"Mr. Obama is not one of you."
How do you see Mr. Obama? I can assure you that your vision of what you think he is is completely distorted. What Mr. Obama wants you to see is not a Black man in the white House. He wants you to see how they see him. They don't see an educated gentleman married to an elegant educated attractive lady. They see a Nigger in the White House who brought along his Bitch ass Ho and their two little nappy headed little nigglettes.
And you danced in the streets because you thought that you were getting one of you in a position of power. How wrong you were. He is not one of you because he reasons that the only way that we can survive is to become United as a Nation comprised as equals under the law. He is not one of you because his First and only Lady entertains her well mannered daughters with the works of the literary masters. She teaches them to converse in English and to carry themselves as she does, with dignity and grace. And she has introduced America to a staff comprised of some of the most intelligent, beautiful and powerful women of color on this planet, but you missed that because your view was blocked by the shaking, bouncing booty of some brainless colored girl on BET. You did not notice because sadly, he and she are not one of you.
He is not one of you because he is a good man. The good man is someone that they fear and that they don't want to mess with. Why? It's because they eat what they kill and they are always hungry for justice, and they kill often. Mr. Obama is hungry for equal justice for all and he will kill injustice in order to feed that hunger. No, he is not one of you.
Then that brings us to discretion and the Law in Anglo-America. I am not talking about what you think or what you might assume simply because Mr. Obama is in office. He has no such power to change mindsets or existing conditions. He can only attempt to make changes in laws that have been designed to suppress and undermine the unity of a nation.
Take into consideration that discretion has always been at war with the law in Anglo- America, that is, to administer justice consistently and objectively. This implies in fact that there can be no justice for Anfoney, Sha ne' ne', Keshawn and Shequan. It has never been, is not, nor will there ever be sensitivity to individual differences. The punishment. under the law, when it comes to people of color, does not and has not fit the crime.
The Anglo-American, historically, has tempered the law by shifting emphasis from one feature to the other. One can say that shifting is more in the legal writing of various times than in actual administration of justice. That would be equal justice for all. The fact of the matter is that in Anglo-America, true justice, exist only for the Anglo American, be they Po White trash, middle class White Bigots or upper class rich white government official who don't even fain at not being racist and above the laws that they themselves enact.
If you are not yet aware of these facts, then you must, without a doubt, be one of those Negro's, Latinos, native Americans, Jew's or Asians, that for one distorted reason or another, you think that you are equal to them simply because you are allowed to live in their community and have been educated and are for the moment, gainfully employed. The reality of it is that you will never, ever, be considered equal to the one's that they consider low life Po White Trash.
Sadly you have not come to the realization that no-matter what your status in life, or what you have worked hard to attain to, you are and always will remain in Anglo-America, Niggers, Spicks, Redskins, Grease balls, Wetbacks, and Slope Headed Gooks. Consider also that none of those vile demeaning inferences to minorities exist in any of their native languages. They are Anglo inventions to lower, demean and control those they violate, rape, murder and wrongfully imprison and enslave with injustice and inequality with unbridled impunity. Master Willie Lynch is not dead.
I hope that I have gotten your attention. It seems that Mr. Obama and his First and only Lady hasn't, and he is a grand example of who and what we should be as a Nation of differences, and what we should strive to be, Simply Human!
"My Heart doese wonder."
Who is it that said, “there are no ribbons in the sky”? And I ask often, what manner of man is God? Is the reflection that you would see in his eyes a fleeting glimpse of your own inner beauty. Or is it just a vision of the question answered, do dead men dream for all eternity of what could have been while they lay beneath the beautiful uncut hairs of graves?
When asked, would he at long last disclose the sacred secret as to why you love so deeply? And does the love you feel last until the rivers no longer flow south and the mountains become but stepping stones across now dry sea beds, and squirrels can run across the tops of trees from north to south and from east to west without ever having to touch the ground?
For a moment, please, take notice of yourself. See how your look has grown tired and old, and sickly lean. Is what you gaze upon a vision not of the evil you have been, but just a more vivid picture of all the evil that you have seen?
What you hear, are they the songs in the key’s of life, sometimes in the solitude of your empty heart that plays over and over, reminds you of lost friends, loves and moments never stolen and guilt’s not revealed? Do you hear the single grains of life’s sands as they fall gently from the top of the hour glass of your life into the bottom of it, tumbling and falling toward your own demise? Are music to your ear’s A song, each grain, becoming those song’s in the key’s of your life that become more beautiful as you age? Or are those song’s just the sound of your pleading cries for redemption?
And in the end they but bring back to the fore all that your mind choose to forget, but your heart of hearts longs to relive and remember? And in the end, I promise you that you will come to find out just manner of man God is. As you lay there beneath the beautiful uncut hairs of your grave. And you will dream the dream of all the things that could have been for all eternity, forever and a day. You will come to realize at last that Abuse is the camel that never knows the last straw. Sweet dreams friends unto one selves. Dream on
"The Band wagon of dead children."
Once again the public is rallying for what I call a false noble cause. And once again the public was prompted to do so because of the sweet pungent sickening smell of death. How noble and honorable and concerned you all are once the band wagon starts to roll. How conveniently blind you are when you see abuse and not report it such as the case of this dear child Shaniya Davis, and how deaf you all have been to the cries that you choose not to hear.
One friend of the fathers stated that there were cigarette burns on the body of the child, yet they did not report it to CPS or the police. I call it depraved indifference. The father said that he wanted to give his drugged out pregnant exgirlfriend a chance to be a good mother. Well, I call that wreak less endangerment of a child. They sang "His eye is on the Sparrow" as they cried for a raped and murdered little girl and made the most stupid statements saying, She is in a better place now, and will never again feel any pain." I say, hell, why not just kill all of those poor suffering abused children and send them to a better place where they will feel no more pain. And still, along with Ms. Winfrey, You make false pretense of emotions and concerns, after the fact.
What serpents and vipers and hypocrites you all are. Shaniya Davis is dead and you burn scented candles in her honor and do not realize that she cannot smell them, her nose is packed with Cotton by the embalmer. The stench of her rotting, purifying little decomposing body cannot feel the softness of those teddy bears that you have left for her to play with. She is cold and hard, the Medical examiner has gutted her like a slaughtered pig and the stench of her will linger in your nostrils only for as long as the media carries the story.
What about Diane, Debbie, John and Joseph and Daisy? They were raped, sodomized and murdered and left to rot in unmarked graves. Yes, they too died yesterday, today and tomorrow. And, alas, you will be once again be handicapped by your self inflicted blindness and once again tune out the cries of the abused little babies though the sound roars like the thunder. The roaring heartbreaking sound being being drowned out by your total lack of concern and the selfishness that leaves you deaf and dumb to the harsh reality of abuse right next door to where you live and right there in your own families. You are all GUILTY of DEPRAVED INDIFFERENCE. And you do nothing but sing Psalms and light candles. Only when it is convenient. Sleep well! I can't. I have been there and lived it. And you abuse me anew.
"Your Brothers Keeper."
Maybe I shouldn’t share this with any of you, but I have grown so very tired of crying in the dark. All of my pains and sorrows have been poured out there in that cold and complete darkness. I covered my windows and covered my head with blankets. I only emerge from time to time to walk silently among you and your kind, pretending as you do that all is well and that there is nothing wrong. Pretending as one might to be strong and fearless, competitive and confident. You have destroyed me and now I am none of those things, though I once was.
Whenever I am around you I shake inside so terribly that I want to wet myself and the bile wells up inside of me, choking me on my own vomit. I only want to escape back into my comfortable dark and shrouded existence where I am safe from your corrupt and vile world of contemptible behaviors. There I can cry undetected. There in my pitch black self-imposed prison, I, in form, can become the invisible man.
Alone I grieve sometimes when I remember what we used to be as a people, and I remember that time when my talents and abilities transcended color. A time when I was allowed to display my compassion and knowledge, and that humanity brought me power, and I was in demand. Now, in this time, my talents and abilities gain only fear from the masses because of my color. Then, as I remember, there was no conflict when it came to right or wrong. Nor was it personal. It was simply right or wrong. Now I am conflicted. Right is wrong and wrong is right, and it has without a doubt become personal.
To get ahead I had to distinguish myself from the negative stereotypes of inner city Negro men. I am not one of those Negros; I never have been one of those Negros. One of those demanding special treatment, one of those safe uncle Tom, grinning, tap dancing shake your booty jigger boo’s perceived by whites as one of those safe one’s. I was and am one of those smart ass, non- bowing, kiss my ass if you don’t dig where I am coming from, dangerous one’s.
Their self-consciousness over race limits their ability to have any direct, honest conversation with me. For them race permeates so much of their thinking in this society, and subtly colors so many of their action. They live in ambiguous shades of gray, and try as they may to convince me of otherwise, I don’t trust them. When I ask, the answer I receive with jarring vehemence is, “You are the man.” You are not like them and we need you, someone who is a credit to his race.” As if I were truly so naive enough to think that because of my race, which they have no idea what my race is, they would not use or hurt me because of it. When it comes to them, you people, my distrust and resentments are rife. And still they, you, have the audacity to think that I don’t see a striking consistency in your racist behaviors.
I just wanted to welcome all of my negro friends back to the 19th century. You have made the journy so short that you never realized that you were going backwards. You have regained your positions once again as bed bitches and field nigger and house niggers. You allow your pants to droop and you walk once again with a wide gait because they are falling down around your knees. You allow your battered and abused children to become captives of a system that is designed to teach them to fail and you have forgotten how to be just and humane because of your greed and lost of your true history. So,l continue to go on boat rides, forgetting that it was a boat ride that got you here in the first place, and array yourselves in Baby Phat, FuBu and P Diddy. Kill your brothers and call your women bitches and Ho's. You are now at a place where you have never been before, self imposed slavery. You are chained to corruption and greed and have no natral affection. You have become worst than your Masters.
"No Place of my own."
If you have been wondering where I have been, please let me bring you up to date. I have been living beside the Cape Fear River. It is a dark motionless wet and deep place. I at times am lost therein wanting to find a more gentle place to be. I sought to do what I thought was right and honorable and found myself blamed for lie's I did not tell and names I have not used. I find myself hungering for the human side of mankind and have been filled with naught but comtempt for who people have judged me to be. I have stolen nothing and have been blamed for stealing everything. How sad we are, we human animals, the true beast of the field.
I am known to few, and found friends in only those who have come to know me. The cold that I feel is not brought on by the chill in the air, it is the coldness of the hearts of man that freezes me to the core. What warm lines we type, and what cold views we display. I look back to yesterday and listen for the sound of the drum that I onced marched to. Alas, my vision has diminished with time, my hearing has become impaired with age, and the light from yesterday's Sun has long since been dimmed by the ugly dark clouds of today. As I did then, I seek, but have yet to find a brighter day on the other side of tomorrow.
What I saw yesterday was promise and hope. Today I see a world filled with the horrors of hate, malcontent, envy, greed, destructive rumors and no natrul affection. Yesterday, when I looked, I did not see these things on the other side of tomorrow. Then again, how could I have preceived such while still innocent, that simple innoncence, that the drum that once beat with compassion, and slowly, would disapate and come to an abrupt halt, leaving me to shuffle fourth with no beat at all to march to.
What happend to the drummer? What happened to the sounds of hope and promise that helped all to march forward into a brighter tomorrow. That beat that resounded throughout my days of innocence before that hate and greed and contempt of man did drown it out. There is no such thing as the other side of tomorrow. Alas, I am lost in that lost in this dark place called today. T'is a pity that i have been found guilty by a court of those who are not my peers, but by those who confined me to this blight called a wanting to do what is good. My heart is broken and it cried here in this dark place that I now call home.
"A Night In The life."
Last night I was walking around this dismal town and my mind wandered back to a more gentler time. A time when we had love songs and warm summer evenings. When the only thing that we really feared was sudden storms that rose up during a picnic on the Hudson.
In a distance I heard Little Anthony singing "Tears On My Pillow," and the Drifters crooning "Under The Boardwalk," and Sand in my Shoes. For a moment, and forever I was sipping on a 10 cent soda through a collapsed paper straw. And watching young lovers kiss in the stairwell as they promised never to part, while Billy Stewart sang "I Do Love you" in the background on the Hi Fi. I could once again see through the windows of smokey bars on Madison Avenue, and savor the sound of the Platters singing "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes".
Then in the distance of my hearts mind I am reminded of my own "Lonely Tear Drops." I look to the four corners of my existence and I wonder how did I get here. And no-matter what direction I turn, there is nowhere for me to go. I wonder what happened to blankets on the fire escape in the summer and bed sheets flung over the clothes line up on the roof, a camp site in the forest of the minds of two inner city little boys, Bobby and Gut. What happened to the wonderful dreams that we had under the stars and six stories up in the clouds?
Oh my dear Friends, the wonder of it all and the swiftness of time past and the shortness of time left did bring tears to me eyes. I have been around the world three time and fought in many a battle. I have drank from goblets filled with the best of wines and watched as the most comely of women danced the night away.
I have ridden upon the backs of swift ponies and sought out and killed men, not unlike myself, for the sake of peace. I have longed to love one woman all of my life and crave her smile, still, much more than her touch in my dreams. I saw the beauty of Gods gift of life come fourth from her body and cradle pure love in my arms seconds after her birth. I have kissed her gently upon her shoulder and then with care, so as not to wake her from the softness of her slumber, I laid the covers upon them so that she would not suffer to feel the chill of the night. I have not known Gods promise, I have not known love. She though was just a dream that never came true. A dream within a dream.
I am often saddened when people look at me like they know that I have nowhere to go. They know not the man in me. The man who would just like to go home to all of my yesterdays and not have to face any of my tomorrows. I would love to just go to sleep and wake up in a place where peace abounds and pain is nonexistent. How Long the nights are, and cold and lost the days. There is nothing soft and gentle beneath the stars tonight, only the promise of another day of walking toward nowhere and returning to nothing.
As I have said already, Once I only feared the suddenness of a storm, now I am constantly engulfed in fear of every moment that I am alive. I am in a dark room and cannot find the door that leads to the sunlit pastures of happiness. And from time to time throughout the day I think deeply upon the words of that great author that once wrote, "To Sleep, To Dream No more." And the lyrics that are so profound in my life, "I Who Have Nothing." Not even a simple love song. And they say that a man ain't supposed to cry. Though accused, I am guilty of nothing more than being innocent.