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Tuesday, January 18, 2011

It's MY Burfday... I'll Be Verbose If I Want To!


This is my Natal Day Song To Me. I am composing this entry on the eve of my Natal Day… the anniversary of my first breath, first obstacle, first scream, first cry, first bitch, first song, first moan, first piss, first enfant terrible protest...

I pen this as another year reels and rolls and undulates before me like the hips of a dangerous strip-teaser.

And I come unraveling too, baby… yes, this crafty Capricornian comes at you, unraveling my drag, in metaphor galore, prose by poetic prose, until I'm all nuded up and naked as new birth. Oooweee! Can you stand a more naked me… naked in word and deed… naked in this most mortal coil, naked in my vulnerability?

This evening, I am more likely to be a soft blue refrain played quietly in those insanely late night hours. I am more likely to be dancing a slow-slow-grind under single a red bulb on the dance-floor of my mind. I am more likely to be the sublime subtext beneath that knowing glance I could never quite define or seem to finesse at 21 or 25, or even at 30.

Until recently, I would likely to be lost to that drag at the end of a long cigarette… and framed by the smoke exhaled after it. Instead of this, I am feeling the strains of new pains, new challenges, new things erecting in my psyche, effecting my rhythm, my breathing, wrecking havoc on my sleep patterns, making demands upon my heart, spirit and brain.

Meanwhile, this here be my constipated BIRTHDAY SOLILOQUY… no jazz refrain played softly to assist or regain my rhythm. There's-- just me-- solo, my instrumental improvised on these keys. Color me Thelonious Moanman. That's who I be, tonight.

What I’d like is to reencounter my inner child, go back to my initial negro, my pure, unadulterated angelic other… in short, as Joni Mitchell once wrote: I’d like to get myself “ back to the garden.”

Methinks we’ve some things to work on, work through, work out, renew, recapture, refine, revisit and redesign.

Smell me? Please feel free to reread if in case you got lost in the heaviosity.

Slowly, but surely with age, we begin to dismiss the bullshit pieces and pages and chapters from the book of our lives. Slowly but surely we pick up the gist of the things that Matter.

What matters most to me, is that I still aspire to inspire and to share my passion’s fire. I aspire to Love and to be loved in return, to write and to be heard, to touch and to be touched.

Yes. This is my song to me. It is penned by crescent moon, by starlight and the swoon of sanctuary. There's, just me, solo, my instrumental improvised on these keys. So color me, Thelonious Moanman. That's who I be tonight.

My keyboard has many letters, many notes, and many keys to play on, play on! My pen flows with multitudinous colors and these reflect all the hues to my soul. And all of them may be beautiful— and ugly, too.

Realizing this, I must be here for a reason beyond some inarticulate existence, beyond the rules of ram and cyber transmission, beyond electronic riffs of poetry and shit, beyond this cathode ray tubage, and so I am grateful to be among the still-living.

And this, this is my song to me, my rhythm and blues suite, sang acapella… on this, my Natal Day. Ooh-wee, can you stand such beauty! No, not a beauty composed of vanity, but the beauty of a Gift bestowed upon me, the Gift of Letting the JOY unfold; the Gift that's grown Strong from years of pain, fantasy, struggle, disappointment and perseverance, a Gift that's ultimately grown wiser, surer of its appointment with destiny.

So, this is my song to me, composed by crescent moon, the glow of starlight and the improved prose of sanctuary. There'll be no sad jazz refrain played softly to assist or regain my rhythm's kick. There's, just me, solo, my instrumental played upon these keys. Color me, Thelonious Moanman. That's who I be, tonight.

I pen this riff in selfish celebration, with determination that despite those theories of me being stardust and million year old carbon, I plan to live my Life, like it's Golden.

In the end, it matters not, what name, what number we christen this year, this month, this day to truly be… it only matters that we paint it golden and MAKE it matter.

But whether in times of good or bad and no matter my hue, I'll be sho nuff be Snatching JOY! And I invite YOU to join me.

So, Happy Natal Day to me! Now, could somebody please bring in the damn cake!



Saturday, January 15, 2011

Reflecting Upon Dr. King’s Legacy

In his short 39 years on earth, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr witnessed the all- encompassing darkness of injustice, and yet, was continuingly imbued by the Light of Destiny.

In his short 39 years on earth, he'd loved us so much as a people, that he would dedicate his entire life to fighting so valiantly on our behalf.

In his short 39 years on earth, he’d chosen purpose over power, right over might and freedom over finance.

In his short 39 years on earth, he’d chosen to embrace his capacity to Love over the treacherous tripwires of hatred.

In his short 39 years on earth, he possessed the emotional intelligence and sher boldness of heart to diagnose (& tried like hell to remedy) this great American Sickness.

THANK YOU for giving your life to protests and marches leading to jail cells and speeches, and by doing so, with your time here, you made an immeasurable difference.

THANK YOU for being a shining example, and not some foul and flawed excuse.

THANK YOU for being reflective of the very Best in us, our hearts, our spirits, in our potential as a people and a Nation.

THANK YOU for possessing a strain of Greatness which will never be unsurpassed.

* * *


Martin Luther King, Jr., The Measures of Man, 1959.

Man is man because he is free to operate within the framework of his destiny. He is free to deliberate, to make decisions, and to choose between alternatives. He is distinguished from animals by his freedom to do evil or to do good and to walk the high road of beauty or tread the low road of ugly degeneracy.”

Happy 82nd Birthday, Dr. King!

One Love.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wish I Were Grown Enuff To Keep a Straight Face... But...

I've said it before, I'll say it again:

I ain't right, yo!

Hillary Clinton Falls Down Goes BOOM!



Monday, January 3, 2011

Almost Three Weeks Smoke-Free. Applaud Me!


Almost three weeks ago, after 26 years and countless Newports inhaled in times of stress and boredom, exhaled, like some co-conspirator who rode shotgun with my pleasure, inhaled in those socially awkward moments, exhaled while shooting the tedious shit with friends and associates, inhaled in times of hunger and creative constipation, and exhaled as if the nicotine equivalent to an after-dinner mint, I decided the time had come to stop, to quit, to finally abandon my vile cig habit.

Cold turkey.


Yes. Applaud me! Thankyavurrrrmuch!

Doing anything cold turkey ain’t no joke, yo. The mind plays all kinds of cold and vicious tricks on you. You feel at odd times: sick to your stomach, tense, stressed, desperate, confused, deranged, deprived, moody, nervous, depressed, short-tempered, impatient, pissed, irritable, prone to mean-spirited sarcasm… and more. Trust me, those are pretty much the GOOD things on the cold turkey menu.

Without tribes of rabid monkeys gnawing their sharp little teeth against your back or some creepy sensation of bugs crawling all over your body, you still feel very much like a junkie trying so desperately to kick! As a result of this, you begin to suck as a person. For real, though. You make lousy company. You’re no longer any fun. You can’t even remember what fun feels like. Your charm is gone. Your wit has split. And your creativity has taken a severe hit.... or else it's on some extended vaca on the Isle of Time Out Of Mind.

But I’ve quit, yo! Yes, I'm currently crutch-free. No. Don’t applaud me, yet!

This. Is. Without Doubt. One. Of. Dee. Very. Hardest... (no, make that HOARDEST) Things I’ve Ever Had To Do! And I’m doing this to myself. I’m putting myself through this exercise in sensory deprivation and outright cruelty. The masochist in me is flipping the switch to my own suffering. The only saving grace is that I keep telling myself: I’m also doing this FOR ME!

I’m doing this because a New Year dictates that I usher in some new priorities.

I’m doing this so I’m no longer treated like a third-class citizen in this country.

I’m doing this to prove I have some power and some degree of self-control.

I’m doing this because, lately, I am not loving the sound of my own breathing.

I’m doing this to prove to myself that I’m not a weakling.

I’m doing this so my clothes won’t reek of smoke.

I’m doing this so I will become kissable again.

I’m doing this so I can walk up stairs & hills & long inclines without wheezing.

I’m doing this for economic reasons (cigarettes sell for TEN dollars in my ville, and the obscene sum of THIRTEEN DOLLARS a pack in NYC!!!).

I’m doing this because, although life is often hard, I would actually like to live as long as possible.

Yes. I’ve tried (3x) and failed to quit before. Strangely this time around feels more legit. All those other times I'd go a lil crazy, begin jonesin', and HAVE to light up, like after a good meal, however, now I’ve somehow refrained from that habitual behavior, and instead will just suck on a cough drop.

Although I’m not exactly a happy pappy these days, I still don’t have the desire to spit at, wish a pox upon, cuss a fool out, insult someone's mama, or murder anyone. YET!

Applaud me!

At this point, after almost three weeks, if I were to suddenly start smoking again, then I would consider myself a colossal failure. I hate failing at anything! I know that I am strong. I must learn to revel in my own strength and conviction, and, without vanity, to applaud my own magnificence.

I am learning something new every day about myself... and about this concept called WILLPOWER. You see, mentally, I’d made myself believe that I could not even write without my nicotine companion. The train of my thoughts would often derail, my creative gas pedal would stall, and there I’d be, lost, stranded in the scenery of a deep and profound writer’s block, unable to think, compose, come up with something decent or anything original. And then, I’d reach inside my shirt pocket, my fingers finessing the smooth contour of a cardboard green and white box. Inside there lay my twenty muses, or soldiers willing to help me overcome this battle. I’d light up a Newport, and suddenly, I was brilliant again.


Words came as if arriving on cool freight trains. New sentences were born, and ideas were fleshed out and fine-tuned, and all I had to do was inhale, and exhale. I’d romanticized this concept. Hmmm... Sheer creative brilliance came in this little green and white packet. Or so I’d thought.

But you see… that was all a lie… a dangerously clever lie the nicotine mentally placed inside my brain.

I am saner now. Despite my bouts of depression and my irritable disposition, I am saner because I’m no longer willing to walk through snow-blinding blizzards or schizophrenic alleys to cop my oh so dependable nic-fix.

See? I’m doing me now... the uncharming, unwitty, but ultimately FREE and liberated me, no longer a slave to Phillip Morris! And I am no longer that alarming social outcast reeking of smoke and nicotine all the while parading his weakness and his character flaws for everyone to see.

Yes. It’s been almost three weeks and counting…

So dammit, yes... applaud me!