I Put On For My City...Youtube Style...

A Few Birmingham Classics...

Red Light District - I Know



Red Light District - Dream Team



R.O.A. - Giggidybang



GQ - Facez



MY BROTHER!!!! and Nadia Tellis!

Letter to My Firstborn...

Dear Child,

I pray you never grow up to be like me. I mean...I want you to have all of my good qualities like...My love for words...my desire to be better...my willingness to learn and...my desire to bring people together. I want you to have all of those things. I want you to be a dreamer, a fighter, a lover, a revolutionary. I want you to pick up the pieces of my broken dreams and glue them together with your very existence. Take my hope and heal the wounds that life has inflicted upon me...and your mother...

Conceived in a constant state of quixotic carefree living...Birthed in a world of fear....Raised in a Universe of Love...

You have my eyes...the first time I saw you, is the first time I'd ever felt purpose in my life. Your smile gives me hope...for me...because Lord knows I'd given up. I became filled again...The coffin I called a body became a garden. Love was planted with the expectation that a future would grow...

I pray that you don't get my arms...too short to wrap around others to comfort them...I pray that you do get my shoulders though, broad enough to carry the weight of the world. We are Atlas. We do not shrug. We lift...burdens...pains...hopelessness...from others. Give them to us. Our love will conquer them all.

New Program

So I got this new program for my G1 called AndroBlogger. I'm gonna start blogging from it. if for no other reason than my life has been utterly lacking in inspiration. I heard a poet say once that they write even when they don't feel like it because its the only way they can get better. Well, I want to be the best I can be and I feel like I can still get better. So, whether it be a burst of lyricism or a page of prose...I'm gonna be punching this keypad. Ya dig?

See Words...(A Poem for Inspiring a Twin...)

So, lately...I've been feeling a lot less "inspired" to write...I guess being a soldier will do that to you. Sadly enough I haven't even gotten to the "REAL' Army yet. *smirk* So...whenever I hear a poetic word...A rhyme I like, or have a thought provoking convo (which are few and far between these days...) I have to write SOMETHING so that I don't completely lose that which God gave me to make me human...

She asked me, "Have you ever in your life lost your love for writing?"
Ignoring the irony of the fact that the query was sent in a text, I began to examine my own past for evidence of cursing a heaven sent release...

I realized that without writing the rage of the beast within would have destroyed me, God may have begun to ignore me, and all those who love...would much rather deplore me. I ignored the...long explanation and chose to instead give a simple interpretation. I explained that I'd lost inspiration, but never the love. Hoping for more words to be sent from above to one day sustain me...claim me...as opposed to the words I had already used so constantly to maim me...label me...disable me...fables that I thought only HE could see, and still I tried to hide them. Wondering how I could have ignored the pen for so long and ignored the lines that confined my words to give me freedom.

Her gift was telling stories through images. Mine was to give images through stories. Kindred gifts. Separate ways. We parted so simply. Only to reside on the same page...

Untitled

I stand here...fully clothed and naked at the same time/ looking into your eyes and seeing past lives or maybe lovers past and wondering where I fit in? How did I end...up...here? Thinkingcontemplatingdebating

Untitled

I stand here...fully clothed and naked at the same time/ looking into your eyes and seeing past lives or maybe lovers past and wondering where I fit in? How did I end...up...here? Thinkingcontemplatingdebating. Wanting to be no other place in life. Ignoring all of the warning signs because this...simply feels right. Resigning myself to fate that I can no longer control. Heart busting out of a concrete mold...and softening. Trying to take off my anger and allow my emotions to go wandering. Dreaming of a day where my thoughts can simply roam free. Instead, I may let my arrogance get the best of me. My unwillingness to be a victim become the death of me. Painting pictures with words on a canvas of the mind that appears to be so callous, but its a falsity. I no longer know what I'm doing...I've allowed the most high to control my mind and I'm purging people one at a time because I'm unusually afraid of losing...you. You who makes me feel like the greatest thing in life and the smallest thing in the world. You who makes me contemplate life and not just another relationship with a girl. You who keeps me in check and checks on me from time to time. And you who don't understand the way that I've already decided to wrap myself up in you mind and make you mine. I...roam...freely. Through states of emotionality. Seeking the next battle that may finally make me a victor. Hoping that my life is not doomed to some sort of meaningless heartless disaster.

She told me she'd been hurt before...and I listened. I glanced behind her pupils and saw pain. I promised not to be the source of anymore...as long as she didn't accept my advances in vain.


-SE7EN

July 4th... (A double post day...) PART DEUX

Part deux....

Michael Jackson is dead. I'm saddened...but I'm not suprised. I was one of the few people that saw Michael as a tortured soul who would eventually self destruct. It sounds callous to the sensitive, but the truth of the matter is Michael Jackson' life was more painful and pressure-filled than any of ours may ever be. I knew Michael would eventually succumb to it.

Branded as a child molester, a self hating psycho, and the weirdest black man alive, Michael Jackson suffered the slings and arrows of Black America's oppression. The type of self-destructing attitude that gives us the "crabs in a barrel" mentality more than we'd like to admit 90% of the time. Phonte from Little Brother said it best on his Myspace blog (http://2dopeboyz.okayplayer.com/2009/06/30/phonte-my-hero-aint-molest-them-bitch-ass-kids-blog/) however, I still feel the need to speak on it...

Michael Jackson was the James Brown of our generation. For every hit that James Brown had that made us proud to be black, Michael Jackson has one. (Occasionally with an avant-garde look.) The dance moves, the extravagant clothes and shows, the crossover success. Michael Jackson built upon the legacy of James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Frankie Lymon, and Sam Cooke and took our natural gifts worldwide prompting both admiration from the likes of Usher and emulation from Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke.

The world mourns this black man. Yes, this black man. Stricken with vitiligo and forced to live a life under a microscope of speculation from detractors both black and white that would claim that he hated his skin color and chose to bleach himself. Those that questioned his Super Bowl performance...asking questions like, "Why didn't he pick up a black baby?"

Michael Jackson bore the weight of his own talent and our unrelenting, unrealistic, and at times ludicrous expectations from our black leaders, figureheads, entertainers, and ICONS. This ICON lived a life of immense talent and constant ridicule from his own people.

While I participated in the traditional Michael Jackson jokes along with many others, I never truly gave credence to the allegations lobbied against him...I'm sure many will say that's easy to say after the fact, but I don't care. I have the records (not CDs) to prove my fanhood. LOL!

I still remember laying in bed as a child listening to the song Ben over and over after one of my childhood friends passed away. No tears came, because I probably didn't fully understand death...as I don't really understand it today at 25...however, I knew that Ben had to be an expression of friendship in the musical form. I remember my parents getting me out of bed for one of their ghetto get-togethers and having me imitate Michael Jackson for company. Michael Jackson gave me my love of dancing, human body mechanics, and emotional music. For that I will be eternally grateful.

R.I.P. Michael Jackson...you will be forever known as The King of Pop

July 4th... (A double post day...)

POST 1: STEVE MCNAIR

At approximately 4:32 p.m. ET today...I found out Steve McNair had been killed. A tightness in my chest exists that is somewhat unfamiliar in terms of sadness. The reason it is unfamiliar is because I did not know the man. I never shared a laugh with him, never had a conversation with him, and never shook his hand. Honestly, I had not ever been in the same vicinity as Steve "Air" McNair. Believe it or not though, Steve McNair had a little bit of an impact on my development as a young black male...

The year was 1994, and I was a young little league quarterback with dreams of playing college football. Steve McNair was in his senior season at Alcorn State. Week in and week out, I found myself with my hands under the center, reading the defense, pretending to be Steve McNair on every single play. I did not look up to the professional quarterbacks of the day. I was completely enamored by the athletic play and sheer ability of this black man 10 years my senior.

On my teams bye week, my parents took me to see Miles College football games. My parents being alumnae of Miles, I naturally was predisposed to have an affinity for the school. Visions of wearing a purple jersey with a gold helmet as a 20 year old danced in my head. I dreamed of taking Miles College to a notoriety unheard of by the alumni or the student body. Dreams, although ultimately deferred for a number of reasons, were sparked by one man. Steve "Air" McNair.

Steve McNair stood on the shoulders of giants...Doug Williams from Grambling and Warren Moon. He was a black man unhampered by the norms of professional footballs traditional offensive schemes and quarterback archetypes. He was the link from Randall Cunningham to (*sigh*) Michael Vick. A quarterback that could run AND throw, one who relished contact, and could read/pick apart a defense as good as any quarterback to touch a football...

While knee injuries and size disparities kept me from fulfilling my dream of playing football, the knee problems more than anything, I still maintained an affinity for Steve McNair and tentativley followed his career. I pray that his legacy, toughness, ability, and determination to be a strong black quarterback is passed on to some 10 or 11 year old boy with a pair shoulder pads and cleats...that straps up his chinstrap every day of the football and dreams of taking Grambling, Howard, Tennessee State, Morehouse, Clark-Atlanta, Tuskegee, Miles, Albany State, or any other HBCU to a place of national athletic recognition. More importantly...I pray that that same child...dares to dream...

God Bless The McNair Family

I'm BAAAAAACK...as an American Soldier.

The best soldiers are not warlike...

-Chinese Proverb

On May 22nd I became an American Soldier. I graduated from Basic Combat Training at Fort Jackson, SC from the 3rd Battalion, 34th Infantry Regiment, Foxtrot Company, 3rd Platoon. (I had to throw all that in so you'd know EXACTLY where I was. LOL!)

I'm currently at Fort Meade Maryland in the US Army Signal School Detachment. I'm attending Defense Information School, also known as DINFOS.

I've been asked repeatedly how I feel about my decision to volunteer for the Army...

Truthfully, I'm still not sure. For the time being I absolutely love it. Then again, I haven't been through the things that millions of soldiers before me have experienced. Yes, I graduated basic training. Yes, I'm currently in AIT and enjoying being a journalist again. Is this this real Army, so to speak? Certainly not.

After leaving hear, hopefully I'll go to Airborne school...yes, black people do jump out of airplanes and land safely.

After that, I have no idea where I'll be.

I've also been asked if I'm afraid of going to Iraq or Afghanistan.

No. I'm not...

It's not because I'm super bad-ass. Because I'm not. It's not because I'm institutionalized and been trained to say that...I'm the FARTHEST thing from that. I just really understand the magnitude of the position I volunteered for. I volunteered to be a soldier. An active duty soldier in the United States Army in a time of war...TWO wars...and what looks like an impending third one.

Does that make me crazy....well, probably.

Am I afraid though...no.

Why? Because I'm sure the God I pray to EVERY SINGLE DAY will protect me. That's not some sort of All-American statement. That's my honest to goodness real-life answer. No joke.

Would it suck to go over there for 12-15 months? YES! I'm sure it would. No one...unless they're diehard infantry or a Marine just says, "YES! YES! SEND ME TO THE FREAKIN' SANDBOX FOR A YEAR!"

The fact of the matter is though, eventually I'll probably end up over there...and there would be nothing I could do or say to change that. Then again, why ould I want to? Like I said, I'm not claiming to be the toughest guy on the block...because I've proven time and again that I'm probably NOT that guy that chews nails and spits out bullets. One thing that I could never be mistaken for though is a coward. Shirking away from duty is an act of cowardice on a number of levels....

Last question I'll answer that I get repeatedly...

Has the military changed me?

Well...truthfully...yes and no.

Yes, the military has me waking up at 4:00 a.m. running a couple of miles, doing pushups, situps, flutter kicks, and got knows what kind of exercises Sgt. Bray comes up with. Yes, I've gotten a little accustomed to a certain level of discipline and order in my life. (Something that has actually been beneficial...believe it or not.) I've also picked up a stronger sense of a few values that I always understood and possessed but, truthfully, never really sought to actively practice them every second of the day.

How has it not changed me?

I'm still liberal. I still hold my same opinions on war, economics, abortion, and politics. I'm still a poet. I still love true hip-hop. I still love...LOVE. I'm still the same fun-loving, caring, quasi-emotional guy that I was before I left. I just wear a uniform now and am alot more relaxed and confident. I no longer worry incessantly about things I can't change.

So...expect the same. Pray for better. I know I will be...

-SE7EN

So, I'm leaving...

March 2nd...I'm gone. Period. I can't stop the process, I refuse to turn around. Even if I could stop the process...I wouldn't. I understand more and more each day why I absolutely HAVE to leave...

While the bumps and blows of life, initially brought me to this point. The fact of the matter is...my personal convictions and dreams have made me okay with it. I can't continue to languish in mediocrity or settle in a city that revels in it. Yeah, I could stay...continue doing my thing and try to help make the city better one person at a time, but I've realized that more often than not productions and performances get you more results than hard work. I'm not that kind of person.

The only productions and performances I do are poetry...and that's actually a selfish act more often than not. Yes, I pray someone gets something from my work and takes something away from a performance (On the rare occassions that I actually prepare and do them as opposed to being put on the spot....). However, more often than not...poetry serves as a therapeutic release for me. It's not a vainglorious action in any way...

Sure, I could give you names, places, dates, activities, receipts, and all sorts of other things that I have done trying to make this city better one child at a time...but why should that matter? Why should I exploit my work, my personal sacrifice, my love, for some personal/political gain? That's nothing more than self aggrandizement at the expense of someone else...in my particular case, a child.

A great friend and beautiful soul once said to me, "Everyone is looking for a come up....sometimes you just may be it...."

Well, Margaret...I understand now. I have been a few people's come up. I have been stepped on more than once to make sure someone else could see farther, reach higher, and be taller. At one point I reveled in the role of being a person who could help make things happen for other people. If I could help you get somewhere, no matter how near or far it was...I would do it.

What happens to me in the mean time? My dad once told me, "When you run out of favors...you run out of friends." Well, I got a few friends. (Literally, a few) Those people aren't going anywhere. I love them...they love me. They'll be here forever.

Well, I've run out of favors. I've run out of time. I've run out of patience. So, with all that being said...I'm no longer of service to anyone but myself and my close circle. I still got love for other people. I still care about people in general...but after March 2nd...I'm gone. Will I write if I care? SURE. When I come back, will I visit? You darn right! Will I come back for good? Hopefully...No.

I started off a poem I wrote in my notebook earlier with, "Don't tell me you'll hold me down...I might believe you." Well, I've allowed too many people to "be there", "Help me", and essentially "Hold me Down"

For lack of a better ending I'll say, "Put on your big girl draws everybody! The cargo is about to be jettisoned!"

Dear B'ham....(Inspired by Jay-Z's Dear Summer)

"For Jesus himself testified, that a prophet hath no honour in his own country."

John 4:44 (NIV)

Don't tell me that you'll hold me down...
I may actually believe you...

Dear B'ham/I know you gon' miss me at the crib
Because we go back like baby spit and bibs
Air forces and polo horses/A city where young niggas turn lighters to torches
I may come back one day/But I'm thinking it may be best to stay away
Because you never gave me a chance/Now you see me packing my bags like "aww damn"
Why you can't stay the city needs your voice?/But honestly the city/it left me without a choice
Can't chase my dream/City wouldn't give me a chance/I held you down for some years and couldn't get a helping hand
It's ok though/I understand disappointment so far/Became intimate with it while I was living in my car
But I refuse to fail/Won't let you break me/I'm smarter than most of ya'll/Harder this will make me/
You gonna miss me one day I suspect/I promise the day leave won't be one of regret/
Crabs in a barrell/I got tired of staring down/I guess you could call me a king crab because I'm escaping now/
By my own terms/ not the means I thought/Still the battle I'll fight now are better than the battles I lost...

So if you look for me Magic City one of these days/Wait 10 years and check the New York Times...front page...

Goodbye...

Home Is Where The Hatred Is...

A junkie walking through the twilight
I'm on my way home
I left three days ago, but noone seems to know i'm gone
Home is where the hatred is
Home is filled with pain and it,
might not be such a bad idea if i never, never went home again

stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why
hang on to your rosary beads
close your eyes to watch me die
you keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it
God, but did you ever try
to turn your sick soul inside out
so that the world, so that the world
can watch you die

home is where i live inside my white powder dreams
home was once an empty vacuum that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks
try to heal my broken heart
and it might not be such a bad idea if i never, if i never went home again
home again
home again
home again
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, quit it
kick it, can't go home again

--Gil Scot Herron from "Home Is Where The Hatred Is"

They say home is where hate is
But Where does love lie?
Because looking in your eyes all I saw was love cry
Listening to your voice I only heard love lie
So now I wonder was this home full of love or a feeble try?
Love was supposed to give me wings so that I may fly...
Instead, wings of wax melted as I tried to kiss the sky...
Deceit became a way for me to make it through the day...
And when it gave way to pain, it nearly drove me insane...
Nights marked with nothing more than dreams of unseen measurements...
Vainglorious thinking that my circumstances were heaven sent...
Until I realized I was slow dancing with the devil and...
Destiny was nothing more than my own sense of settlement...
Tell me when this gets too familiar...
So I'm looking in the mirror...
Wondering if another day will show me something clearer...
I listen to "Daykeeper" and think of someone to love me...
Keep my days from being filled with pain and bring beauty to nights so ugly...
Trying to make myself T-R-U-S-T He...
That gave me life...
Yet I blamed him for nothing more than my strife...
Leaving all else I had to fate...
Now I work twice as hard simply to save face...
A forgotten son of chance...
A student of lost opportunity...
I've been bludgeoned by all that these streets have to offer...
So tell me, what else can you do to me?
I'm packing my bags now...
One foot out the door...
My mind far away...
My soul longs to break free...
Yet my heart begs me to stay...
Home...
Is a fond memory of someone else's personal advancement...
An associates big break...
And a friend to be pitied for missed chances...
To realize a potential so great that was stifled by those who claim that love lives here...
So as a testament to a forgotten childhood, an adolescence full of stress, and a manchild in the midst of convalescence...
I refuse to shed a tear...
This is the beginning...
Maybe home is an ending...
Maybe the few beams of hope that I had were bending...around me...
Maybe the few droplets of passion that soothed my soul...now drown me...

So tell me...
If home was all you had...
And it rejected you...
Would you be there...
Or allow it to be the dried up dream deferred...
Blowing away in the winds of a life ultimately deterred...