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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