Pay attention to your dreams, for they say the subconscious never sleeps. That eyelids bow the soul’s curtsy, a closed curtain for the eyeballs that awaken when the body shuts down. Bodies that die so that the mind may live. Your eyes move freely in the darkness. The random eye movement of fluttering skin in the heart of dreams. The spirit waits for the exhaustion of the soul so that it may move about amid visions we tell when we wake up. The subconscious self that stutters while we sleep, taking notes and collecting memories from the storage space of the mind. Peeling back the deception of the beautifully crafted language we birth when the spirit’s not present. Showing them for the nightmares they are when masks fall, and demons manifest our truths in the depths of our minds and in the visions that awaken when eyelids bow in the heart of dreams.
They get tired of hearing it
Ain’t nobody got to say it
But I know they get tired
Tired of these distractions
in brown colored skin
waking up from valley’s with
muscles and tendons all conscious like
Uncovering the blood on the American Flag
and intoxicated with
unraveling the color of bigotry on beautiful glass
and falling stars like
why they keep sitting in?
between our comfort and a hard place
this be some kinda hard place
for brown colored skin in the spring time
Strange fruit popping up again on trees
Nina ain’t here to sing us a song
After nearly 400 years
lullabies just don’t work no more
Tired of these guns accidentally going off
somewhere in my purse
somewhere in my womb
somewhere in my future between lip stick and foundation
I got to warn my sons
about accidental guns
generational homicide got me on my knees
praying the badge ain’t got his name on it
In the words of Camonghne Felix:
“If we’re going to attend history, we might as well be accurate about it”
will I be left
with the fragmented pieces of my husband’s shoes
between our front porch and the living room floor
will my kiss linger long enough to bring him home tonight
or will I suffer a widow’s fate of mistaken identity
These brown, tan, bronze, and mahogany colored skins
all do look the same
I’m afraid for your guns
they don’t seem to know the difference between friend and foe
or maybe they do
funny how bullets be mistaken themselves for judges
that ain’t got names on it
they say a gun
ain’t got a name on it
why they sugar coating it?
Cuz peoples get tired of hearing about all this black
All this oppression
All these curses
All this power like
why we won’t pour sugar on top these bodies?
Get ‘em up out the street
don’t want our bullets to get stirred up you know
getting up out of beds
loading themselves into chambers
and taking walks at night
in the afternoon
and especially in the morning
when it’s springtime
No, it wasn’t suicide
the freedom in her chest
the genuine in her throat
and the explosion of awareness
she didn’t try to hide
packing a strap
never hesitating to open fire
leaving trails of Earthquakes lingering at your side
pen to paper
creating a new world of gun smoke
and fienes who didn’t mind dropping the dime
even if sudden truth made em choke
you see she killed ignorance with her words
and cracking open minds
that refused to otherwise
she ate books with the speed of speech
and digested their integrity for breakfast each morning
but she wasn’t a good girl
a good woman
for she would spit tsunamis later that night
a raging storm
were her words when she blessed the mic
a collection of seas
to wash away the broken
and a ringing silence afterwards
like screaming death was her audience
jaws scattering somewhere across the floor
like red carpets
and eyes found a home in her face
it was clear
she’d destroyed the room
and left bodies in a state of ruin
for they all sat unmoved
feared her voice like blank pages
and empty books
silence dragging their minds to ponder
a new birth place for their thoughts
and no this wasn’t suicide
for she killed ignorance with her words
and the detectives concluded that yes
it was murder she wrote
OK, so what’s my thoughts on this? Well, there’s the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in-between. There’s the surface and then there’s what is beneath the surface but I’m not going to get into all of that. There’s some dark clouds in Hollywood but there’s some sunshine too. As far as the Oscar Boycott is concerned, I don’t have much to comment. On this cool, yet beautiful Saturday, my day of rest, my Sabbath, and my calm. On this day, where I usually do not post, I needed to write this and I choose to keep it beautiful.
From the positive end of the spectrum, there’s a glint of light attempting to bud and to shine and to erupt into something beautiful. Something is trying to break through the hard shell, pierce the darkness, and replenish the damaged soil in Hollywood. Who knows what will come of it. Will blacks gather as a cohesive unit to achieve something of their own? It is not really just about the Oscars. It’s about a jolt of consciousness that is needed, and perhaps now being conceived, to move this powerful people. Come forward Gideon. Come forward David. Come forward Samson. Come forward and tell your story the way that it needs to be told.
They tell you to keep dreaming, but I am on a mission to stop the flow of dreams. To stumbling block my way through imagination, and the influence of certain memory. You see, there’s a secret to all these dreams. A hushed lullaby of awareness kept sacred within the chambers of understanding. A secret left deserted amidst the open square of objectives and goals and missions, and all this talk of entrepreneurship. It is easy to get lost here. To be an off scale balance of myth and reality. A sleep walking fantasy of coming and going wrapped up in fragmented steps and plans. Dreamers strive to illustrate the future with their talents, and to breathe life into the stillness of pictures that once belonged in books. Their striving is admirable to say the least since I too have goals I wish to accomplish. Yet while accomplishing them I’d hope to do so while awake; in the depth and breadth of consciousness. To never be put into a situation where I lose track of myself for the sake of adding humanity to fairy tales. The greatest achievement means nothing to the person who has lost track of themselves, and have opted to be boxed in, and to be mentally limited. It’s OK to have goals, but be not the sacrificial lamb to your greatest dreams. Do not do away with goal and objective, but be careful under the concept of dreaming, since to dream, you have to first be asleep.
I notice that young people like to engage into conscious conversation nowadays….
a mind heavy with questions a…..
bed of regret too slippery to hold onto any longer we linger on the brink of activism and righteous revolution but…..
like wild bulls in a net we are caught ironically by the same thirst for consciousness…….
breathtaking words and artificial intelligence that sound almost like life….
a quick fix of metaphors glossed over with the shine of illuminated intelligence
a mere ignorance in disguise
it is my hope
that before we start to think
we may first search the graveyard of our ancestors closets where we buried our minds
because it is evident….
that though we are inebriated of the euphoria of information….
we have yet to be informed.