I was never an artist. Not I, no sir. I was far too busy being an obedient sycophant in pursuit of the American dream that my handlers convinced me was my own. When my childish heart beat a syncopated timpani to the strokes of my pen, I did not sing its foolish rhythm. While wanton…
From November 2008: it happens in the mind long before you there were thoughts of you waiting I thought of your firm, round places that, begging for kisses, have awaited my touch chemistry from the start that will die within us our minds make love in ways they can’t understand and my dark places are…
Another poetry reading. Not sure how the sound became out of synch on YouTube, but oh well. Peace, babies.
My reading of a poem I wrote entitled “Lessons from a Zambian Road.” Be gentle, babies. It’s my first time.
he was jamming last night at the Saba redundant bass line heavy and hard drummer triplin on the two-three old style rub-a-dub style Jah Al-mi-TEE can you say Amen “Ras Tafari” cry de baldheads chillin my Irie but the brothas don’t care cause there’s coke in dey dreads and even Babylon look pretty in de…
She told me again about her boyfriend whom she will likely marry and to whom she’s given her heart yet still she mourns the love of her life. I wondered why the telling required her breasts to caress my arm but I like breasts so did not complain. Perhaps it was the hard lemonade. A…
I recall the summer of 1968 it harkens to me as it has every four years (ignoring 1980). It is the time of Olympic glory, but more importantly, it recalls my awakening as a young man. In 1968, you see, I discovered the power of Sport. Although all little American boys play at touch football…
Raw, Naked Art 