Party of the third Party

If you are going to love a dreamer

 

You can not be controlling

You can not be manipulative

 

their spirit

their passion

would be sacrificed

because of their love for you

because of their love of you

 

it would be because of you

love ultimately fermented into resent and hate

dreams turned to nightmares at the very mention of your existence

 

You can not be weak

You can not be moveable

 

Their fire

their vision

would juggernaut the mightiest of the weary

tears shed in the quiet of the dark

desires whispered in the secret of shadows

would never be known to them

 

The dreamer is Blind

not deaf

not dumb

 

If you are going to love a dreamer

 

You must be courageous

You must be adventurous

 

To love a dreamer is to bed risk

To love a dreamer is to set a permanent place for gamble

the acknowledgement of chance

the acceptance of failure

 

Loving a dreamer is to know

the only place of honor

is not with them

is with the dream

 

Loving a dreamer is to know

the only pedestal

is not for them

is reserved for the dream

 

Loving a dreamer is to know

they will love you

position their lives around you

but their purpose

their only purpose

is the dream

 

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

 

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Birth Place

 

I want to know more than one

Haitian

 

I want to know more than three

Jamaicans

 

I want to meet Nigerians that speak

Igbo

 

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

 

Human

 

What I want is a realization

no

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

 

There

that is what calls to me

There

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

yet

In a constant state of

Reconstruction

Recreation

Revelation

Renovation

Revitalization

 

Revolution

 

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

 

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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

you

 

It could be that

I want it to be

you

 

so I'll just leave it up to

you

 

©Christopher F. Brown 2015

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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

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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

free

could even understand

could even care

 

“Jazz”

Jazz is funny

Jazz came into the world

smiling

in the rain.

 

©Christopher F. Brown 2015

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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:

 

Africans

in

America

 

Africans

in

The Diaspora

 

Africans

We

Are

 

©Christopher F. Brown 2015

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Sound Of A Butterfly

It's been awhile since I've liked anything

New

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.

still

I never forgot

my first

love

I never fell out of love with

my first

love

yet

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

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Murica

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,

America,

ever admit

Just once.

 

You know what,

 

Nevermind."

 

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

 

 

Technorati Tags: Murica,a1abwriter.wordpress.com,poetry,Christopher F. Brown

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

 

“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

 

 

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

 

 

http://www.thelegendspanel.com/entertainment-blog/hip-hop-started-in-the-heart-and-is-still-there-an-interview-with-the-artist-y-jelal-laluddin-huyler

Ghosts In Shells

 

in between shadows

the sounds of quiet in the night

riding the backs of afternoon breezes

caressing the cold outsides of windows

 

existing as someone

other

Something

other

 

only in touch

only in sound

 

a hand on the back of a neck

its not there

pressure and heat compressed against lips

its not there

memories of fragrances navigating auras  

They are not there

 

fires by moonlight

rivers deep beneath earthen floors

 

lingering far beyond the time

the time to begone

 

It's over

still

It's not done

 

©Christopher F. Brown 2015

 

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A Parsec Away

 

On the planet where I live

gambling and narcissism

are recognized for the diseases they are

 

racism and homophobia

that's just people being people

 

Here

having a conversation with some is battle

mental exhibition bouts with jaw juggernauts

most only listen for their position to pounce

Never hearing a thing

 

favors and helping hands

well laid traps and plans sewing deeply rooted weeds

intended to bind over time

your worth is assessed by how much value you can acquire for other

 

animals are measured greater than people

it makes sense

People have yet to meet or even be human

 

Here

I'm not the type of Blackman you see on TV

 

six feet tall maybe taller over three hundred pounds

a well-read autodidact master of many things

 

On the planet where I live

that is considered a threat

 

Here

the goal is to populate Mars

before the pollution on Earth becomes inhospitable

to the people of Earth

after all

Mars is ours for the taking

 

Here

you're supposed to mow your neighbor's lawn

while your back yard is overgrown

while your kitchen burns down

 

On the planet where I live

all of this is common knowledge

some say sense

It's spoken of and considered

immoral and deplorable

 

Here

if you exist in any different or other way

you're labeled

one of the crazies and shunned

you’re supposed to know its wrong

not admit to it

 

© Christopher F. Brown 2015

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