Friday, November 27, 2015

Birth Place


I want to know more than one



I want to know more than three



I want to meet Nigerians that speak



Kenyans that laugh at the Swahili I learned in Berkeley

Ugandans that correct my Mandarin

Tanzanians that teach me how to say it in Cantonese  


I want to tour the holy city Ile-Ife

trace the pilgrimage path of Mansa Musa

then circle back to Timbuktu


See the reminders of Aksum

See the remainders of Kmt


Touch the Earth and envision the buildings that my ancestors constructed

thousands of years before they were invaded thousands of times

leaving the still standing walls that others never believed were thousands of years old

till their, “science” said so


I want to board a barge in the south and flow north with the Nile

I wonder what eight others will join me


I want to walk the same trail

that was the first trail

compare my foot print

to the first foot print


The vision I see

The things I want to do

The escape I want to take


Isnt one that is new


Its one that is old

so old that its in the blood

in the very fabric and design

of all that claim




What I want is a realization


a reawakening

of my genetic inheritance

of my ancestral birthright


What calls me is the land so old

its true name

its original tongue

is the only

can only

be labeled


The First



that is what calls to me


that is what pushes me

that is the very intangible force that pulsates my heart

pumping the blood through my veins


That place that is forever older than old


In a constant state of









I want to breath the air in that place that is always in a state of newness

I want to feel the frequency in that place

where there are as many words for new

as there are people to speak them


That is the place

That is the space

That is


© Christopher F. Brown 2015


Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Accidently Whished Upon A Star


You scare the shit out of me

I know

I've said this before


So many things

about you


just like new


So many things

about you


just like old


There is enough mystery

about you

to where I am reminded of lifetimes

before you

Them's, We's, Us'

before you


There is enough mystery

about you

to where I can not foresee how this could end


but I know that is the lie I want to

I always try to

force into being truth


I haven’t learned not to like that yet.


The cards keep giving me

moons, chariots, and wheels of faith


I just want to see the lover


It could be that

I know it’s not



It could be that

I want it to be



so I'll just leave it up to



©Christopher F. Brown 2015

Assassination of Sight


In this world

Weeds are worshiped as beautiful

Roses are cast to compost as a vulgarity


In this world

Worms matter the most

consuming roses

one of their favorite past times

one of their favorite foods


The greater the weed’s ability

to choke the rose

the greater the weed’s glory


In this world

Roses are hated

especially their thorns.



©Christopher F. Brown 2015

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Crazy For Me

The so called, “Negro Spiritual”

invented on hot fields of cotton and tobacco

birthed of blood, whips, and sweat

tears served no purpose.


The, “Blues”

came with freedom

that wasn’t really free

that could be taken at a moment’s notice

that wasn’t guaranteed

only those that were actually


could even understand

could even care



Jazz is funny

Jazz came into the world


in the rain.


©Christopher F. Brown 2015

The African American is Dead; Long live the African

The African American

has had their time

has had their place


They have bled out every drop of blood

They have emptied every duct purposed for tear


They have broken

every bone

constructed and combined to form a back


The African American

has long dreamt dreams

days yet to come

days gone by


The African American has to awaken to their reality

die to their fantasy


We are:








The Diaspora






©Christopher F. Brown 2015

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Sound Of A Butterfly

It's been awhile since I've liked anything

Pac died

One of the Krazies turned Christian
The sickest of the sickmade is laying in a hospital bed.
They made a movie about nwa
And it made hella money
made me laugh

I remember when they banned them from the radio.
I remember when I had to sneak and listen to my sister's tape
the technique of the immortal one remains strong

On a cloud I called grown
I meditated with my blackness
had relations with the blues
made love to R&B
accepted Jazz as my personal musical savoir.


I never forgot
my first

I never fell out of love with
my first


everything new
except a few
was just bullshit

then one day
high up
floating on that grown cloud
I got confused.
I knew what I saw but
I dint know they made sound
One day

I heard a butterfly

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

Saturday, September 12, 2015


They say,

"America loves a winner."


I ask,

"Why doesn't America like Serena?"


They say,

"America loves an underdog?"


I ask,

"Why doesn't America like Serena?"


They say,

"America loves a good fight and fighter."


I say,

"I already know why but would you,


ever admit

Just once.


You know what,




© Christopher F. Brown 2015



Friday, August 28, 2015

“No Name in The Street” by James Baldwin: A review


nonameinthestreet“No Name in The Street” is the title given to a work of art James Baldwin penned in 1972. This production of a master wordsmith chronicles certain events of his life up until that point. It’s poignant that the words he forged 42 years ago are still razor sharp and piercing in regards to the times and issues of today. His words then, as they are now, are glowing red hot concerning the issues of today. It is a great failing of American society and culture that these words, this wisdom titled “No Name in The Street” has been meat in the pot of American sub consciousness for nearly half a century, and the same words are still said and still, fall on deaf ears and dead hearts. The same passionate reactions and same pin point accuracy that “No Name in The Street” voiced about race relations, police brutality, and the injustice of the American system labeled justice, has not changed. The attitudes that birth and nurse these demons of society have only evolved and added technological ways of camouflaging themselves, but the same bitter and rotten blood that Baldwin wrote of still pumps vigorously through America’s veins.


I would not say that is an autobiography in the traditional, or what a publisher would ask for sense. “No name in The Street” does not follow the liner path that has become the rule-of-law prescribed to modern and most autobiographies. The book does open with him writing about his childhood but what he does write about circles the relationship between his older brother and father. The book then jumps about twenty years or so to his time in France, witnessing the brutality that Algerians were suffering. Baldwin, like Langston Hughes, marveled at how well the French treated him as a Blackman from America, shellshockingly different from the treatment he had received in America. Baldwin, like Langston, soon came to see that was only spared the tragedy of American style hate in this society because at that time in France it was already in use and they focused it upon North Africans. Baldwin, like Langston, eventually had enough and could not idle hemisphere away while witnessing a people not his own suffer like his people whom were being brutalized in America and eventually left.


In “No Name in The Street” Baldwin gives praise to the Black Panthers, something that very few black public figures did at all at that time and rarely ever did openly. He addresses how the police were constantly on guard and the instigators with the panthers. How the media painted the panthers as violet gun totters but never spoke of the community programs that were started by the panthers. Baldwin even wrote about how it frustrated the police that the panthers were not in possession, even in the smallest amount, of the fear that the they attempted to instill. Baldwin also speaks of his depression having spoken with Malcolm X and Martin Luther King face to face weeks and even days before they both were assassinated. He wrote that the new suit he brought to meet Martin and then for an event with Malcolm also became the suit he wore to their funerals and how he could never bring himself to ever wear that suit again. The suit also became an entry way back into the neighborhood he grew up in and showed him how much he had transitioned from what people thought they knew about him to what was actually the truth about him.


By Christopher F. Brown



Sunday, August 16, 2015

Hip Hop from the artist perspective. This is interview I conducted at, go check it out

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