ODE TO ESCAPING THE RHYME

I am trying, but I can’t escape the rhyme.

When I am writing the spoken word pieces the concepts come to me in rhyme and when I lose the rhyme I sometimes lose my momentum and it becomes awkward. The rhythm is lost, and even when I start without rhyme it eventually asserts itself.

My sister says that I shouldn’t fight it, that I am good at writing in the rhyme and should not fight my strengths… The path of least resistance. But should I conquer this?

I have had this discussion about escaping the rhyme since at least 2002, and I still find that as I move away from rhyme, I move away from potency of message and lose the strength of the stream of thought. The signal comes in words that rhyme, that’s how I hear it. And when I break from the rhyme, I am not writing what I am being told. I am doing something else and it isn’t as pure.

Why can’t I escape the rhyme?

Someone told me to write my thoughts as an essay and then build the piece from that. I will try that, but my method has been more organic, the rhymes come to me, the words flow and I stop writing when I stop hearing them and then I go back and dot i’s and cross t’s. Most of best work came to me straight and then I polished it. That’s why I have it hard working from outlines in my creative work.

In journalism, I can piece it together, but literary art flows, it is difficult for me to assemble.

Why can’t I escape?

BEDROOM TALK: THE RENDEVOUS (PART 1)

As she enters the apartment she is greeted by the fragrant aroma of incense, Egyptian Musk, and the bellowing baritone of Buju Banton emanating from two large strategically placed speakers. The house is dimly lit, yet it possesses a certain brilliance. As she makes her way to the living area, she notices about four or five candles, and that a porno flick is playing on the muted television screen. She watches as a Spanish guy sticks himself into a think black chick with mad tattoos, and just as soon as he strokes, he shoots a glob of creamy goo onto her womanhood.

Her mind begins to wander, then centers on her host. He mumbles something about having the flick on to build up the energy of his passion, and that if she wanted, he would turn it off. Absently, she tells him it isn’t necessary as she takes off her coat and absentmindedly hands it off to him. He offers her something to eat. She declines and accepts a drink instead.

After he excuses himself to prepare her drink, she surveys her surroundings. She notices the computer, and thinks of all the times they had sent scandalous messages to each other, and imagines him sitting in that very chair stroking himself as he scanned down her latest offering. She examines his aquarium and marvels at how big the fish are. Big enough to make a meal, she thinks to herself. She wonders what they would taste like. She gets up and approaches the tank. As soon as she gets within a close proximity, one of the fish jumps and startles her. She steps back suddenly and almost bumps into her host, who was coming up behind her and almost knocks the drink out of his hand. He laughs and takes her by the hand to the couch, seats her, places the drink on the table and mounts her lap. He kisses her softly on her lips. Once. Twice. He pauses and looks her up and down slowly, as a lion would a gazelle.

He licks his lips, then slowly licks hers. He kisses her again, sticking his tongue into her mouth. She can feel his anxiety, however he plays it cool. She knows he wants to rip her clothes off and fill her with his longing, to, as he had said numerous times, f*ck the living hell out of her. But despite his desire, he holds back. He was teasing her. Seducing her. And she was enjoying every minute of it.

to be continued…

THE JOURNEYMAN (JOURNAL # 1)

As we travel through BABYLON’S HAMELIN, playing our pipes, so much ground has BEN covered as we gallop on four TROJAN HORSES of apocalyptic, apocryphal truth making mice of men and eagles out of chickens. In this day and age as FYAH MEN heat up spots and BLUE MEN groups perform theatrics for their COUSINS, it is refreshing to be a part of the decoding work, the unfreezing of a world stuck in a wardrobe. I am the LION.

It’s funny how “I ain’t lying” is an expression in the “skreets.” They don’t know how truthful those words are. Many of us are far from Lion. It’s good that tomcats admit it. That’s all most of us are doing. Tomcatting, chasing the puss in hooker boots. Meanwhile, the pussycats are getting their eagle on.

It reminds me of when slang for money was ENDS. That’s really fucked up backward thinking. Money isn’t an end. It isn’t an objective. It is a tool. It is a means. It is a useful energy when properly administered, thus currency can be seen as an electrical current. On this river the power of commerce flows. But it is not an END. It is a MEANS. Money can’t buy you happiness, but it is a means of acquiring those things that do. It is a tool of trade. I need it to buy my bricks, and when the temple is built. I shall give thanks and praise to I N I industry.

PRINCESS CHARMING

INSPIRED BY BYTCH PROBLEMS

I found myself thinking of her everyday and wondering if it was really love or was it infatuation. The bee had lit upon the flower. I knew that it could be real, but did she? Did it matter?

Make it real and she will be real.

Everybody comes into your life for a particular purpose and one cannot allow another person’s wants to cloud what it is that they have to do in life. One just has to be honest with themselves in that regard and not think that it is some great big and/or bad thing. It is what it is.

As for me, I am filled with so much love and so much guilt and so much desire and so much ambition that I have often been paralyzed by it and was waiting for a Princess Charming to come and give me the kiss to break me out of the slumber. The inability to action, the frustration, the fist clenching table pounding frustration that can overcome one’s drive if unchecked.

I know what I have done wrong and I move to stop doing it. Although at times it seems I can’t do it all by myself, even though I am capable, because I am compelled by other factors to divide my strength. Or was I making excuses?

One must know that they are working it out and life changes the rules all the time, so what the fucking difference does it make? Life cheats. But life is an illusion.

Patient. Detached. Always Fearless. But Feel-Less, not quite.

We may be Fearless
but we have Feelings

SUGAR HONEY ICED TEA

Depictions and descriptions written on the foreheads of victims smitten / See verbal vixens and sex kittens cruising on a carnal crucifixion mission / Layered thought / Green North moss fought / we balk at white chalk / When this red-tailed hawk squawks / angels swarm and storm the devil’s forts / Krazo Loco like Destro / Cobra’s Cobo / Cobo Bobo / Awesome powers of the mojo we the / spooks who shagged by the door of final war / Abaddon Don Quinteson sick with psychosis / Can bring dem sharktikons or the scorpions and locusts / X-man as if I’ve been in the 7 temple / Mind detect mind is teaching real and keeping simple / Slick with the sword slay / syndicated sluts and media whores / Harvest is great / handle chores and worlds are yore forever moors.

[cobo bobo] is first and foremost a creative, artistic energy and CULTURAL MOVEMENT.

It is a style of expression, a naturalistic mode of thinking, a celebration of NATURAL MYSTICAL living. [cobo bobo] is CHI, BA, and KA. It is divine force, ETHER. It is FIRE-WRITING, EARTH-QUAKING, WIND-TALKING and LIFE-WATER BEARING.

In its fullest simplicity as a CONCEPT, it is a movement of RIGHTEOUSNESS. ZION LIONS in GOAT clothing. CRAZY WOLVES at the service of the SHEPHERD.

A COBO BOBO can be likened to a front line SOULJAH in the midst of ARMAGEDDON. They can be initiates into a secret, ancient and mystical warrior society that EXISTS ONLY IN THE SPIRIT of knowledge, wisdom, sound drum and music of THE WAR NOT AGAINST THE FLESH.

They can be the JOHNNY APPLESEEDS of truth, power and justice and fruit of the HOUSE OF DAVID. They are likened to the MASONS of the foundations of a newly restored ANCIENT sovereignty. They aspire to a tribe among TRIBES SEALED, within tribes sealed, and a tribe sealed unto the UNIVERSAL solve reign.

A [cobo bobo] can be the essence of the ANGELS OF THE SEVEN SEALS. It is specifically an inspiration of the fifth angel, the keeper of the abyss, ABADDON or APOLLYON. Known as the DESTROYER as CHRIST the KRISHNA is CRUSHER or as the MADHI leads the armies as MICHAEL leads the army of armies.

COBO as a BIRD OF HEAVEN is synonymous with the CROW and RAVEN in Native mythology, and by extension the EAGLE, the HAWK, FALCON and CONDOR. All ultimately represent the PHOENIX, THE SUN BIRD, THE FIRE BIRD, THE DRAGON. They are DEATH-EATERS and thus clear the pathways of LIFE. EYEBALLS of the OPPRESSOR are promised them as LORD’S EVENING MEAL.

BOBO is inspired by the BOBO ASHANTI order of RASTAFARI as shepherded by MATTHEW 1:23. I AM I-MAN IMMAN U-EL

[cobo bobo]

Spooks who stand by the door.
Spooks who kick in the door.
Spooks who burn down the whore.
LOON WOLVES WHO WASH UP
LIKE WHALES UPON YORE SURE

Blasted by a
middle passage
for at least three breaths
held captive
reckless eyeballed the irises
seeking symbols(cymbals?) of raptures
INI roar and roam with raptors
organized into leagues under seas
and Cesar’s siege
despite pleas for peace
in leaves of chapters
I’m playwright not the actor
A director with a grip
Tru blue cuz it’s a trip
Cobo Bobo Abaddon
From the crib(carib?) to the crypt(egypt?)…

[cobo bobo]

UNIKRON DON ABADDON DON DADA!

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Enta Tha Stage

As artists we are continually on a quest to find new ways to express ourselves, ferreting out new easels upon which to place our canvasses. This is one of the success factors of the great social experiment of the weblog, places where the world’s Doogie Howsers end the shows of their daily existence typing some life lesson onto a computer screen and, with the push of a button, make it available to the entire world and not just the television audience. While Neil Patrick Harris and his hokey background music has given way to Rev. Run thumbing out words of wisdom while sitting in a bubble bath, the need to self-express and be heard remains.

Sociologists of the future will have a wealth of information from which they will cull their analysis of the 21rst century. Time capsules are no longer some concrete items placed in the cornerstone of a given structure, everyone can create their own in the realms of cyberspace. Bloggers chronicle the everyday from the mundane to the profound, and while some may just follow the light, many will evolve into beacons hailing historians to examine the hallowed halls of their word-processed recollections. Those future souls who will write the tomes of our times, will surely have their work cut out for them as they sift through the masses of data this age of information expends.

Thus I must pound my keys and keep myself in tune. Thus I must chronicle the creativity. Thus I must publish or perish, fasting and praying that the Darwinistic forces that separate the wheat from the chaff of the blogosphere propel these words to eternity.

I am the phoenix.

I rise from the ashes of
the masses of them asses.

I am Dasun.

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