Lust is a safe haven craving to work its way in

From Rivers Avenue to King Street.

We desired to be the roses that grew from concrete.

We craved attention in the form of acting a little different to distinguish ourselves from the masses.

Lupe would've been amused how we bought into dumbing it down.

We lived in households of poverty that begat households of poverty.

Did the electric slide at crab cracks with our eyes closed - a muted expression of our sovereignty.

Denmark and Jesse and Harvey and Ronald told us we were special; no need for the why's and what for's.

We lived in those locales from whence resilience was a rare summer's douwnpour.

From Liberty Hill to "bakta" Green; the "Hike" to the Forest.

Imaginations so enormous you'd have thought these geechie kids were nonconformists.

We are the spawn of generations of resistance to the machine.

The matrix is real. The horizon is bleak and lean.

The past is but a figment of your imagination.

The future of the Lowcountry rests in your hands - much like this nation.

I've been gentrified like North Park Village and dismissed like the Navy Base.

In our haste, we forget to savor the taste of affection.

My attraction became a distraction; now it's your deflection.

You use it to hold me at arm's length.

You don't love me no more, huh? I don't got the strength to beg for a hug.

You gonna just do me like Piccolo and play me lukewarm; a mere fiddle to your orchestra to which you shrug.

I've longed to see Morris Street dreams become the fruits of a nighttime harvest of fireworks, foreplay, and free will.

We squeezed our way into the upper echelons neither because we asked for permission in advance, nor begged for forgiveness after the fact. Simply planted our faces on the window sills and panes until they gave way.

A demand was made.
An envelope pushed.
A spark ignited.

Charleston barely got spared in the previous great blaze, but the fire this time will come with no notice; no warning; just footsteps, fists, and fury.

I miss home. Shout out to my peoples from Chucktown representing the world over. The EAST Consortium just may have to make a resurrection. Word.

a damn shame

Teacher's fight ends in deportation - The Boston Globe

Need I say more?

Mr. Obain Attouoman is a well-respected teacher. He works at two Boston schools, and is admired by his students and peers at both. There is a lengthy trail of coverage from 2 years ago about his immigration woes. And still; all of that is for naught. And that - my friends - is a muthafuqing shame. We can berate candidates who do not wear lapel pins and question the audacity of someone who expresses finally being proud to be an American after a lifetime of witnessing injustice up close and personal. Yet, to know his story and professionalism, you know there is a student out there who will simply become disillusioned knowing that - alas - even the good guys get got.

I came to know of his story in my role on the board of Project Hip-Hop, which helped organize students to address Mr. Attouoman's immigration battle with the fervor of a new-age SNCC. The homie Mariama even traveled with a small crew of youth to DC to lobby on his behalf. I also had the honor of doing a laptop training at one of his schools. He is a consummate professional; passionate and poised. And his suit game is ill as well. Please say a prayer for Mr. Attouoman for peace and blessings. He truly deserves it.

A More

i prefer to be one
with my
words
yet I occasionally find myself plagued with
casual insecurities
so i dug
in my spurs
and sparred with verbs
until
we
were all
on one accord

a single pilot on this flight
destined for a crash landing
with no airbags

just gas masks
and heavy luggage


because, you see, i am the simplest of men

i am the true blue blood pricked
from those same veins
of contempt that familiarity bred

i am to be neither contained
nor pigeonholed
the sum of my parts
is greater than my whole

because what was said was said
and for such openess i bled
from a wound seared deep beneath the surface
and it's cold outside but this ain't memphis
so there's no explanation for why i'm hot

i was birthed in the in the womb of my doom
punished for my sins
and admonished for my hindsight

i was cleansed of humility
and stripped of of my smile

it's gonna be a while for me to find hope once again
but it's gonna be aiight

because from that same bosom of hope lost
was borne a post-natal muse
atoning for fatal sins as a recluse
until we fell back
and let the cards fall as they may

they say whatever happens, happens, right?
but this game of Black Jack was never the chance I wanted to take
i'm risk-averse and ain't built for such vulrnerability

I am too proud to beg
and too weak to walk away

so my bags may be packed
but the flight ain't even booked yet

i got kicks on my feet
yet i am naked to the world's eye

i am afriad of the man i have become
bewildered by the man i used to be
and not sure which one to embrface and hold close
and which one to shun

so i will end each day as if the next had already begun

and say

as i lay me down to sleep
i pray my soul he'll keep
so please bless us and those that we love
my heart i hope you can heal
and to my mind provide guidance from above

because

i

am

love

amen