Go back to previous topic | Forum name | Freestyle Board Archives | Topic subject | blk history month writers {06} | Topic URL | http://board.okayplayer.com/okp.php?az=show_topic&forum=20&topic_id=18266 |
18266, blk history month writers {06} Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-03-06 10:55 AM
ima just post one a day
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18267, lucille clifton Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-03-06 10:55 AM
"the lost baby poem"
the time i dropped your almost body down down to meet the waters under the city and run one with the sewage to the sea what did i know about waters rushing back what did i know about drowning or being drowned
you would have been born in winter in the year of the disconnected gas and no car we would have made the thin walk over the genecy hill into the canada winds to let you slip into a stranger's hands if you were here i could tell you these and some other things
and if i am ever less than a mountain for your definite brothers and sisters let the rivers wash over my head let the sea take me for a spiller of seas let black men call me stranger always for your never named sake
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18268, RE: lucille clifton Posted by ASIEM, Sun Feb-05-06 03:32 PM
this is depth of heart...well springs of a mothers torment and relief unfortunatley for so many this is an anthem.
"keep pennin till the earth birth's your rightful seed then nurture it wit more ink..." "there are no writers just channels" ASIEM "Kuun fiyah Kuun" Quran (Be and it is) " A writer takes his pen to write the words again that
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18269, amiri baraka/leroi jones Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-03-06 10:56 AM
"Black Art" {possibly my favorite poem eva}
Poems are bullshit unless they are teeth or trees or lemons piled on a step. Or black ladies dying of men leaving nickel hearts beating them down. Fuck poems and they are useful, wd they shoot come at you, love what you are, breathe like wrestlers, or shudder strangely after pissing. We want live words of the hip world live flesh & coursing blood. Hearts Brains Souls splintering fire. We want poems like fists beating niggers out of Jocks or dagger poems in the slimy bellies of the owner-jews. Black poems to smear on girdlemamma mulatto bitches whose brains are red jelly stuck between 'lizabeth taylor's toes. Stinking Whores! we want "poems that kill." Assassin poems, Poems that shoot guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys and take their weapons leaving them dead with tongues pulled out and sent to Ireland. Knockoff poems for dope selling wops or slick halfwhite politicians Airplane poems, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . .tuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuhtuh . . .rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr . . . Setting fire and death to whities ass. Look at the Liberal Spokesman for the jews clutch his throat & puke himself into eternity . . . rrrrrrrr There's a negroleader pinned to a bar stool in Sardi's eyeballs melting in hot flame Another negroleader on the steps of the white house one kneeling between the sheriff's thighs negotiating coolly for his people. Aggh . . . stumbles across the room . . . Put it on him, poem. Strip him naked to the world! Another bad poem cracking steel knuckles in a jewlady's mouth Poem scream poison gas on beasts in green berets Clean out the world for virtue and love, Let there be no love poems written until love can exist freely and cleanly. Let Black people understand that they are the lovers and the sons of warriors and sons of warriors Are poems & poets & all the loveliness here in the world
We want a black poem. And a Black World. let the world be a Black Poem And Let All Black People Speak This Poem Silently or LOUD
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18270, RE: amiri baraka/leroi jones Posted by seraph219, Fri Feb-03-06 01:50 PM
sigh... i remember the first time i read this one... check this out when you get a chance: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0817314962/102-2844663-9318511?v=glance&n=283155 i'm gonna try to find it on alibris for cheap
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18271, $60 is serious.... Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-03-06 02:27 PM
they have the paperback for $30 i may mention it as a vday present
what other authors/pieces are in there??
sumtimes anthologies can be lackluster
inbox me
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18272, RE: $60 is serious.... Posted by seraph219, Fri Feb-03-06 04:22 PM
I ordered the paperback, so I'll find out soon if this anthology lives up to the hype. I can say for sure that Black Chant by Aldon Lynn Nielsen is the truth. Basically I ordered the anthology off the strength of BC.
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18273, RE: $60 is serious.... Posted by whothafck80, Mon Feb-13-06 01:50 PM
..
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18274, RE: amiri baraka/leroi jones Posted by truth, Sun Feb-05-06 02:45 PM
this is my favorite baraka piece happy feb
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18275, mari evans Posted by rgv, Sat Feb-04-06 05:03 PM
"Where Have You Gone"
Where have you gone
with your confident walk with your crooked smile
why did you leave me when you took your laughter and departed are you aware that with you went the sun all light and what few stars there were?
where have you gone with your confident walk your crooked smile the rent money in one pocket and my heart in another . . .
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18276, enjoying your blog too... Posted by blak_yukon, Sat Feb-04-06 05:14 PM
<--jamaican ipod--
me and the fellas would converge and heat up some Hot Pockets in preparation for Rap City.© Roc
let's talk: yukonmag.com
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18277, thanks Posted by rgv, Sat Feb-04-06 05:16 PM
i hadta laff at ur avatar... makin fun of my ppl
itsallgood
atleast w/ the blog, i can post the fotos it's cuter
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18278, carolyn rodgers (an all-time favorite) Posted by rgv, Sat Feb-04-06 05:14 PM
It Is Deep (don't never forget the bridge that you crossed over on)
Having tried to use the witch cord that erases the stretch of thirty-three blocks and tuning in the voice which woodenly stated that the talk box was "disconnected"
My mother, religiously girdled in her god, slipped on some love, and laid on my bell like a truck, blew through my door warm wind from the south concern making her gruff and tight-lipped and scared that her "baby" was starving. she, having learned, that disconnection results from non-payment of bill (s).
She did not recognize the poster of the grand le-roi (al) cat on the wall had never even seen the books of Black poems that I have written thinks that I am under the influence of **communists** when I talk about Black as anything other than something ugly to kill it befo it grows in any impression she would not be considered "relevant" or "Black" but there she was, standing in my room not loudly condemning that day and not remembering that I grew hearing her curse the factory where she "cut uh slave" and the cheap j-boss wouldn't allow a union, not remembering that I heard the tears when they told her a high school diploma was not enough, and here now, not able to understand, what she had been forced to deny, still--
she pushed into my kitchen so she could open my refrigerator to see what I had to eat, and pressed fifty bills in my hand saying "pay the talk bill and buy some food; you got folks who care about you . . ."
My mother, religious-negro, proud of having waded through a storm, is very obviously, a sturdy Black bridge that I crossed over, on.
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18279, i love thee to the bone marrow © teena marie... Posted by morpheme, Mon Feb-06-06 08:53 PM
a friend of mine who wanted to manage *scoff* my {then} career *piff*
one of my favourites is masquerade
i have it printed out along w/my things i believe i posted it here once before
*we both love carolyn*
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18280, don l lee/ haki madhubuti {in love w/ this poem} Posted by rgv, Sun Feb-05-06 12:40 PM
Rainforest
you are forest rain dense with life green colors forever pulling the blue of life into you see you walk and i would burst rainwater into you swim in & out of you opening you like anxious earthquakes uncontrollable but beautiful & dangerous.
get with this woman come fire frozen beauty, men cannot sleep around you your presence demands attention demands notice demands touch & motion & communication.
you are runner swift like warm hurricanes fast like stolen firebirds & you disrupt the silence in me make me speak memories forgotten & unshared. secrets uttered in strange storms, deep full sounds reserved for magical, magical lovers.
listen runner i have shared pain with you, i have commented on future worlds to you, i have let you touch the weak & strong of me, i have tasted the tip of your ripeness & kissed sweat from your middle.
i have bit into your mouth and sucked the lifeforces from your insides and i know you. Understand you. i have shared books and travel and music and growth with you.
sweet knows honey & I know you. under salted water tides & running against polluted earth i've tried to be good to you woman tried to care beyond words care beyond distant spaces sensitive phases & quiet lies care beyond cruel music & false images. you are original high & dream maker & true men do not try to limit you.
listen woman black i do not wish to dominate your dreams or obstruct your vision. trust my motion feel know that I am near & with you & will cut the cold of winter winds to reach you. you are delicate bronze in spring-summers & special autumns you are forest rain dark & runner & hurricane-black frequently i say frequently I bring you midnight rain.
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18281, I Wonder ... Posted by PhotoSynthesis, Mon Feb-06-06 05:29 PM
If it would be possible to get an "anchor" on this thread -- (Would be nice) -- :)
Your contribution to blk history month -- In the way of sharing poets/writers -- is much appreciated -- *Forreal Tho*
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18282, audre lorde Posted by rgv, Mon Feb-06-06 07:27 PM
"Rooming Houses are Old Women"
Rooming houses are old women rocking dark windows into their whens waiting incomplete circles rocking rent office to stoop to community bathrooms to gas rings and under-bed boxes of once useful garbage city issued with a twice monthly check and the young men next door with their loud midnight parties and fishy rings left in the bathtub no longer arouse them from midnight to mealtime no stops inbetween light breaking to pass through jumbled up windows and who was it who married the widdow that Buzzie’s son messed with?
To Welfare and insult from the slow shuffel from dayswork to shopping bags heavy with leftovers.
Rooming houses are old women waiting searching through darkening windows the end or beginning of agony old women seen through half-ajar doors hoping they are not waiting but being the entrance to somewhere unknown and desired but not new.
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18283, robert hayden Posted by rgv, Tue Feb-07-06 03:22 PM
"The Whipping" The old woman across the way is whipping the boy again and shouting to the neighborhood her goodness and his wrongs.
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears, pleads in dusty zinnias, while she in spite of crippling fat pursues and corners him.
She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling boy till the stick breaks in her hand. His tears are rainy weather to woundlike memories:
My head gripped in bony vise of knees, the writhing struggle to wrench free, the blows, the fear worse than blows that hateful
Words could bring, the face that I no longer knew or loved . . . Well, it is over now, it is over, and the boy sobs in his room,
And the woman leans muttering against a tree, exhausted, purged-- avenged in part for lifelong hidings she has had to bear.
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18284, patricia smith Posted by rgv, Wed Feb-08-06 11:14 AM
Asking for a Heart Attack
Aretha. Deep buter dipt, burnt pot liquor, twisted sugar cane, Vaselined knock knees clacking extraordinary gospel. hustling toward the promised land in 4/4 time, Aretha. Greased and glowing awash in limelight, satisfied moan 'neath the spotlight, turning ample ass toward midnight, she the it's-all-good goddess of warm cornbread and bumped buttermilk, know jesus by his first name. carried his gospel low and democratic in rollicking brownships, sang His drooping corpse down from that ragged wooden T, dressed Him up in something shiny, conked that Holy head of hair, then Aretha rustled up bus fare and took the deity downtown. They coaxed the DJ and slid electric untill the lights slammed on, she taught Him dirty nicknames for His father's handiwork. She was young then, thin and aching, her heartbox shut tight. So Jesus blessed her, He opened her throat and taught her to wail that way she do, she do wail that way don't she do that wail the way she do wail that way, don't she? Now every time 'retha unreel that screech, sang Delta cut through hurting to glimpse been-done-wrong bone, a born-again brother called the Holy Ghost creeps through that. and that, for all you still lookin', is religion.
Dare you question her several shoulders, the soft stairsteps of flesh leading to her shaking chins, the steel bones of a corseted frock eating into bubbling sides, zipper track etched into skin, all those faint scars, those lovesore battle wounds? Ain't your mama never told you how black women collect the world, build other bodies onto their own? No earthly man knows the solution to our hips, asses urgent as sirens, titties familiar as everybody's mama crisscrossed with pulled roads of blood. Ask us why we pray with our dancin' shoes on, why we grow fat away from everyone and toward each other.
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18285, RE: patricia smith Posted by soulchild, Wed Feb-08-06 05:50 PM
*nods*
soul.
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18286, regie gibson Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-09-06 12:12 PM
"the city is..."
the city is the body of a woman where stars and street-lamps war for night. a cauldron of asphalt glass rubber where money is heart ovary semen vein the city a host living off her leeches where ghost fumes lay in ambush and anger is a legacy alive in her skin the city the body the women pens her poet in the dim lights of projects, spray-paints her artists on crumbling walls I have seen loneliness languishing in caverns of neon, where her dreams live, rape, torture die and live again. the city is the body of a woman a body where transformation forms in the fallow of grease and sweat. A body tattooed with henna and hell. Where men stumble into bitter memory and beg the comfort of quarters where kindness is contraband held soft and trembling to the swollen lips of rage. the city the head-phoned body of a woman bobbing in subways to 4/4 oblivion in whose body heroin is rider-less horse whinnying beneath the windows of fetuse s in whose body night is stalk and hyena spit laughing alley and dark corridors of snoring nightmares mumbling dark fugues of ache and awe whose body is muse and murder the city is refrain of suicide seeking salvation in pulpit and tambourine while god is scripture moaned in the beds of sinners. the city is the body of a woman whose water is always breaking
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18287, june jordan {i know...ive used this before, but i LOVE it} Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-10-06 09:19 AM
The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one
well I wanted to braid my hair bathe and bedeck my self so fine so fully aforethought for your pleasure see: I wanted to travel and read and runaround fantastic into war and peace: I wanted to surf dive fly climb conquer and be conquered THEN I wanted to pickup the phone and find you asking me if I might possibly be alone some night (so I could answer cool as the jewels I would wear on bareskin for you digmedaddy delectation "WHEN you comin ova?" But I had to remember to write down margarine on the list and shoepolish and a can of sliced pineapple in casea company and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's gaining weight and don' nobody groove on that much girl and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before the laundry hit the water which I had to kinda keep an eye on be- cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs and brain me with a mop don' smell too nice even though she hang it headfirst out the winda and I had to check on William like to burn hisself to death with fever boy so thin be callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?" "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not wake enough to sit beside him longer than to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/ his shirt and feed him orange juice before I fall out of sleep and Sweet My Jesus ain but one can left and we not thru the afternoon and now you (temporarily) shownup with a thing you says' a poem and you call it "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"
guilty po' mouth about duty beauties of my headrag boozeup doozies about never mind cause love is blind
well I can't use it
and the very next bodacious Blackman call me queen because my life ain shit because (in any case) he ain been here to share it with me (dish for dish and do for do and dream for dream) I'm gone scream him out my house be- cause what I wanted was to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my self so fully be- cause what I wanted was your love not pity be- cause what I wanted was your love your love
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18288, RE: june jordan {i know...ive used this before, but i LOVE it} Posted by seraph219, Fri Feb-10-06 11:04 AM
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Jordan.html
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18289, yusef komunyakaa {per papa & soul's requests} Posted by rgv, Fri Feb-10-06 09:37 AM
"Believing in Iron"
The hills my brothers & I created never balanced, & it took years To discover how the world worked. We could look at a tree of blackbirds & tell you how many were there, But with the scrap dealer Our math was always off. Weeks of lifting & grunting Never added up to much, But we couldn't stop Believing in iron. Abandoned trucks & cars Were held to the ground By thick, nostalgic fingers of vines Strong as a dozen sharecroppers. We'd return with our wheelbarrow Groaning under a new load, Yet tiger lilies lived better In their languid, August domain. Among paper & Coke bottles Foundry smoke erased sunsets, & we couldn't believe iron Left men bent so close to the earth As if the ore under their breath Weighed down the gray sky. Sometimes I dreamt how our hills Washed into a sea of metal, How it all became an anchor For a warship or bomber Out over trees with blooms Too red to look at.
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18290, read like a nice twist to John Henry ;) Posted by blak_yukon, Fri Feb-10-06 09:45 AM
<--s'right--
me and the fellas would converge and heat up some Hot Pockets in preparation for Rap City.© Roc
let's talk: yukonmag.com
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18291, RE: yusef komunyakaa {per papa & soul's requests} Posted by soulchild, Fri Feb-10-06 06:21 PM
*sigh*
soul.
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18292, thylias moss Posted by rgv, Mon Feb-13-06 09:33 AM
"TORNADOS"
Truth is, I envy them not because they dance; I out jitterbug them as I'm shuttled through and through legs strong as looms, weaving time. They do black more justice than I, frenzy of conductor of philharmonic and electricity, hair on end, result of the charge when horns and strings release the pent up Beethoven and Mozart. Ions played
instead of notes. The movement is not wrath, not hormone swarm because I saw my first forming above the church a surrogate steeple. The morning of my first baptism and salvation already tangible, funnel for the spirit coming into me without losing a drop, my black guardian angel come to rescue me before all the words
get out, I looked over Jordan and what did I see coming for to carry me home. Regardez, it all comes back, even the first grade French, when the tornado stirs up the past, bewitched spoon lost in its own spin, like a roulette wheel that won't be steered like the world. They drove me underground, tornado watches and warnings, atomic bomb drills. Adult storms so I had to leave the room. Truth is
the tornado is a perfect nappy curl, tightly wound, spinning wildly when I try to tamper with its nature, shunning the hot comb and pressing oil even though if absolutely straight I'd have the longest hair in the world. Bouffant tornadic crown taking the royal path on a trip to town, stroll down Tornado Alley where it intersects Memory Lane. Smoky spirit- clouds, shadows searching for what cast them.
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18293, jean toomer Posted by rgv, Mon Feb-13-06 09:40 AM
a portrait in georgia
Hair-braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher's rope, Eyes-fagots, Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters, Breath-the last sweet scent of cane, And her slim body, white as the ash of black flesh after flame.
***** &...if uve never read his collection, cane, pls do.
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18294, sapphire {it's kinda long, but is's fkn worth it} Posted by rgv, Mon Feb-13-06 09:42 AM
"Wild Thing"
And I´m running, running wild, running free, like soldiers down the beach, like someone just threw me the ball. My thighs pump thru the air like tires rolling down the highway big & round eating up the ground of America but I never been any further than 42nd Street. Below that is as unfamiliar as my father´s face, foreign as the smell of white girls´pussy, white girls on the bus, white girls on TV My whole world is black & brown & closed, till I open it with a rock, christen it with blood. BOP BOP the music pops thru me like electric shocks, my sweat is a river running thru my liver green with hate, my veins bulge out like tomorrow, my dick is the Empire State Building, I eat your fear like a chimpanzee ow ow ow whee ow! My sneakers glide off the cement like white dreams looking out at the world thru a cage of cabbage & my mother´s fat, hollering don´t do this & don´t do that. I scream against the restraint of her big ass sitting on my face drowning my dreams in sameness. I´m scared to go it hurts me to stay. She sits cross-legged in front the TV telling me no feeding me clothing me bathing me in her ugliness high high in the sky 18th floor of the projects. Her welfare check buys me $85 sneakers but can´t buy me a father. She makes cornbread from Jiffy box mix buys me a coat $400, leather like everybody else´s. I wear the best, man! 14 karat gold chain I take off before I go wildin´. Fuck you nigger! Nobody touches my gold! My name is Leroy L-E-R-O-Y bold gold I got the goods that make the ladies young & old sign your name across my heart I want you to be my baby Rapper D Rapper G Rapper I my name is lightning across the sky So what I can´t read you spozed to teach me you the teacher I´m the ape black ape in white sneakers hah hah I rape rape rape I do the wild thing I do the wild thing My teacher asks me what would I do if I had 6 month to live. I tell her I´d fuck her, sell dope & do the wild thing. My thighs are locomotives hurling me thru the underbrush of Central Park, the jungle. I either wanna be a cop or the biggest dope dealer in Harlem when I grow up. I feel good! It´s a man´s world, my sound is king I am the black man´s sound. Get off my face whining bitch! No, I didn´t go to school today & I ain´t going tomorrow! I like how the sky looks when I´m running, my clothes are new & shiny, my tooth gleams gold. I´m fast as a wolf I need a rabbit, the sky is falling calling my name Leroy Leroy. I look up blood bust in my throat it´s my homeboys L.D., C.K. & Beanbutt! Hey man what´s up! I got the moon in my throat, I remember when Christ sucked my dick behind the pulpit, I was 6 years old he made me promise not to tell no one. I eat cornbread & collard greens. I only wear Adidas I´m my own man, they can wear New Balance or Nike if they want, I wear Adidas. I´m L.D. lover mover man with the money all the girls know me. I´m classified as mildly retarded but I´m not least I don´t think I am. Special Education classes eat up my brain like last week´s greens rotting in plastic containers. My mother never throws away anything. I could kill her I could kill her all those years all those years I sat I sat in classes for the mentally retarded so she could get the extra money welfare gives for retarded kids. So she could get some money, some motherfuckin´ money. That bitch that bitch I could kill her all the years I sat next to kids who shitted on themselves, dreaming amid rooms of dull eyes that one day my rhymes would break open the sky & my name would be written across the marquee at the Apollo in bold gold me bigger than Run DMC Rapper G Rapper O Rapper Me „Let´s go!“ I scream. My dick is a locomotive my sister eats like a 50 ˘ hot dog. I scream, „I said let´s go!“ „It´s 40 of us a black wall of sin. The god of our fathers descends down & blesses us, I say thank you Jesus. Now let´s do the wild thing. I pop off the cement like toast outta toaster hot hard crumbling running running the park is green combat operation lost soul looking for Lt. Calley Jim Jones anybody who could direct this spurt of semen rising to the sky. soldiers flying thru the rhythm „Aw man! nigger please nigger nigger nigger. I know who I am.“ My soul sinks to its knees & howls under the moon rising full, „Let´s get a female jogger!“ I shout into the twilight looking at the middle-class thighs pumping past me, cadres of bitches who deserve to die for thinking they´re better than me You ain´t better than nobody bitch. The rock begs my hand to hold it. It says, „Come on man.“ T.W., Pit Bull, J.D. & me grab the bitch ugly big nose white bitch but she´s beautiful cause she´s white she´s beautiful cause she´s skinny she´s beautiful couse she´s gonna die cause her daddy´s gonna cry Bitch! I bring the rock down on her head sounds dull & flat like the time I busted the kitten´s head. The blood is real & red my dick rises. I tear off her bra feel her perfect pink breasts like Brooke Shields like bitches in Playboy Shit! I come all over myself! I bring the rock down the sound has rhythm hip hop ain´t gonna stop till your face sees what I see every day walls of blood walls of blood she´s wriggeling like a pig in the mud. I never seen a pig or a cow ´cept on TV. Her nipples are like hard strawberries my mouth tastes like pesticide. I fart. Yosef slams her across the face with a pipe. My dick won´t get hard no more. I bring the rock down removing what she looks like forever ugly bitch ugly bitch I get up blood on my hands semen in my jeans the sky is black the trees are green I feel good baby I just did the wild thing!
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18295, Gayle Jones Posted by invisible ink, Tue Feb-14-06 10:39 AM
...if you haven't heard of her get your read on ...miss k
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18296, ive read all of her novels Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 12:22 AM
i support blue streak to the fullest
havent read any poetry
thank you for this addition...
she makes me proud to be a jones {&morehouse too}
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18297, RE: ive read all of her novels Posted by invisible ink, Fri Feb-24-06 05:47 PM
she's definitely bad ass...you're welcome...k boogie
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18298, langston hughes Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 11:36 AM
Juke Box Love Song
I could take the Harlem night and wrap around you, Take the neon lights and make a crown, Take the Lenox Avenue busses, Taxis, subways, And for your love song tone their rumble down. Take Harlem's heartbeat, Make a drumbeat, Put it on a record, let it whirl, And while we listen to it play, Dance with you till day-- Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
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18299, more langston Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 11:39 AM
Theme for English B The instructor said,
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you-- Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me--who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white-- yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me-- although you're older--and white-- and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
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18300, more langston again Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 11:40 AM
To Artina I will take you heart. I will take your soul out of your body As though I were God. I will not be satisfied With the touch of your hand Nor the sweet of your lips alone. I will take your heart for mine. I will take your soul. I will be God when it comes to you.
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18301, my absolute favorite langston piece {if u were a harlemite, ud understand} Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 11:45 AM
Puzzled
Here on the edge of hell Stands Harlem – Remembering the old lies, The old kicks in the back, The old, Be patient, They told us before.
Sure, we remember. Now, when the man at the corner store Says sugar’s gone up another two cents, And bread one, And there’s a new tax on cigarettes – We remember the job we never had, Never could get, And can’t have now Because we’re colored.
So we stand here On the edge of hell In Harlem And look out on the world And wonder What we’re gonna do In the face of What we remember.
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18302, RE: my absolute favorite langston piece {if u were a harlemite, ud understand} Posted by jjune, Tue Mar-14-06 10:22 AM
i'm from harlem and i definitely understand
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18303, RE: more langston again Posted by Naanaa, Thu Feb-16-06 02:02 PM
thanks for posting this. gave me an idea for this week's story :)
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18304, ntozake shange {for noni, & shida, & me} Posted by rgv, Thu Feb-16-06 11:47 AM
you are sucha fool
you are sucha fool/ i haveta love you you decide to give me a poem/ intent on it/ actually you pull/ kiss me from 125th to 72nd street/ on the east side/ no less you are sucha fool/ you gonna give me/ the poet/ the poem insistin on proletarian images/ we buy okra/ 3 lbs for $1/ & a pair of 98 cent shoes we kiss we wrestle you make sure at east 110 street/ we have cognac no beer all day you are sucha fool/ you fall over my day like a wash of azure
you take my tongue outta my mouth/ make me say foolish things you take my tongue outta my mouth/ lay it on yr skin like the dew between my legs on this the first day of silver balloons & lil girl's braids undone friendly savage skulls on bikes/ wish me good-day you speak spanish like a german & ask puerto rican market men on lexington if they are foreigners
oh you are sucha fool/ i cant help but love you maybe it was something in the air our memories our first walk our first... yes/ alla that
where you poured wine down my throat in rooms poets i dreamed abt seduced sound & made history/ you make me feel like a cheetah a gazelle/ something fast & beautiful you make me remember my animal sounds/ so while i am an antelope ocelot & serpent speaking in tongues my body loosens for/ you
you decide to give me the poem you wet yr fingers/ lay it to my lips that i might write some more abt you/ how you come into me the way the blues jumps outta b.b.king/ how david murray assaults a moon & takes her home/ like dyanne harvey invades the wind
oh you/ you are sucha fool/ you want me to write some more abt you how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a dip that swings leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching & fully clothed
you set me up to fall into yr dreams like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat wanting to be still to be still with you in the shadows all those buildings all those people/ celebrating/ sunlight & love/ you
you are sucha fool/ you spend all day piling up images locations/ morsels of daydreams/ to give me a poem
just smile/ i'll get it
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18305, just a fact. Posted by robynwildchild, Fri Feb-17-06 02:35 AM
darkness in the mouth of a crime justified in time with all of the dimes well earned an spent
smoke another get pushed up against your car and vent
just another day getting torn just another way through the door
everybody knows who you are and you just keep playing no hate or delaying just one of them everyday thangs.
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18306, RE: blk history month writers {06} Posted by Krakkedout, Mon Feb-27-06 01:29 AM
Half black half white still deciding what side I want to bite. Living in hate and love at the same time never knowing who too be in each rhyme. Never had a good role modle on either side when I look left or right I have no pride. People say that im white some say black but it’s just me being me so every one else is wack. How can you live when you’re not accepted on either side? Makes me want to be Mexican and just ride. I know it’s the month of all who have died the people that worked and slaved just to stay alive. But in my own case a really feel deprived because I get no respect on either side.
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18307, not a poet, but... octavia butler Posted by mindful, Mon Feb-27-06 11:59 AM
R.I.P. June 22, 1947-February 24, 2006
fave books by her: Kindred and The Fledgling.
------------------------ Pinwheels and Hula Hoops: my book http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
http://msmind.blogspot.com
why is it then do we leave the details to the devil but get angry at God? ©kimabe
no shit in 06.
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18308, ohmyfknGod Posted by rgv, Sat Mar-04-06 11:31 PM
i didnt know she died she was just in essence...she just finished a new book
{if i remember right}
a few months back
absolutely
peace to octavia
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18309, yeah, The Fledgling... Posted by mindful, Sun Mar-05-06 11:50 AM
died from a fall and hitting her head outside her home... a fuckin' fall????
*sighs*
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/27/AR2006022701585.html
for reading. she was only 58.
------------------------ Pinwheels and Hula Hoops: my book http://www.lulu.com/content/132318
http://msmind.blogspot.com
why is it then do we leave the details to the devil but get angry at God? ©kimabe
no shit in 06.
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18310, RE: blk history month writers {06} Posted by delrica, Tue Mar-14-06 02:55 PM
RGV, you're a pioneer in your own right girlfriend.
I'm going to go ahead and archive this later this week.
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