pony track but a nigga still gotta have his get high. Besides he’s washed up now anyway, not much protection to me now - the inner circle put him to pasture about six or seven years ago he’s actually lucky it didn’t end for him right then. He’d gotten sloppy, caught up with his importance and no longer worth the risk - it was his being just close enough to the inner circle and the ability to generate revenue that’s saving his crazy ass to this day.

Even with his earning potential I was still alone and out of jurisdiction, his New York value had long since diminished, I was an easy target - out spoken, articulate, and instinctively honest. I had been spending time with my girl’s godfather but he’s part of the old guard and the new regime has no regard for what was, so his protection was more cosmetic than anything else - it simply brought me more time - time, which assured I’d survive what was coming. Fortunately for me everything was destroyed in the attempt so as of right now I’m untraceable but I know it won’t take long for them to figure out I’m still alive. I’m not looking back though, time will settle all accounts I have some other things to figure out right now and once those things are figured the rest will play. I know who carried out the task, I just don’t know how deep this betrayal extends I’ve identified the few allies remaining, what I haven’t been able do is figure all the enemies and I fear I’ve over looked a few. Truth be told its extremely difficult to know them all, even for those of us that are in by our outer regional blood. Most believe it’s mainly due to the introduction of self-ascension, in that environment there is no room for honest old-school allegiances.

Tomorrow I make contact with some that have already escaped the labyrinth, we will sit, drink coffee, and share memories - this will be the last time we see one another for a few seasons. It is also utterly important that none find them selves connected with me in any way; connection with me will expose them no matter where they choose to submerge. I however do not have this option of submersion, though I have escaped death it has occurred to me that remaining alive has rendered me an exile to all I knew and a nomad to all that awaits me. In the aftermath of the attempt I saw his face, a shadow of it actually and quickly I identified the hatred within his countenance. Malice and destruction had already taken residence within his heart replacing his professed dedication to all that was good. Death implored him to effectively terminate my essence because I detest the weakness of this realm under his tyrant-like scorching

One must always stay attuned for the next ...

I died today - tomorrow begins the life after.

reclaiming youth at risk - a book review

2008-03-07T10:38:00.004-05:00

The tension that exists between those who practice theory and those who spout theory is a visible tension that is felt every time the two parties interact. The dilemma in the eyes of the writers of “Reclaiming Youth at Risk” is that those who research and write do not understand practice, while those who are gifted practitioners feel they rarely have the time to write. The combination of ever evolving theory birthing from the trenches of practice is rare but this is what the book attempts to merge.

The material offered endeavors to present the growing interest in building theories from successful practice rather than forcing semi highly esteemed theory into practice. Their ideas spring forth from two fountains of thought; “The Seeds of Discouragement” vs “The Circle of Courage.” The presentation seems off center at first because it is the integration of Native-American philosophies and western psychology but maybe it is the thought process of practicing each from different ends of the spectrum that presents them as strange bedfellows.

The writers break their theory into three sections; the alienation of children in modern society, the holistic approach of Native American child development, and a list of principles and strategies that can help in the creation of a reclaiming environment. The result is a book that shows you what child development should look like, why it should look that way, and how to get there - without reading at all like a “how-to” book.

As I interacted with this book I couldn’t help but feel like I was reading about everything that is wrong with church youth ministry. I fear that every “Purpose Driven” youth ministry might be unsuspectingly planting the “seeds of discouragement.” This is a very bold statement, I know. But if writing is not a place to challenge the status quo, then I fear l might never have an outlet for my observations. With that disclaimer out of the way, let me explain my thought process.

The culture of church youth ministry is breeding ground of destructive relationships, climates of futility, learned irresponsibility, and the loss of purpose. Youth group is an exclusive world that only allows those, which look, sound, and perpetuate the part. This exclusivity is fertile ground for relationships that can destroy adolescents who are living to find a place where they fit in, at their very core. This “purpose” which “drives” most Evangelical youth ministries is one that spits out offspring that will “carry on the vision” without honestly working with the youth to produce a vision or a purpose for themselves. The two major themes that prove worthy of effort from this book are Belonging and Generosity.

I wonder what ministry would look like if we focused on helping young people to know that they belong to the Kingdom of Heaven. If we could transmit to them that if there is any place that the misfit fits in is the Kingdom. If there was ever a home for the people who just can’t seem to get their act together, people who have failed to say the right thing, come from the incorrect part of town, attended the incorrect school, or make the incorrect amount of money per year. People who have a past, feel as if they have no future, or are just trying to make it through the present – those are the people that the Kingdom of Heaven was made for. That sense of belonging all by itself would lead all its inhabitants to an altruism way broader than the desperation that once residenced. The focus would lean less to outreach and more to development because everyone would already be considered “in”.

Some might say that my thought process is utopian in its approach but if so called “savages” within the Native American culture can commit themselves to communal and holistic development of their offspring, then just maybe we can work here as a local body to unlearn some of our programs of alienation in favor of Belonging, Mastery, Independence, and Generosity.

This all sounds very much like our principles of discipleship , (selection, association, demonstration, and reproduction) that can be found in books like Colemen's "Master Plan of Evengelism" ... just healthier.

Mahogany Blue

2008-03-06T21:06:00.003-05:00

One of the crucial element of survival for the African slave was the ability to sing, the irony of that survival is that this also became a major component in the minstrelization of our culture. The land of their captivity taunted them with thoughts of songs that were sang in the homeland, songs that represented celebration, songs that elicited memories of a life they would never live again; its not just the simple issue of displacement from their home land because even if they could return back home that very day, the painful stain of slavery would never dissipate.

The secondary issue is one of cultural mockery; their pain, degradation, and displacement are now a source of entertainment for their captors. This is a phenomenon that has psychological ramifications that will not be realized for generations to come but it quite plainly sets the stage for a culture that can no longer experience itself without the defining parameters of their oppressor’s objectification. This train of thought explodes when layered over the African American expression. Much like the Hebrew slave, the African salve began to only experience themselves through the eyes of their captors thus every element of their personal and cultural experience came under the lens of the oppressor.