Tuesday, June 30, 2009

mj, unexpectedly, through another; oildown

made my 1st oildong ever this week and, if i do say so myself, it lash! the gutta crew mash it up in a one, no leftovers for next day- i had to dish out for kb+fred before the crew even finish eating the night, to make sure the parents get to taste before it finish! and speaking of the gutta crew, the staged reading went mostly smoothly, lots of useful feedback from an interested audience, and it look like we might be about to do something...more sooncome...
but what really prompted this post was found through a source i can't yet admit to using; 2 pieces by john survivor blake:

Dear Nina
Ever since your voice

wept and whaled
an honest version of "Strange Fruit",
piano keys filling the echo
of empty bodies in forgotten coffins,

I knew then
you were everything black
to the grave,

There's a chance Michael's innocent
of raping children. only God will know.
If this is so, I am praying you meet him.

Keep in mind, you may not recognize the boy.
America took bleach and blade to him.

Look for a face
with everything required
to be considered easy
on the eyes.

His frame is thin
from cutting pills
instead of meat; as if
he tried

Between the morphine and Demerol, Harriet
may need to lift his spirit with gospel claps
and her two magnificent hands, just
like old times.

Do not take him to God. The shame
would destroy what little is left. Personally,
I never blamed him the first experiment; how
the girls swarmed his caramel skin, longed
to slide their fingers through his much looser
curls, and butterfly-kiss
his then-tinier

walk him to Assata. She will hold the sun still
and bring back the blue shine. Call Malcolm.
He knows the cure for any conk.
Find Gordon Parks. break out every photo
of pride and prejudice, from police fangs
to fire-hoses. Then, show Michael
the biggest smiles on the blackest faces.
Show him he could have been happy that way.

And see what Gordon can do
with Michael's face. Let him clay, sculpt,
add everything back, . I don't know how well
feathers work as brushes, but what other choice
do we have?

(Please, keep him from Miles. That man
will be sneaking him off to Satan's every weekend.)

Sing for him;
Black is the color of my true love's hair,
Mississippi God Damned,
I loves you, Porgy,
Mood Indigo,
and, of course,
a duet with Billie;

Strange Fruit

until he feels the warm rain, sees
blood of his roots, red

as his infamous leather jacket

as his stopped heart,

as gathering wind in Autumn,


as the cracked eyes
of weeping girls
who wanted to be him;

White, skinny, famous, rich,
singing about love, with long,
flowing, straight


A Letter; Miles Davis to Chris Brown
I wanted to thank you

for letting me borrow your body,
I had one last beating to give,
and you, so willing, volunteering
your girl like that,

Sound is powerful,
from hiss to scream, gasp to moan,
the scraping noise needles like us make
when we dig into a woman's vinyl skin,

I knew how to grip a bitch
before your hand knew your cock,

I couldn't float by, she blocked that next song I had
bangin' around my skull, no respect for pitch or tone,
draggin' you into that argument,

did you lose a song too, when she started
with that bullshit, causin' a wind of stares,
did you smell the gasoline sharpen after she threw the keys,
me too, hollerin' 'bout other women in your phone,

did you see the way she shrieked
when we bit her, when the blood
smacked the dash, the way I said,

Now, I'm gonna kill you.

Hands and teeth grow minds of their own,
shit, one time, I hit Cicely so hard
I saw my next album in her teardrop,

I had to protect my ears, but
someone writes your music,
what's your fuckin' excuse,

She ain't goin' nowhere,
These people will chase her
back into your arms and
hate her for returning,
dub her a fool and you

just a man,

til then keep makin' records, dedicate her a song

let it be blue, like the flame on a stove,
hot but sad, alive but lonely, let her see you,
a train she don't want to miss, women
only care how we sound, don't look
into the camera, let her beg for eye contact

when a bitch lets you back in,
squeeze her ribs in your fingers,
slide your palms over what hasn't healed,
say nothing, and let her go,

Women need time to forgive themselves
for staying

I see my handiwork made the news,
next time reporters see her,
big glasses and head down,
your name nailed to her collarbone,

never mind words when the flock of press
frenzy, peckin' for crumbs,
shovin' to see the Devil in the flesh,
damn the details, they like to know
money don't change the sound
of a fist crackin' a face,

when the drama ends, reminder her
to watch that tone,

Hold any one of my Grammies,
lift the gold speaker to your ear,

that ain't the ocean,
it's the sound of your woman
fixin' her whimperin' face
in the mirror.

walk good.
ps: for the recipe-record, i use callaloo bush in my oildong...


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Friday, June 26, 2009

of theatre, white women and gutters

found ourselves a whitegirl for our staged reading of gutta beautiful, so we orn like boil corn. i'm thrilled with the cast and starting to get excited about saturday, cornerbar 4pm:
gutta beautiful tells the searing story of lola, a young black woman who finds herself at a crossroads in love and life after discovering her own role in her man’s choice to surrender to popular culture and the drug trade economy. lola’s journey, as well as michael’s and her girlfriends suga sweet and orchid transcend time, exploring the history of love and life for people of colour.
"the play represents both the imaginary and fantastic landscape of our collective psyche and the hard-core physical reality of our daily lives,” says playwright, nina a. mercer.
cast: isoke edwards-najeeullah, tracey lucas, tonya evans, mandisa granderson, muhammad muwakil, nickolai salcedo, sophie wight.
parental guidance strongly suggested; mature content.

about the author: born and raised in washington, d.c. and now residing in new york, nina angela mercer is a playwright, essayist, fiction writer and visual artist. her play, gutta beautiful has been produced at d.c.'s warehouse theatre (2005), and for d.c.'s first capital fringe festival at the woolly mammoth theatre (2006). she received her m.f.a. from american university and studied transnational feminist literature of the 20th century in the english doctoral program at the university of maryland. she has taught at american university, university of maryland, and howard university, and is also the founder and artistic director of ocean ana rising, inc., a non-profit arts incubator and outreach project. nina is the proud mother of two daughters.

walk good.
ps: i eh forget mj, just don't think we really need any more commentary.


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Tuesday, June 16, 2009


and now, the last words you thought you'd hear me say: i need a white woman.
i'm directing a staged reading of the excellent play gutta beautiful this month and have 1 role still uncast- i need a white female to read 1 of the characters, so any whitegirls or people in the company of whitegirls interested in acting, please let me know asap- it's a good role, dark humour, reading supposed to be month-end.
plus, darren cheewah's 1st solo art exhibit runs (june17th, happy birthday chee!) this week until july17th @ the republic of sydenham art gallery, sydenham avenue, st.anns: wednesdays-fridays 10am-4pm, saturdays+sundays 10am-noon (621.3970 for private viewing appointments mondays+tuesdays) all pieces on sale! and when he done that, i should be finally getting new ink! so fucking excited.
there's an erotic art exhibit happening around town, too, i may read something for its spoken word/poetry event- more details as i have them.
meanwhile i may be about to write a book for someone, managing major life upheaval (details sooncome) and mourning the loss of a friend- i didn't blog about $hok's ill health because in the same weird way i couldn't seem to see him, i didn't know what to say about it. denial, i suppose, which evaporated yesterday when i saw him still+small, except for his gargantuan hands, in his casket and realised i was in much worse shape over everything than previously realised. now i wish i'd written about him when he was still with us. but i can still say he was always entertaining, wildly talented, and will be missed. biglove sheldon, wherever you are, enjoy the music.
walk good.


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Wednesday, June 10, 2009

non-carnival jouvay

over the past 2years or so my prescence here has been increasingly irregular- there's been major shit going down that i couldn't really talk about but was invading my consciousness so completely that it hard talking about anything else...
all of which is to say that now i see the light @ the end of the tunnel. rebirth is underway and soon i'll be here more often, saying more, more freely.
to the few who still bother to check me, thanks for your patience. a renewed, reinvigorated sweet trini sooncome; this time "soon" actually means that, and in the meanwhile, you know i still come to this space as i can.
walk good.


Blogger Kari said...

we wait patiently and loyally.

9:32 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

It is spelt jouvert.

11:08 am  

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