 Good evening everyone. Thank you. My name is Elizabeth Callahan. I'm the adult programs manager here at the Brooklyn Museum and on behalf of the Education Division, I'd like to welcome you to tonight's event. We're open every Thursday night at 7 and our programs range from curator talks and tours to our monthly jazz series. But one night a month, we have a program called In Conversation, where we highlight the cultural capital of New York City. And tonight's program, looking at that, I think you would agree that we're doing exactly that tonight. You're in for a real treat. We have Jessica Caramore and Danny Simmons hosting a reunion, hosting a reunion of some of the most amazing poets. So I really thank you guys for coming out tonight. Now Jessica and Danny need no introduction, but maybe you'll humor me. Jessica is an internationally renowned poet, playwright, actor, activist, producer and CEO of Blackmore Press and founder of Black Women Rock. She's a legend as a five-time winner of Showtime at the Apollo, and she was a returning star of Russell Simmons HBO series Deaf Poetry Jam. She's appeared in a number of independent films including Slam Nation and the PBS documentary I'll Make Me a World. She's also an author of several books, including a forthcoming book of essays, Conduit, Literary Apartheid and Other Essays. Danny Simmons is a good friend of the Brooklyn Museum. He's the founder and president of the Rush Arts Gallery, and he converted part of his loft in Brooklyn into the Corridor Gallery. Along with his brother, he established Deaf Poetry Jam, and he's also the founder and vice president of the Rush Philanthropic Arts Foundation. He is also an abstract expressionist painter and an author of Three Days as the Crow Flies, a fictional account of 1980s New York art scene, and a book of artwork and poetry called Dreamed My People Were Calling, But I Couldn't Find My Way Home. So please help me in welcoming to the stage Jessica Kiermore and Danny Simmons. Hey, y'all. Hey. What up, Doug? You wanna start? You talk more than I do. Oh my, stop it. Yeah. Thank you so much for coming. I'm a little overwhelmed personally tonight. This night happened just because me and Danny, honestly, were just having a conversation on Facebook. I was coming in town to Brooklyn to do some shows, and I said, well, Danny, we should do something together. You know, Danny and I, of course, do a lot of work together anyway because of the relationship we have with his book, and just because of who Danny is, and I just like being around him because he dresses so nicely. Recently, just recently. Yeah, he kinda got flyer in the last couple of years, couple of times. He came to Detroit and bought a couple pieces. So, we just wanted to do a show, and then, you know, Danny was like, why don't you call some of your people? And call some of your people turned into saying, you know what? I haven't seen this person read in a long time, and wouldn't it be amazing if this person said yes? And it's just incredible what's gonna happen tonight. I really just want to sit in the audience, and that's why the poets have gotten to the audience, because we all want to see each other too. I remember how quickly Carl Hancock Rucks said yes so fast. I thought he was messing with my head. So I was like, did you mean yes? And he was like, well, no, I mean, yes. And I was like, oh, okay. So that means you're gonna come. And so tonight, you know, for me, being a Detroiter, you know, I came to New York City in 1995, and I came with the New Year Weekend Poets Anthology Allow, and I had End The Tradition, and I was looking for a lot of these writers that I ended up knowing, loving, sharing stages with, publishing some of them. And it's just been an amazing journey, but there's nothing like, I haven't been on a mic like this in a long, long time where, you know, how open mics can be. And so they get real mediocre. And I just think what these poets, for me anyway, represent other poets who really were about the tradition of poetry. And even though we could perform really well, that we knew that we were the daughters and the sons of Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez and the Harlem Renaissance writers, that we didn't learn poetry from television, that we actually read books and had the audacity to think we could actually write a few. And so with that, we've enlisted my beautiful son, Amiri, Jazz, is on the ones and twos in the laptop. 17, just to make us feel old, okay. Cherie, for me, how old was Amiri, you know, like born into this scene? And so, Renato Davidson is here, painter, from our generation, who's here. Multimedia images, he's got these beautiful pieces he just made for Lewis. And originally this night was just called Here We Go, and it was just about the 90s poets getting together. And of course, tonight we pay homage to Lewis Ray Rivera, who we lost. And I was with Sonia Sanchez last night and she read an incredible piece and she sends her love, she's tired, she went home today back to Philly. But I was just with Lewis at the American Jazz Museum with Roy Ayres, and we had the most incredible time. And he said, you know, I normally walk around feeling like a prince, but in Kansas City, I feel like a king. And they loved him there. He did an extraordinary performance. Me and Lewis were probably the first poets to ever performed at the American Jazz Museum. It's a very new program for them to bring the jazz and the poetry on the same stage. So we were there for some history together. And it was really something that I'll carry with me now for the rest of my life. And he helped me in my soundcheck. He said they don't got your reverb right. You know, he was just, you know, always that mentor, you know, like checking people, left and right. And so he's a really big energy and he's a big loss for us. And so you'll hear tributes to him tonight in addition to our own work. First of all, I really want to thank the Brooklyn Museum for hosting us here. We came to them and it wasn't really a question. And the question was when, not if. And so Radia Harper, who's head of the education program here, really stepped up to the plate and we did this. It's really good that we're back here because really what happened was deaf poetry jam was solidified and sold here. Bones Malone hosted a show and Sonia Sanchez was there and we did a show and we convinced the HBO and Stan Lathan and a whole bunch of other people that spoke in word was something that needed to move to the next level. And of course, I just found out that my conspirator in deaf poetry is in the house. Everybody really needs to give a big hand of applause to Bruce George. They would not have been a deaf poetry without Bruce George. Bruce George bugged me for about a year about trying to figure out how to take spoken word to the next level. And so finally we came up with the name. I stole it from Russell's deaf comedy. I said, this is easy. And then Jessica and I and Bruce and a bunch of other poets took it to Aspen Comedy Festival and HBO went crazy and we had seven good years and then a run on Broadway. So it really elevated spoken word to a place where it's in schools around the country, but before deaf poetry, these are the poets that made poetry what it is nowadays. These poets that are sitting here in the front row. And before that, we have the last poets here, Brother Abbey O'Doone. I can still write and recite stuff from their first day break. Scott the Shakes, Body Eggs, Jones coming down. I mean that I fell in love with poetry. My father first with the last poets was really what made poetry relevant to me. And so I'm glad y'all are here. The house is full and that's really good. I was never worried and Jessica was never worried because we knew y'all come when we told y'all who we had here and they are up in the house. So you want to get ready and do this? All right. Here we go. Call them. We'd like to bring the last poets to the stage. Start with a bang. Start with a busy. So here we are. Here we are. And here y'all are. I must address the fact that Lewis is not here. Lewis was a very special spirit to all of us for all of us. And so I wrote something specifically for Lewis and this painting behind me, the one that was that we were looking at, were you the brother that did that? My, my, my, can we give that brother a hand please? And let me see if I can do this. And you know, normally the last poets don't read poetry, but this is I'm not going to read one. That's your problem of the night. This is brand new. So I'm going to have to read it. Lewis Rays Rivera, a little big man with the wisdoms of the ancients walking through this world like the sage that he was a human book of knowledge with an African understanding of who he is, who he was and who we are in his eyes, you could see empires that we had built pyramids that we had erected so long ago. He was the third eye with a vision of tomorrow riding on the wings of yesterday, a teacher's teacher, a poetic preacher with a sermon that would free our souls and minds. Lewis Rays Rivera is immortal now, is forever flowing with the river that we travel upon to find our way back home. I like to call out to somebody who's still living. It's nice to celebrate the dead, but I want to celebrate somebody who's living and goes way back to me to Harlem and we were young boys and we were schooled and we were charming and we were good looking and we still are cool, charming and good looking. I love you, Karen Snores. Love you partner. Good to see you. Good to see you. So I have a story before I do my poem about Lewis. Lewis would be all over New York. You find him in Brooklyn, you run into him in Queens, you run into him in the Bronx, you run into him in Manhattan. And so one day when I was in one of my mad moments and everybody knew that Omar could have mad moments, real mad moments. So he caught me, he said, Omar, come here, come here, come here. I said, Lewis, I'm in a hurry, man, I'm in a hurry. I'm in a hurry, I gotta go. He said, but come here, I said, well, Lewis, I'm in a hurry. So he said, he asked me, he looked at me and said, Omar, do you know what it means to slow down? And at that moment I was stuck answering because at that moment I didn't know what it meant to slow down, but that was Lewis. He always knew who, when to hit you, how to hit you, but what was one of your problems? So this is to Lewis, it's called for the people. At ease with the source, I revel in the silent song of the breeze, the oppression that begins comes to grip with the mind's eye and the dark green density of the forward, there's a place where all consciousness, all being, all experience comes together in the flight of the wasp and the darkness and secrets of mysterious eyes and the toyed and raging passion of pig and rituals, all cries, all justice, all pleas, all meaning becomes visible to the divine and you, to the divine and me, swept up in the anthem of human rendering, swept up in the anthem of human progress and the rendering of ourselves to mean coats and alligator shoes, hoping and praying we can remember when we learn to become human. In the beginning, our minds are strong, our hearts are big, we keep believing and loving kindness to our friends, to our enemies, but these values, these values, these few nickels and pennies degenerate our sensitivity, our soul awakens us from a dreadful sleep, she cannot feed us the rocks and pebbles that spout from the soil, she cannot kiss us with lips poisoned with disease and pollution, she cannot hold us with arms burdened by exploitation, but still, we see our future and her images and her symbols and the beauty of her tapestries and the horns and the guitars and the dancing in the streets and the cool breezes kissing the desert sand and in the romance, in the romance of street people sincerely pleading, take your time with the dreams for this is for the people, take your time with the music for this is for the people, take your time with the revolution for this is for the people. Thank you, Luis. Thank you, everybody. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I'm going to bring on a brother who's been a friend of mine for a long time. He's the tallest poet almost that I know and so without further ado, I mean, I know him, I know he called you and I'm tired, but he's my good friend. I'm just going to call him Tyron, Tyron Allen, please to the stage. Everybody out Brooklyn. Yes, that sucked. Try it again. Everybody say Brooklyn. Our poor boy walks down a city street hope is in his eyes. He scans the faces of the people he meets for one he can recognize and rather where are you they told me that you came this way and rather where are you they said you came this way one on the island surrounded by black seas walking under urban palm trees ever silvers tipped with stars sparkling fitted yellow synthetic moon glow it's been said hammers will swing suppose my head a target instinctively jumping duck dip and dive slip and slide past the beasts who come and vary Jews that want to use me involuntarily different beats one different parts of my inner hope and pray none game or full worth turn my black ass into a lackey faculties have been weakened by materials I'm addicted to sugar. Blunts alcohol and lots of pretty pretty women who in the dark look oh so wonderful. The eyes of the people who passing by was cold and as hard as stone the poor boy went but I began to cry because now he was all alone and rather where are you they told me that you came this way and rather where are you they said you came this way to fortify by their minerals supported by the four elements of as cash liquor and weed not vitamins heavy on the weight cutting up their weight loading up pounds to acquire more weight just to float in the shallow waters my cousins stand on and in between corners often in semi circles at best and semi circles never a full never a whole these fools want to stay on the block. Situated and focused focused on their situations they make major moves based on minor words the niggas are hard and hard is like smurf it can render it can rhyme it can be place words stupid dumbass prison or death. My cousins are trying to marry the outside voice with their inside voice because the inside voice is so strong and so powerful it echoes off bars bounces off concrete walls and floors moves through the yard like hurricane wind turning t-shirts white pulling pants off their ass ruining their names eradicating their names turn their names into numbers so long so long so now they don't even count they tried to slain their masters of their situations they're convicted in their convictions they got a game plan not understanding that masters and chiefs are not so when to wash or eat go in the yard or go to sleep they've confused being with having not realizing that there is no game they are just spokes and the wheels going from block to block a poor boy walks down a city street hope is in his eyes he scans the faces of the people he meets for one he can recognize the eyes of the people who pass him by were cold and his heart is stoned the poor boy went but I began to cry because now he is all alone but brother where are you they told me that you came this way and brother where are you they said you came this way consistent chaos is comforting doesn't make it good doesn't make it right patient I think our next poet coming up is bona fide come on now give it up this poem is for for Lou and he would have told me my facts are right this is called remember their names the evening whispers of flickering flame in the streets of Spanish Harlem are quiet you can feel it change on a hundred and sixteen street where the Malqueta is staring down its roads and sees the faces bleaching with gentrification first wave is being tidal wave of bull's eyes on the corner children hold signs that say leave that but you understand that is something that has to be freed or liberated so you introduce a slow invasion instead of self-preservation sasa isn't as loud as used to be on the streets the congers are quiet the bomb has been diffused but there is still a resistance in the streets we are looking for better pietri to give us our passports so we can detach ourselves from ourselves if you don't recognize our birth certificates then we don't recognize your citizenship we wander through the streets of our memory looking for who let a bird goes in the concrete of our tongue where is El Barrio here we stand on Lexington battling for self-respect to have our names recognized that we are part of tradition of beauty that has been here since the 50s with a beautiful array of black and brown faces this is not the upper upper east side this is not Spaha this is not upper Yorkville we will now let New York City be transformed by real estate developers for the sake of free market capitalism we carry the weight of the young lords on our shoulders Philly Beto is screaming from the rooftops but no one hears them because a sick train is too loud we hear the gunshots they're killing our leaders but the community don't even know their names we are the children of Lolita raising the city with skyline toilet and God we're trying to look at the stores Willie Perdermot told us about but the space is being bought out by Home Depot 2nd Avenue holds the blood of our history Breton says Bruman Brasseri and Rojas are standing on the corner with their fingerprints red and red standing the streets with a legacy that has to be remembered this is not the first time someone tried to take what's out was on the island we have seen this before Columbus United States military Robert Moses and intimate domain we are not nomads where we lay a guaya vera is our home arrest the politicals who say they defend us but do not walk with us the ghost of our nationalism on Columbus Avenue holding their bodies riddled with radiation and bullets their name carried by the wind by our breath by our hearts we speak their names with love and gratitude for the struggle and commitment to our progression the hostos confresi the Diego Gonzalo Marine Matenso Cintron Maten Yurebas Ramírez Medina Rodriguez de tío Rues Rivera Rues Belvis Schaumburg Valero Benelvia Zeno Gandia Fernandez Albizucampos Cancel Miranda Vezquez Canales Canales Canales Collazo Cotegrey Delgado Matos Paoli Santo Torres Sola Vezcargaria Marques Sotoveles Rodriguez Trias Baselo Berlio Bochetti Mari Bra Brown Concepción de Gracia Ramírez Davila Esquilbael Genera Delores Santiago Torres Torres Torres Pedría Uventú Tomás Medina Lopez Rivera Rivera Rivera Reyes Rivera Perez Morales Let these names renamed our streets Let these names be our conduit to our fighting spirit Let these names remind us that we are a continuation of a battle that has been everlasting since our first breath. I'm boarding King. Thank you. Before I want to bring this sister on, I'm so proud of her. She probably just published her first book of poetry. Come on, baby girl. Come and do your thing. Curie Tally. Author! Author! I'm going to do two pieces. I have time for two short things, right? Yeah. Okay. I'm going to start off with a poem for Nina Simone. It's called Her Voice. Sometimes you got to be that, right? Her voice. Bowl of crushed blueberries. Knife edge. Cracked Calabash. Heavy truth. Ancient wine and renegade bones. Rise up. Rise up. Rise up. White wings of doves. Tapestry of nerve. Daughter of well-aimed lightning. She blinded compromise with a nail-like tongue. Bitter root, burnt honey, tornado blackness. Bent-backed women walked up her throat. Flew straight arrow from her mouth. Mississippi Gullah baptism. The now Congo belly of slave ships. Harlem potent cocktail of her pitch. Black notes. She divined riots on piano keys. She was exiled and passion and turbulent ritual. She was that sound. She was that sound. Yes, she was that sound in the racing heart of thunder. So this next piece is one of those funny things that comes out of nowhere, right? You know how sometimes you're writing something and you think it's going to be one thing and it turns out to be another thing? Every day, all day. One of the things I do is study herbs, right? Study the healing properties of herbs. And one day I was writing and it occurred to me, well, if you could use herbs to heal, you could also use herbs to harm. Unruly, I tell you. So I love them. My mother's mother used to say, a fool has eyes but can't see. Then she would fix her eyes on yours and all the air would leave the room. Her eyes were like a forest at midnight and you could get lost among the tall trees of her wisdom tangled in the hissing and the buzzing in her eyes. Suddenly you would see what you couldn't or wouldn't before. You know like that friend, that friend you thought was so loyal, the one who's throwing war water at your door or that lover with the honeyed mouth who was sweet on more than just you. Well, grandma inherited that gift, if you want to call it that, from her own grandma, Ya. Ya had eyes that were known in distant villages. She bargained with the sun, whispered with trees, shapeshifted, buffalo, iguana. She sat down in Death's Kitchen to enjoy cups of tea and Ya knew the songs. Yeah, she knew the songs that coaxed the healing from the flowers and she was known to disappear in the bush for days. She would come back strong with the stories from the mouths of roots and the stories from the mouths of stars. But this woman, this woman, this oracle, she woke up one morning trembling. Her words were screams and stumbles. They were coming, she said. They were coming. Yes, they were coming with smiles and faces the color of pounded yucca and our laughter and our love and our way would be splintered. They were coming, she said. They were coming. And although we had been warned, we would open our arms. Can't, can't, can't, can't see, can't move, can't speak, can't look, can't scream, can't sing, can't dance, can't cry, can't run, can't get his hands off me. Can't, can't, can't, can't. One day, someone said a word, ashay. The word burned in me like fire. Ashay. I heard the voices that I had tucked far back in my head. Ashay. I saw the faces I thought I had forgotten. Ashay. And the word woke up the morning grandmothers. Ashay. And I wrapped my head in moonlight and I became a snake and I shed the skin of slave. Yes, I shed the skin of slave and all those hands inside tearing me and I remembered the secret names of every child of mine they'd ever sold and I became an egg hatching death to my shackles. I remembered who we were. Yes, I remembered who we were. And then I heard the trees whispering and it seemed that every plant that could kill was glowing. I gathered them all that night. I pulled up every poison that spoke and the next morning I sang in the kitchen chopping stems and leaves and quiet looking flowers. I sang and I served the slave master my liberation stew. My mother's mother used to say a fool has eyes but can't see. Then she would fix her eyes on yours and all the air would leave the room. Well, we're gonna bring on this brother. He was of my 1996 New Year weekend poetry slam team mate. Uh-oh. He's been my friend for a long time. I adore him. He used to walk me home from the Brooklyn moon. Shh. Don't tell anybody. Please help me welcome the fabulous, the ultra sexy from the Boogie Down Bronx. What's your name? Do you go by now? Craig, help me. Welcome sir. Mums to the stage. Mums. Aurora, say what's up to the people? Hi everybody. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Aurora. She gonna help me out. Called Angels in the Realm of Paranoia. A hyper-reality in three. The young gods moved downtown Walling, waiting on the iron horse to earth. Out for action. Action found them at Eden. Hey yo, dude, what's popping? I heard the garden at Eden is hopping. They got live animals and you know, the fruit gonna be clocking. And the spirits say, Do as the gods say. Do it how it be that of the God. Do as the gods say. Do it how it be that of the God. Now that be the proclamation amongst the little deities. Them syncopated in the love dance at a self. Self distorted by the search for themselves amongst the limitless continuity. Unbeknownst to the claim, the best moves are made in a degree of pain. When you dance the straight truth, they got their baby powder and they about to get loose. One of the left-hand split of Dutch straight, feeling full of rainbows. Spark. And then they all glimpse the new reality and forget they burn in rainbows with lightning as they sit in a divinity stack back of the car crazy nose flag. Bout it. They write their energy A where A9 again, they do to the beat. Move like cherubim and rhythm. Re-encounter clockwise, never cross the eyes. They know how to guard creep. They listen in for signs. They disco to the whistle sounds of the dirty air from the train tunnel from between cars. They relinquish to the passion, the spirit, the spins and such. They in the free will losing the comprehension of the before when God verse with naught, making atoms, splitting, making molecules. This, this is the story of the end of the young deities seas arrogant and such. God don't know one rainbow twists me up, but the choke fear of a burnt rainbow on him, unlike it ever been before. He shakes a little, can't keep attention. He try to focus on a reflection of the moon. He tries to center himself on God's tune. Nothing. He looks to the others. Suddenly, he can't understand what they be saying. Their word placings playing tricks. He's starting to get the feeling like he might need a heater. He feeling like something might happen. He amid them secular places, swimming in a sea of contradiction on that mountaintop high, that burning bush high, seeing white lights at the end of voodoo tunnels, the vague truth sitting in lotus position, chanting Sanskrit, Krishna to kush on staircases to better places with pretty beads, sweet incense, and stories to push. Oh, sweet Eden, young deities don't understand your draw that everything he's running from is everything he's looking for. He sees to himself thinking, these ain't rainbows. Two, sees opens his eyes to blue Eden neon signs, to the eyes of the line huggers wanting uncontrollably in the midst of those who control livestock to the pleasures of life. Ah, look, look, look, the God is back. Say to God, sees like, never too far from the God's son, never too far, but his mind spins through a maze of religion and roaches in the rain. Yo, son, I'm high. Say word, yo, you gonna be all right. Hey, yo, son, the son, ain't I tell you mad fruit gonna be up in this piece? I don't know about y'all, but I'm about to cop me some scotch straight up old old rocks. Ooh, ay, yo, what up? In it, sees, sees light, eyes, fire, life searching for a hiding place amid the chaos, fear in the form of merriment. Hey, yo, God, we gonna get our swerve on. I got you at the bar. Let my word be born. How many of them rainbows you got? Flame up two. Put me down on one and the spirit say, do as the God say, do it how it be that of the God. Now, that'd be the proclamation amongst the little deities. That'd be the primitive, divine flash of will. Hey, Slimmy, you wanna dance? You know to God drop jewels. She, a softly thawing rose, grown high to the sun, her petals bright against the light. Damn, honey, fine. She put her specs on the God, sees. Her powers, her superpowers, sees, say, hey, yo, son, yo, you tight up that L yet? My lit coming off. I'm in production, God. Choke coming, choke coming. But she caught sees, just as he fell from his on high places. See, say, hey, baby, I bought you a drink for a dance. She say, I got all I need to keep you. And the song goes with how seas fall soft and easy. Hey, yo, son, where you jetting to this L tight? L is tight. He asks for the light. Right, true, do your thing, God. The light is given. Do your thing, God. Absent of the God again. She wielded him away to her lair, sees a literate of its sensuous, dangerous communication. Honey, look good though. And she know, she sent the floor enticing with the grinding, browning, defining defeat with her hips, leaving her resigned to rest on his mind as she raised her arms above her head, straight for infinity. She gives it a run. She rocks the boat. She tips it over. Sees caught in the move, take him close. Can't less if anybody see. The bass had thumped the hardness. He wants to follow its rhythm right into her. He wants to become of the note that twists with her torso and joining with her flesh until none can be told of his endings and her beginnings, his hand in the small of her back. Every move tells a story in unison, teasing the reason for being her breath. Blueberry sees, savers the moment, holds it for self. He feel it clear, very clear that loneliness, emptiness of will, power, seduction, the responsibility. He feels for the God they ain't there. He feeling like, he might need a heater. He feeling like something might happen. Her lips tickled his ears, Blueberries. Her arms clasped around his neck, body comfortable. Her breath, the manipulative tent of his mind translated his underlying knowing into this most desolate rhyme. There is no escape from the prophetic claim that this is the day the world will understand the synonym of your name and the fire dwellers will frolic with your wayward soul. Earth, Earth's deepest cellars will swallow you whole. Three, ay yo son, God's beholding you this clip ain't no more rainbows after this. We, you've been grooving with this honey for like an hour, you want us left to God? We bout to head to life. She like, Thank you for the dance, I'll see you around. Son, you ain't gonna get the digits? And then synchronic, the sound system howls, the ushering of swords and terrible threats, the ballad of the twin four fifths, the concerto to a concise ruin, where the niggas is at, where the bitches is at, body over body over war songs, songs that recount there had always been wars. And we, the children of hate, the troubled seas spitting back bones in spirit, the chaotic ballet of minds ablaze with tune it crumped nervous, screwed, dark, strong, hot, loud, quiet, perfect, knowing the opposite is also perfect. Hey you niggas, why you touching my girl? Here come a downside lesson for a lonely being outside the comfort zone. The choke fear, the perverted reality, renders the movement through scowled meditation. He's stepped to the bar, I gotta step to the bar. Snatch a Heineken when a man ain't looking, fix on all these beings, people rushing by, security rushing in, I down that. The taste reinforces the rebellion, the sense of self on the lips, let it soothe these frenzied bowels of actuality, hold this empty bottle in the left hand, back against the wall, eyes closed, feel the wind of friction on the face, listen for clicks, bottles breaking, hurt vocal tones. He was close to wanting to click his heels when the spirit took him, whispered in his ear. Style is lonely individualism, wandering through everybody else's closet, lost, wanting to find itself, wanting to define itself. Wanting to not be scared, and of fear and desire, and practise themselves as love. That crisp bit of joy, much like faith at its purest, exclusively unconditional and unmoved. A gift from the faraway places, painted in the traces, humbled, trembling head, and closed eyes. Seize opens his eyes again, sees her from the dance floor. She walks slow, gliding, unfazed through the confusion, bearing nothing. She's upon him in fractured seconds, time unhinged by his perception in view of everybody else about the exit. Her proximity sends him to Santa blueberries again. Her hair sweeps his chin. She smiles, soft for nobody else to see, whispers her numbers, honest for nobody else to hear. Actual, untainted, he paranoid. Thank you. Please help me welcome this mother. So beautiful. I saw his daughter the other day in Moschud. I almost had like a heart attack because I was giving her the flyer and she said, oh, my daddy's on that show. I said, well, who was your daddy? She said, Jack Siri. And I did like a photo shoot. So please let me welcome the beautiful, the talented, the family. I contemplate on my time left for my first hour in the morning, organized to work at the day until I was in Don't Waste a Minute, the second I actually figured out how to blow my time. See now, haste interrupts the conversation I normally keep with rhythm about how to look when I'm handling my business. So to leave early, slow down my pace is the way I get it right. Now my left mind, I'm completely organized, but it's not a lot of music in my step. Together, I keep a groove. I'm a old walkman that only plays bass lines, snares on my intentions. I drum by origin. Homeboys hear me coming and keep the pound on time with the lyrics about, you know, what's going on in my living. So I give them courtesy. I tell them everything is sexy, but don't spend time because too often, you don't get your change back. Now, somewhere in between what got to get done and the time it takes to actually do it is the birth of cool. Now, when you're young, you sloppy because you don't know time. Upon introduction, you tell time, but those that could read time are called pimps, which has little to do with sex. See, there's a close relationship between manipulation and consistency because people latch on to consistent alternatives which can be like anybody's agenda, but to keep it constant, you got to know when to say and when to do. I inherited my father's watch, but never knew what time it was. Always fast to get it wrong, but my pops could pull time back and seem like my watch was always wrong too slow, too fast, but he was never late. The situation as I know it was always changing. I kept adjusting my watch while he adjusted the situation. So manipulation is time management measured by your shortcomings where the pimp is. Time is when and hustling an occupation for everybody. I mean, it wasn't until homelessness displaced me that I even really see the board for the first time. Every pound became a promissory note. Every homeboy a commodity. Say, I'll pull all your resources together and live on the gamble that you bet again. You should have more respect for me. Don't get me wrong. I still measure sunlight like clockwork as people need to sleep and these are the hours I do my best work. Now today I work until all the money was gone, knocking cubes together, making a living per square inch fill in the corner to support participants that feel they really ready to apply to math. Now the understanding of this allows me more dollars per cubic centimeter and anger makes it hard to leave a winner. So every while in the once you have to explain the physics behind velocity and impact to losers reluctant to take their foot off your money. I mean, no savages out here. The rules are instinctive and it's cool to beat me till you get caught. Then that's what you see added to knuckles, gunpowder and there goes that newsman again. Hustle at a kid has pitfalls, very few gold pro, too many backs to watch and not enough friends among thieves. With that, I get to look at the big picture what I'm going to do with my life. See hustling is just a detail out of the broad look at all my options. I say broad because there are options that are not looked at for moral reasons. The inside of the mindset of respecting other people's space your options have less of a negative come around ratio. But they long winded time consuming, judging and rating long returns well short returns for long term investment and time is a factor when short dollars can't touch the poverty line but most of the times can touch the peer pressure status quo. You know, new kicks, girlies and ain't that your brother's shirt? Let me catch you sporting them pants again which tend to be more in a parental respect than proper nutrition. Now, lack of resources make the hustle necessary. Like the week before the welfare check come you put something together to eat. You know, the pork and beans and the tune fish without the bread. I mean, you do what you can do. That's how you pick a hustle. What can you do? Now with a limited exposure to the applied outside world most young brothers come up with less complicated hustles mostly legal but businesses that could that can be started with little to no money down short planning high risk small but immediate proper scans sort of piss you off about your neighborhood. But you got to think about one profession in particular that's sort of broke through and it's not illegal. Rap. It's a profession. Impossible. It is a multi-million dollar industry. And no one considers that little cipher of kids cursing a lot and rhyming over in the corner to be working on a new career goal. It is the only multi-million dollar industry and profession that does not have a training program that you can go to school for but there are some pitfalls because very few of you do words well enough for the stage to have real reason for your pedestal and mics amplify garbage and drip spit for the next screamer to cut the mic and fill my show with muffle feedback and noise. I mean you pay for them to rhyme for the five they came in with who profess yo there's a conspiracy against your style guard that's why they fear to hear you kid like you couldn't just be wack. Is that so hard? You never get better if you don't acknowledge the problem. Occupation MC without a work ethic means you're just another demo thinking between pools we rise to rhyme. Clothes make the man honey love the stage smoke screens real famous respect before anybody really knows your name. Character is a gimmick without integrity art is a star that keeps changing its people. You're just a vehicle. Have you seen these cats angry at open mics carrying on to get on see common courtesies encourage that shit you can't get me to clap for the courage it took just to get up there. I ain't your homeboy I'm on the outside judging your whole book by the cover you don't know me you don't know me to be wack for my dollars hoping I help you out and I don't have to wrap the no boo from banging how many rhyme about the heart it takes to hold hate straight but can't take crowd critique you weak you not freaking it how would you know that without me art can't see itself wasting my time it just wants to be heard I'm I tell you I'm the crowd I checked in like and give the stage respect because you don't have to and you won't if I don't say something I mean it's true that might slow your career down platinum and silver is similar no doubt no nobody's perfect no sometimes we let the bullshit slide for the giggle sweats your single let you hang yourself on stage stupid you know your shit is local no doubt we g issue too much pride to pay too quick too much pussy start forgetting what you really loved about this in the first place start trying to write the please me but boo can happen at any minute the trader has a thousand eyes and no face the room rejected you but there was no one cat to fight and 500 friends know you was black last night sound man eat the beef it was the mic flash bulbs made me blink it was the lights truth most of the time the mic it don't smoke build your skills but this is Latasha and Nevada digs yeah I'm very happy to see just Siri I'm very happy to see Mike lad I'm very happy to see a beyond dune and everybody that's on this lineup I want to acknowledge some other poets who are not here soup collective beans high priest bingy brown sonia song green card poets ever Tim Sylvester Samantha Corbill pussy poets from the orican cafe tish Benson who was also the curator and director of the poetry video video poetry over at you be all very short live you be all so that's about it and I'll keep talking Lewis Reyes Rivera always emphasized the diaspora before I knew he was Puerto Rican he was about the diaspora the African diaspora so the first poem is in Quechua and forgive me for a second but I will give you the translation border universe Nyonca Chuterarani Nyonca can you get back to your own assueño in Nyoncan she's the young she's she can come up he had to talk to him on board key Nyonca la Luna or manki panthampa corn mirage who avalanche or incha me put the guru personally you're running you're gonna a uspa can come up so the young key she's he can come up Nyan wire on copa come up or key I'm trying to not do the sumac can come up child key key she's child to come up macho finna Nyonca you're paining she's gonna up a rear ass up in manka punka yonka kepa or not anta tak a gachi it's a Nyoncan she's can come she's he's a kunai he can ring she's I'm top up for dad in casis was he can could you have a young key para or be gonna it's a Nyonca or mani panthampa o tchoo tchoo nee eon a thaka or hea itcha un reemrio na upa I lie I am a noble liar from a dream and we live in a large dry labyrinth right now because of me the moon falls over the edge with my husky avalanche or perhaps my pointed personality I burn tiny witches to ash you all nickname my flowers neon butterflies because they illuminate the gorgeous night you all shake dress like old raffled beggars I add silly ants into a pot break all bound subsequent to baking dense salt bread perhaps we will roast my ants spill the muddy truth in my vacant home you feel sorry for doves perhaps I will fall over the edge or slide silently into a dense orgy perhaps an ancient remedy a Michael Jackson poem King Sonny the mystical crotch while listening to Mars Volta this apparatus must be unearthed to panther to a small house cat to sand to dust to water to metal the flesh chalk the crotch top secret phallus phantasia kindness and relaxed pain said to walk through bedlin walls to garry to monkey shine to brazil to water to combustion the prodigal bulge overwhelms it is a bubblegum kink a sheik's interlopa a radical since 1979 a brujo a tamigun a werewolf a kudos derived crotch screaming at his mararache this crotch is a rollercoaster it radiates beside Pavarotti it makes uncouth melody mill about in netherland it is a holistic crotch with dynamic roundabouts a sleigh of the hand a nip a tug a tuck under peeled the bulb achieves menagerie its cuss brings gifts to the supreme leader to peter to pinga to muscle fingering gestures the crotch has had a speculative center even in black and magnetic red rags its tantrum is a ferris wheel this crotch has radar fancies the shattering of glass bottles serenades to black supermodels and playboy gerry curls it plods the gravel pleads to molt and spill it is a rivetive masquerader military jacket adorna this machinery long patenance his boy haired chitlin bonas a conveniently omitted crotch so weighed down the bulge was never appraised just burrowed in a world parable never fashioned into a plaything price that twelve dollars its head is engorged and polished scrotum taunted its bad boy in new windows becoming crusted with conflict freed sovoskis no one heard the howls from its flaccid state leveling the sky so it awoke from the dead and demanded petitions were the gods that crazed to create such a sensationalized crotch that the universe ever welcomed this quiver shiver pry the giving crotch prize this is a charitable crotch root the naive rotting crotch makes roots this was a charitable crotch to skin's one's flesh to become a skeleton's throb to make royalties roll and dribble during nocturnal emission to moonwalker to Fred Astaire to James to a yard made from two nervous bodies to become a pelvic jolt clad in leather and metallic cod straps thuds and thrusts calculate a jackhammer a bolt fixed in the camera lens the crotch wanted to be a deity but later auctioned off tatty penny loafers it collapse and minces the dirt now it is a crotch that once directed winds resurrecting elephants freed dolphins to become Dracula to become Kruna to become a wall the crotch no longer desires to spin thread something it now admits foolish to replicate thank you please help me welcome Kala to the stage so good to be here just want to give all praise to the most high love you love you Lewis Ray's Rivera you're like an uncle to me um love all my poetic comrades y'all are like one of the best things that have ever happened to my life in my life and I love you Willie Predomo because to tell the truth Willie Predomo was really the person who sparked that fire in my chest when I saw him do his thing with his all that taste and rhythm I was like wow I think I mean I can't do that but I could do something so much love to you brother much love to you brother um so this is my old yes okay all right I know we're I did this thing in London with Umar bin Hassan years ago called the mangle look right and it was like poetic theater we was like traveling like different cities and stuff and we had to train for it so we had to do crunches at like seven o'clock in the morning because the director was kind of crazy so the director told us that we had to do crunches and sit-ups and structures I said to myself Umar bin Hassan ain't going to do all that shit are you crazy but Umar actually did more than anybody actually taught me that it takes another level to take it there so I love you too brother you just and it wound up being the first black production to sell out to Queen Elizabeth Hall so we're excited about that so I'm going to take you to the party I'm from Flatbush Brooklyn and this is it so soon as me and my brother touched the spot we knew the night was blessed because the DJ's bass broke through the windows with rude metaphor with opaque tremors that pushed my heartbeat like only Flatbush could it was like the detrain rolling with thunder and though I had never been here I knew that this was about to be our house so of course we crossed the threshold and blew an optical kiss with respect to the spot now the type of sisters at this party oh my god they were the type of sisters that would just rush your reality but hold up so you can't talk about Flatbush without talking about the sound I mean the speakers the speakers spoke in Onyx tongues they were decibels so dense that they caved into themselves and started patrolling the party like audio black holes making the lights blink off and on dim lights so I had to switch on my mental high beam and check my periphery I looked to my left and that's when I saw her oh more to watch her move was a mouth full of slow nasty perfection it was hot like she possessed the motion of snakes and horses in the same mind and body and when all those things started moving at the same time I could swear to God I could see angels and musicians waking up across the land pouring their music as physical elixir to her explosive addiction but me I just watched I could tell by the way her waist whip spins into circles that she liked the brother who could talk a little shit a brother who could brag and when Colin his word paid the bills with the bone in his back so I had to let her know my word be like thunder by the time you heard it the work is already done she says she liked thunder and the way he moved through her body after it rained so I told him my name and then her man walked in really really really wow wow okay but you've been here since eight o'clock it's like nine o'clock right now I think he's late looks like he's slipping because if that was me I would have been on time but I wasn't here for that because the type of vibe at this spot reminded me of back in there you should go to this club called the garage right nah nah, y'all ain't hearing me see back in there you should be at this club called the garage and in the day it was called the gene it was paradise with T-shirts and jeans and towels to sweat swinging in the air sisters ladies ladies you better not do your hair because if you did they'd be like ah fuck them see we hated those Bentley's non-sweat and non-dancing two step modes because we'd be like on our knees barking like black dogs serenading full moves like as Larry LeVan DJ Priest Larry LeVan had the walls shaking and we slid across the floor and our traces are sweat yes, y'all used to be at the gene it was paradise with Grace Jones and Colonel Abrams wrecking the stage we'd be slid crackin' rips on back to team Blackfips and Spitzel do that shit, do that and then there's a sister and her name was Billie and she's saying this song called ain't nobody's business if I do and it was like rock and the blues and on the walls come on y'all we have no clocks because who cared about time we define time as just infinite and that's when it hit me it was a holy ghost what? in the club yep and she was practically neck and with nothing on but black boots in a gold trench coat and she took out a 12 gauge double bark and shot me dead in my stomach with double up bark shot a triple fork and I was like ahhhh do that shit do that shit do that yes yes yes her beads of sweat dripped down my back and then with a thunderous attack she called snacks my virginity like give me that and I was like ahhhh I think I better I think I better I think I better let it go thank you all for please please help me welcome my glass ladies and gentlemen it was more than 20 years ago more than 20 years ago that some of us desperately needed to congregate we needed to congregate to follow a comet a comet put forth by people like Abbey O'Doon Omar Ben Hassan and Luis Reis Rivera we wanted to be in what Kevin Tony Asha and Willie called the tradition we were there because we love where we came from and we wanted to continue there and times gone on since then 20 years have gone on since then and things have changed language has changed not only do we grace noble halls like the Brooklyn Museum we fill noble halls like the Brooklyn Museum and words have changed you can hear the word nigger and Greenwich Westchester in Cambridge and unspoken with malice white guys win hip hop Grammys black guys win rock and roll Grammys how it should be we've lived through Clinton and we have lived through Bush some of us and here we are at the cusp of what could be one more change coming October and I want words to change I want them to change I want words to have new relevance to evolve from the original character but sometimes when you watch Fox News or you live in Central Paris you can't help but think to yourself here it comes here it comes whether it's a police officer coming at you or just someone spending some rhetoric someone writing a book called the bell curve or an artist making art for art's sake if thinking it's revolutionary to use the cracker and it's movie you know at that point you start thinking to yourself ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů ů and the game is to drive us insane with insult on insult from like dirt but dirt don't hurt, let's guide us out of work which she probably is in this jenous economy a harm leaf can't make a dollar stills gonna scream something wrong with me but plenty be through with the catch 22 so some slaying rock another's been to get screwed but most of us are standing against the wind like we've been do impatient with the nation trying to keep the circulation moving we don't freeze up and fall asleep it's time to kill three kings and feed Jesus to the sheep cuz sony bought the rights to his cross last week the Vatican is renting out the shroud to David Letterman he bought a full Madonna but I a cook is in the bed again crack a lady drove a crack a babysitter of a 80s shit as sick and crazy like Mike and Bobby Brady swapping bloody undies with that geek and dead Bundy it's genetics cause connections it's mass murder in the packs they can't figure out how you breathe they simply break your neck it could break my brain I'm sick of cracking a hysteria just cause we survive in Africa where he gets malaria but serious I'm delirious with his question folks of color have studied their identity since the first suggestion of the other and now they screen the PC threatens whitey and his lovers always did was ask the cracker man and try and understand himself but he did so he wrote a book and blame this shit on someone else again again and by the way in 1773 Phyllis Wheatley wrote some shit that was so goddamn nasty they still got contested by founding fathers morons can even peach recited the Bible back and forth to put Massachusetts in its proper state ever since then our intellectual mission has been profound pages and pages and pages about this is a war of words and minds all the way up to the voices time and then beyond the other intellectual campaigns have gone on this long and are that insane forget the cracker nigga who can't figure out the problem but a still will switch a president and a sick of crackers Robin a livelihood neighborhood human good peckerwoods packaging your children's breath and selling it to Hollywood we are genetically superior mr. Quinton Tarantino humans from Flatbush to Rio I'll take new mitt and knit-knat and all their mother motherfuckers brain stuff external to their brains in the porridge and ask him one question is there a sign on my lawn that says dead cracker storage is there a sign in front of my house that says dead cracker storage is there a sign in front of my storage it's time we made a new damn house I love you know we got next somebody we got left yeah somebody that really don't need no introduction in Brooklyn he's written like 11 books maybe I mean 12 13 I don't know you got his hat cocked down you got a scarf on it ain't cold you know there's a reason yeah so you got a little swagger going on he always do y'all know Kevin I'm good do y'all know Kevin and I've only read this once before so bear with me but I'm gonna get through this it was inspired by Langston Hughes's poem about mother the son and by John Lennon song mother and it is a poem of our forgiveness and just trying to understand who the heck we are where we come from where we're going mother have I told you that you are the first woman ever fell in love with that what I've always wanted in life is to hear you say you love me too that is why mom it has taken me so long to write this poem for how could I a grown man put words to paper if I'm that little boy cowering beneath the power of that slap the swing of that belt or the slash and burn of that switch you use to beat me into fear and submission I constantly cringe ma when I think of that off-repeated chorus you sung as a fusillada blows wallet my skeleton body are you gonna be good are you gonna be good sometimes when I call you these days mother I just don't know what to say that's I fall silent even when you ask how are you doing I want to give you real talk tell you that I'm still that stunted only child traumatized by the violence of your voice that I'm still that shorty too terrified to fall asleep for fear of you pouncing on me the moment I shut my eyes and you did mother again and again until I could no longer sleep peacefully as a child and I've never actually had many tranquil nights of sleep since I lay I lay awake sometimes as an adult even thinking someone is going to get me going to strike me going to kill me because of those heart racing hours of darkness far far ago and I remember that time I ran into our bed and in your titanic rage you tore the entire bed apart the frame falling on one of my legs and there I was stuck mother and you ripped into me anyhow and know how I howl for mercy but there was none mother yet there was that curious that chorus that curious chorus are you gonna be good are you gonna be good and I really didn't know mother with being good meant nor what you wanted me to be because one day I thought you love me and the next day I thought you hated me and I did not know back in the day mom that you had been assaulted and abused the same way my granddaddy your father a 19th century son of ex-slaves who would break you and your three sisters and brother down with mule whips with soda bottles with his gnarled hands that he was an embittered mister that you were the child who became most like your father do you not recall that past mother I'm saying you once chided me after you learned I had struck someone as an adult to keep my hands to myself and I wanted to say but mom why didn't you keep your hands to yourself why didn't you command your hands your arms to hug me instead of urging them to damage me and that is what I previously was ma damaged goods they're like living on the other side of midnight that is why mother there was no sleep for me till Brooklyn because I needed to escape the concrete box need to escape the mental terrorism needs to escape you and that paranoia schizophrenic existence I'm not crazy ma I know our destinies were frozen in those days when we shared that bed and room together because we were too poor to afford a full apartment to those days mother when I thought you were the bravest human being on earth as you fought super-sized black rats with your broomstick or effortlessly shoot away the army of roaches from our dinner table maybe ma I've not been able to write this poem because I can envision you as a young mother the one who suitcase her dreams when you left South Carolina when you move first to Miami to create a new life for yourself to flee the world that murdered your grandfather a local cook by stuffing food in his mouth then baptizing him in cracker water and proclaiming it was an accident it was the world that knocked on your grandmother's door and told her she had to give up 397 of those 400 acres of land they called the power property one penny for each acre of land and what your grandmother was left with was a jar of soil called shoe hill the contaminated hill where you were born ma that world never bothered to change the name from the power property and there you were at age eight sun rising with the moldy men and the Washington boy at women and God's young as God's young and morning stretch tick tickle the rooster's neck waking your good color folks to toil on that power property to pick cotton for white folks as if cheap and exploited labor was your American birthright and you were angry by my mother you were so angry on birdie told me one time that sweat droplets would form on your nose your brow would curl up and the world and anyone in it would become your empty large can to kick back and forth up the road apiece ah ma but you were such a pretty little black girl I have the picture right here this minute of you at 12 or 13 tender and dark ebony skin a beautiful yet temperamental and unloved black girl told that you were ugly told that you had ugly hair told that you would never be anything other than the help and wooden steps for someone else's clan but you were persistent ma and mad determined to make something of yourself and Jersey City welcome music welcome each of the lost found children the old South welcome your country cousins to number runners slum yards pimps drug dealers bad credit huge debts and would be profits who call themselves storefront preachers and there you were a mother within a year with my father was he your first love ma did he mop the Carolina clay from your feet did he sprinkle sweet tea and lemon on your belly did he ever really make love to you mother was he more like the plantation robot who was built to mate then make a quick dash to the next slave quarter what do I know mother what I do know mother is that you went to the hospital alone to spread your legs for a doctor whose plasma face you do not remember the first push forth the seed you had attempted to destroy twice because you fear this birth would mean the death of you but there I was ma in your arm streaming lunging fleeing and you were so tremendously ashamed to be an unwed mother that you did not tell grandma Laudie for five years until that day we showed up in your hometown of Richland South Carolina but what a mother you were you taught me to talk taught me to know my name taught me to count to read to think to aspire to be something you my grade school educated mother gave me my swag or told me I was going to be a lawyer or a doctor told me I was going to do big things that I was going to have a better life than his welfare this food stamp this government cheese had preordained for us and we prayed mother yes Lord we prayed to that God in the sky to the white Jesus on our wall to the minister with the good hair and the tailor suits to the minister with the gift the chalk on busted souls and spit game and foreign tongues and back then ma I did not understand the talking in tongues the need to pin pieces of prayer cloth on our tire the going to church twice a week the desperation to phone prayer phone lines when there was trouble but what you were doing ma was stapling our paper lives together as best you could making a way out of no way especially after my father announced when I was eight that he would not give a near nickel to us again and never did mother he never did and sometimes I wonder if that is when the tax got worse because you were so viciously wounded by my father's ignorance and brutality that that ignorance and brutality was transferred to me as you would say in one breath don't be like your father and then another breath you just like your no good daddy and yes I am crying this second mother as I write this poem because I see you today a retired black woman with a limp a bad leg shuffling up and down three flights of stairs two heads strong to allow me to move you from that heatless apartment life reduced to trips to the grocery store a bus ride to the mall a sacred pilgrim pilgrimage to the laundry room and the daily ritual of judge shows Oprah and the local news and mother you remain without the love you forever prayed and you forever speak of getting married even today and you are so very worn out from 54 years of backbreaking work but this I know now your life was sacrificed so that I could have one mom so I write this poem so I write this poem son to mother to say I love you even if you refuse to accept my words because you are too afraid to defeat the devil and bury the past with our ancestors once and for all I write this poem to say I forgive you for everything mother for the poverty for the violence for the hunger for the loneliness for the fear for the days when I blame you for my absent father for the days when I wanted to run away for those days when I really did run away I forgive you mom for those days you cursed and belittled me for those days when you said I was never gonna make it oh yes mom I do forgive I forgive you for the beatings I do dear mother I do because if you're not for all of who you are all where you came from all of what you created for me I would not be alive today for below the bloody scar tissues of your fire and fury and aggravations and self-imposed house arrest is a woman who defied the myth makers turned her nose up to the doomsayers is someone who fought landlords and crooked police officers and social workers and school systems and deadbeat men who want to live off of her and from the tar and feathered remains of the lives news from the very beginning we have survived and here we are mother here we are you have never said you love me but I know every time I come home and you've made potato salad and string beans every year you've mailed me a birthday card or asked if I should get if I should you should buy me pajamas for Christmas I know that you are in your own wildly unpredictable way the greatest love I've ever had in my life thank you please tell me welcome my dear friend the wonderful Danny Simmons I never thought that I would really be a poet that would be on the stage reading stuff I was very happy and safe and secure behind the scenes and you know producing poetry but I really didn't want to be out here putting my stuff on the line I figured I did enough for that with my painting but Jessica took me on a little tour and pushed me out there and so now I'm here and I'm going to read something from the book that she published the name of the book as I dream my people were calling but couldn't find my way home and the poem is called the jigaboo walls thank you I was then as now a challenge mostly to myself an artist or a poet the means needing to fit my ending as it laid before me creeping up my back like a haunting I'm called to the old grim house through gray doors into the wheat belts cotton fields of haunted me America the ski slopes of New England get it New England where so many wars and hurts were born all England except nigga free for proper British Negroes whose gaze I meet each day in Bedford Stuyvesant and Harlem passing by stiff-backed and sexless the women trying to hide surround swaying behinds leaving in the Commons of Ivy League universities in the hands of our presses cup firmly in their two-handed strong grip back to cursing me somebody who ain't going to hear my poem played reruns for those thinking my words were clever or cute leaving me bitter and ready for a gentle caress I just saw a poet's dope fiend movie and wanted a bag to hide in my poems to hide in my courage of conviction stopped short many years ago by powders and praise my only task to effortlessly mock the rushing demons and to be the butt of a critics pen and dance when the jig is called that Negro jig called the jiggable walls danced nightly on Fox News by less people less funny than the history of oppression less funny than so many homeless and witness refugees dropped in tatters on these shores I want to hide myself inside of you have you swallow me hold and drop me out healed and not so very hungry for my window outside is obscured by years of soot I see silhouettes of hazy men walk by cripple dragging body parts behind them like the burden found in existential books existing in some European paradigm without hope or horizon without drums or my witch doctor I easily fall prey to bouts of despair as prescribed by the most recent rantings of the West's greatest minds I seek sort salvation in a wall's turn inside out a grease paint dance a jig so powerful a jig dance to the music and pop of music of poverty to the sizzling of bacon and the aroma of pork chops frying in the skillet it gets me loose and foot-free and dives head first into the jiggable walls captain boss sir would you please tear me down from my suit cover window and have not my feats to fail me now I want to dance until the despair and Western eyes burning turns into happy feats into a wide two feet grin into a walls to be remembered it seemed many of our other warriors would rather somber reflection and angry retrospect to battle this beast it's sail is bob hide with small caliber bullets annoying and inflicting some small measure of pain quickly fixed but I dine in a patch the cure is biting as the wound leaving this cancer that spreads the earth and tied up with Bob's and dragged her down says something like that there by another poet drug dead some 30 years or more fat loud and infectious stolen planes laying low tall buildings clouds of human ash and pain more I dine and more ethnic cleansing called a war on terror I've always been terrified of you in your wars and your flesh rotting diseases your Barbie dolls and GI Joe's forced to sex by little American boys and girls blonde Barbie's legs have been known to pop off getting hoisted into position I've always felt the effects of your terror I heard my poems are emotional that I moped my feelings about all I've been force fed here and in your books that have absented me from history to tell me I began with slavery and set free into this riding abyss to dance the jiggable walls to repeat and reinvent shuffling along into the dark of now we sit pompous on flattened masses as judges soldiers and concubine advisors and other blackface pirates riding the ocean of disease that has engulfed my people that feeds my so very deep wounds that leaves me so much fucking more than emotional also only this pen keeps the gun from my head or better yet yours or better still you're just born to crack of privileged babies wait hold on y'all I ain't mean to say I just gets me confused I ain't mean that there's a you want to see me dance I dances real real fine for you and missy over there catch my nigga act on Broadway no chief tickets just like you like it mister now sir this pen just got out of hand really sir I does that jiggable walls just right I ain't mean nothing bad about your babies I think she said it just best miss call it I don't know nothing about birthing no babies we ain't change so boss we still got them happy feats ready when you need them and I whisper real low as I walk shuffle and jiggle boo also a crack I asked cracker without a good a hint of a smile and holding my gun cocked and close under my tatters it's late in my poem seems a little long not as long as I watch your foot cutting off the air to so many people's across the globe your boot pressed tightly to their throats but this poem in me grows tired of hurling crudely configured words in you and me locked together in this symbiosis of pain top dog and underdog used before but not quite to affect how history is only cycles and yours rushes to its end burned out in this infancy not the ten thousand African years of magic and science your wars and your savagery or your legacy and your impatience your science conceived of an impatience that will be the short death in the scheme of things my pen now long silent my anger is scratching at the scabs that are many wounds you left a few for my feet I waltzed that final jiggable moment while pulling my gun and as my foots tap loudly on slick and wooden floors I can't find my open mouth and anyway this damn gun misfires leaving me to crumble down in sadness that I endure with you these bouts of despair and terror these final moments of your foolish pleasures and as I reach to you and as you join me as always on the killing floor for our turn at the jiggable walls this one's called long distance loving about a girl from our head who lived too far away way too far far away long distance loving on this glorious morning smelling of sex and ambition I remember you cratered in my tomorrow deeply nook your hair grazing my eyes and wrapped tight to me gentle half-sleep drowning in sweat and lover's breath and I hear I hold you in mystic chant and who do conjure deep juju you and me deep juju indeed now we gonna hear from Jessica care more this is called DHS office trip number seven this is about the illusion of fame for my son King the homeless man gives my son a dollar I'm hiding hoping to not look like I'm doing well doing well doesn't go with the chairs in this office I'm thankful and embarrassed the same day I was booked for a show in Paris asked to be in a film being shot in Harlem in the summer and booked for a keynote at another college my son's health insurance was canceled by the state and the daycare said I owed them three thousand dollars and I have to pay it so my son can register for the new year the daycare lady is asking me if I have a job again I'm a famous recognized poet and writer I performed all over Europe and in South Africa I am an Apollo legend remember me I was on the cover of the Metro Times last month the cover of African-American family my son began here in the summer his pictures are on the inside my photos are in full color and six feet tall at the museum of African-American history in Detroit I am one of the women of a new tribe I'm on exhibit on display always on display exactly what does being a legend pay I need some W2s for this life this is madness I tell myself in order to receive help from the state you have to be working my writing is my work I can't have my son 24 hours a day and write and create new work question marks float on the top of the head of the case workers Herbie Hancock plays in the background this is the music I brought to this place never leave your music at home never leave your music at home they only play the TV on one station in the lobby the sci-fi channel Tyler Perry or something sometimes there are cookies full of M&M's King don't touch the cookies baby King don't touch the cookies I made up a job because my job is not a job I made up a job because my job is not a job and apparently told them I made too much money that doesn't really exist so I'll be allocated $12 a month for food my first husband calls me by mistake in the middle of all of this we laugh about reading poems for 20 years our son my earth son Omari cracks jokes about him getting old we are elders and we still young says Kevin Paul this is a thankless job well the Nervine will whisper in my ear at the somber before he killed himself a few years later thankless thankless thankless thank you thank you thank you thankless thankless thankless thank you thank you thank you Joni Mitchell to drown out this moment Mariah Carey Anita Baker Jennifer Hudson and yet even that Beyonce song if I were a boy thank you angels past lovers ex-husbands rappers DJs producers basketball players guitar players novelist philosophers painters bullshitters haters liars over liars bless you all the industry intellectuals that would never ever get it are you deep motherfuckers thank you most death but telling me it was honorable to live my life travel the world when people ask me what I do I simply say I'm a poet thank you tell it quality for being a real friend outside the music thank you Roger Greenerville Smith for Huey and the head nod to Ozzie Davis for that elbow in my arm and that smile thank you nods for the big for the prediction thank you nods for the prediction because we never know the outcome thank you last poets and Sonia Hakee and Baraka thank you my Nana for buying coats and uncles for shoes and daycare more family I have more family I was born or more I'm headed to LA for some shows I gotta stop crying and write this show but this is not a show this is my life my life my life got my blessing my gift got a gig and Cincinnati while I was writing this my January ran thank you daddy God past lovers present never got your text baby I'm okay thankless thankless Thanksgiving no thank you said the abused turkeys no thank you for your slaughter in the name of giving the name of family poems this is what I have to give I'm eating poems today I'm thankful I'm humiliated I'm embarrassed I'm surviving I'm surviving I'm right no dead I just died Lewis Ray Rivera just died Gil Scott Herron just died you can't stop me you can't stop me this is my job damn it this is my job you know I'm a mother give me my check I'm a mother give me my check amen amen amen a woman a poet thank you thank you thank you I'm hiding all the turkeys in the backyard next year the how are y'all gonna give thanks somebody gotta die for you to be thankful I miss you y'all like Richard Pryor Tom Moore and Miriam McKee but say who send me out a well intervene Joseph Rosa Parks you can't find them you can't find me we are busy writing we're busy confusing your paperwork with real life my lover says he talks to me in real life the internet is an illusion but people are addicted to illusions though thankless thankless world not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me not me please tell me welcome to sister Mari poser to the mic I just want to share this poem that I wrote in the 90s and I'm gonna do one poem cuz I want to hear the rest of all the brothers and sisters that have to come up to this mic. Oppression on the outside. Oppression externalized. Let me paint a picture of me with my eyes half closed and you so far away. Won't you come be with me, care to co-depend today? Come dance with me, the me who I used to be. Come dance, the half-closed-eyed crazy black girl shuffle. Oppression on the outside. Oppression externalized. Mood swinging to ideation of suicide. Can't take this pain no more, going insane once more. And the spirit world is the only world to respond when I implore. Because it seems I'm alone in this, even though going insane is a collective process. But you don't want to see yourself in me. You seek pleasure, not sadness. Don't want to admit you relate too well to this madness so you turn away. Don't want to face the pain today. Don't worry, baby. The oppression you were forced to internalize will externalize somehow, some way. And when it does, I'll be there to stand as midwife when you rebirth yourself. Because going insane is a collective process. And isolation is counter-revolutionary. Madness need not be a solitary journey. In fact, we need to externalize this wretched, internalized oppression as a community. If we're going to be the liberatory force we need to be, a force that is lethal, we need to be going crazy, not individually, but as a people. Because madness is the road to revolutionary consciousness. Word is bond. Like Asada Shakur said, it's the strong ones who are crazy. The weak ones just go along. Like Albisu said, when the crazy ones are ready to die for their freedom, it will mean they have regained their reason. And capitalism ain't the way. If we go the road of materialist individualism, we'll be selling our souls like Faust. Like Sister Audrey Lord said, the masses' tools will never destroy the masses' house. Let me paint a picture of oppression on the outside, of oppression externalized me. Dead skin falling off my body and flakes. Hair matted, eyes crusty, hands shaking, ass rusty. Now just how in the hell was I supposed to color coordinate? That's what oppression looks like on the outside when it hangs, yes, hangs on the outside. Because my soul got lost in the routine in trying to achieve the American dream and this abstract thing like a boy or bursting suddenly was all over the place. Externalized oppression reflected in the look of terror on my mother's face as she helplessly watched her baby go crazy. Let me paint a picture, severed flesh, shredded skin bleeding, pus encrusted, inflamed, internalized, rage externalized. And you can't deny that you know different than me because we all a part of this dysfunctional human family. You didn't just hatch out of an egg and just be. Just because you go around styling, smiling, laughing, looking beautiful, don't mean that you happy. How can you be when you ain't free? Time for us all to face our demons, remove our masks. It's a matter of survival. Time for us all to face our self-hate, self-destruction, and denial before it's too late. Because while we continue to feign, pretending everything's all right, those in power will continue to reign. So you might as well just let it hang lest it continue to drain you of your essence. Surrender to self-love and the knowledge that the universe will support our complete liberation and independence and the annihilation of our enemy's power over us. Because captivity is contrary to nature. In the universe, there ain't no boundaries. Every child was born to be free. Now let me explain to you Fanon's theory as my tongue refuses to go weary. Too much truth to tell, so let me tell it well. Boomerang, it gets thrown to us by the massor, the oppressor, subjector of all this madness, perpetrator of crimes against humanity, assassinator, weaver of poverty, feeding us poison, breeding diseases. Boomerang, it hits us and we internalize all the pain which manifests into shame till we lose our minds forgetting our own names. Boomerang, it hits us wrapping chain upon chain around our minds and we internalize, we inhale, we inject all the lies, generation upon generation, breeding manifestation upon manifestation, producing an oppressive reality. Barbed wire lining our horizons, sons and daughters of Zion. And so we perfect the art of going insane and we turn on each other like rats in a laboratory experiment gone right. Now hold tight, cause just as the oppressed is about to self-destruct, just when you thought all was lost, Boomerang turns back on the oppressor, head straight for the source, the ruling classes, the enslavers of the masses. So revolution needs to be about collective action and collective madness. And that's why we need to be going crazy. Thank you, God bless you. Please help me welcome to the stage Lisa Jessie Peterson. Woo-hoo, and then beautiful legs, let's go, yeah, yeah. So I've been teaching poetry to incarcerated adolescents for 15 years out of Rikers Island. And working with the incarcerated has become my life's purpose, my soul's purpose. And I've toured my one woman show in a national prison tour across the country, over 50 different penitentiaries across the country. And so this is an excerpt from my upcoming book, The Peculiar Patriot. And this is dedicated to my shorty rocks and my buckshot Betty Booze at a Rikers Island. My firecracker fly girls, yeah, my mirrors. My very first teaching assignment was at a school called Island Academy. By the sound of it, I assumed Island Academy was a private school on the Upper West Side, or maybe a school for talented and gifted kids in Harlem like the Frederick Douglass Academy. I soon discovered Island Academy as the high school located on Rikers Island, the notorious New York City jail where I would be teaching incarcerated adolescent boys 16, 17, 18 years old. The idea of teaching in prison didn't bother me none, didn't scare me none, didn't excite me none. And it also didn't conjure up altruistic feelings of being on some freedom right and to say black ghetto children mission either. No, this was simply a way for me to stay connected to my art while earning a living. Butterflies and terror didn't set in until I was on the Q101 Express bus to Rikers. I was riddled with ants, automatic negative thoughts that triggered a tsunami of insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. This was my first teaching gig. I've never taught in my life. Suppose I can't get them to write. Suppose I suck. Suppose they're not feeling me. Oh shit, what if they throw paper balls at me and boo and laugh and worse, ignore me? While fears of colossal failure consumed me, I sold it up, put my game face on, walked in the building super confident, super faking it, heart racing. Wearing a green army jacket, loose fitting jeans and a purple head wrap covering my hair. I made every effort to tuck away any hint of sexuality in order to keep potential horny little adolescent boys focused on the work and not me. I needed their respect. I wrote on the board, sister Lisa, yo miss, you a nun? Said a road toned baby faced boy. No, she ain't no nun, dumb ass, nigga, she a soul, sister, right miss? Said the dark skinned boy who looked just like my father. Yes, brother, what's your name, I ask? Shawbugs, AKA Black. He punctuated confidently, drew some chuckles from the class. Yes, brother, Shawbugs, that would be correct. I am not a nun, I'm a soul sister, and I'ma go with that. I like being called sister, because believe it or not, we all relate, brother. See, when we was Africans, we came over on the slave ships together during the middle passage, and our families were savagely broken up during slavery. We had to recreate family on a plantation for survival, so we became brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles to each other, blood related or not. So I am your sister in spirit, and you are my brother, and we still carry that African tradition and practice today. So now let me ask you, how many of y'all got played cousins and a play aunt, and a mama who's like your mama? No blood, but straight like your mama, and you treat her just like she's yours? Yeah, yeah, yeah, true that, true that, true that. Yo miss, I mean, sister Lisa, that's tight deep. You straight bout it, bout it, Shawbugs said as he threw his teenage black fist up in the air and the entire room laughed. I laughed along with the class, who on my first date, thank God, were in good spirits, but most importantly, I was establishing rapport. So in the essence of time, I'm just gonna go right into the poem that my students at Rikers Island inspired, and this is for Tariq, American Keyloids. We be American Keyloids, battle scarred and beautiful, ghetto butterflies earned their stripes, walked through the valley of colossal contempt, shadow boxing and puddles of tears, dodging bullets seen and unseen, survivor ain't no TV show. Shorties be wild and surviving sins of the father, mama too, shit is thick, yo. Wayward warriors journeying through war torn wombs, while American landmines awaits his herb, my out arrival with 41, 50, 41, 50, 41, 50, 50, 50, 50 bullet gun salutes and precinct plunger butt parties. How can we heal? How can we heal? How can we heal when we're still under attack? Guilty for being gift-wrapped, Latino and black. Jungle jigger, jungle boo, attack against unnatural habitat. See, that's how we supposed to do, but sometimes the science of the cage flip triggers misdirected rage, causing us to hurt the closest ones, the easiest ones, the innocent ones, the children. We hurt our sons and daughters, bury them in real neglect and false images. Another wake, I'm running out of flowers. Better catch the seeds, save the seeds, plant the seeds in love and black earth, toil tobacco rolls, cotton sugar cane, blessed blood industry, plantation economy the next, the new, the now, prison industry a war, a war, a war, and terrorism again. God damn it. The trees remember they never forgot, who shot us, hung us, Tuskegee experimented us, chemical warfare just cracked, bombed us, four little girls praying in Alabama, you see terrorism in 911 is so layered, this axis of evil thing. Gypsy thugs, prison prophets, and corner store bodega intelligence say, this ain't nothing but a crumbling, Barnum Valley sideshow experiment, mommy a project with roaches cracking television, ringmasters hustling chaos, pimping poverty, placing bets on complacency, rewarding keepers of the status quo, current culture celebrates the killer and the hoe the children are watching, they already know that women is bitches, niggas is shit, niggas ain't shit, niggas ain't shit, niggas ain't shit, and money is God. This ain't normal, y'all, broken dreams, cut the baby's feet and hands and abandoned lots, our sons cocked a Glock, our fathers fled, where are the heroes? Where are the heroes? Where are the heroes? Strangers in our mother's beds, seeds grow and want and need, love, love, love, love, love, but she don't even love herself, that's a long story, throwing her children to the wind, ACS state agencies catch the fall and prey, confusion every day, shorty's face is slashed, scarred, we be American keloids, rising mountains of pain beneath the skin, it is stretching my skin across ancient dynasty drums, I gotta keep the faith, I gotta keep the faith, I gotta keep the faith, I gotta keep the faith, cause even in the face of death, we still create life, we still create genius like sound tracks for the planet, blues, jazz, rock, we morphed into hip hop, we got that dominatin' flavor, we are walking, talking, miracles, we are wounded, we are gorgeous, and we are in your face. Thank you, thank you. Please help me welcome the author of Fast Cities and Objects That Burn, my friend for many years, Sheree Simmons. Yeah. Come on. Brooklyn, what's good, y'all doing all right? Yeah, this is a fantastic thing, I gotta make this brief, stay with me, stay with me, y'all know this one, many people ask me, well first and foremost, we going to Brooklyn moon after this, it's my birthday, so let's go celebrate it, if I don't talk to you here, I'll see y'all at Brooklyn moon, let's go, let's go. People ask me what I've been doing, there he is right there, that's what I've been doing, making this thing happen. Listen, y'all know this one, tree told me, we are captured in a hostage state, in a cold day, Mr. Medina defined the crushing lines of capital gains, I saw flames burn the brains of the insane, when Takuma took the stage, Kim Hawn stood firm as she, you remember Kim Hawn, give it up for Kim Hawn, Kim Hawn stood firm as she confirmed ancestral rape, I heard a tape playing Reggie Gaines as he took aim at that green bitch's bullshit, this is a movement, this is a movement, this is a movement to validate the end of servitude's mind state, forcing freedom to cooperate, like how it must've been when Zora hung with Langston, Claude McKay came home to Harlem's renaissance, a rebirth born through fire and disco and shock meat flesh that sang freedom or death, like when I heard Hancock's rucks rather read the day through song, this is a movement, this is a movement, this is a movement, taking you from bitches ain't shit, taking you from niggas and dicks, shaving the thick infectious aesthetic that ripped us from inner pride, placing you back in the driver's seat with open eyes to see Asher raise a storm cloud of conscious pain, it must've been how Ella sang for the brave who still have children, beautiful grounds, bouncing babies still bring us joy, let's rejoice in the voice of fun loving ex garage freaks are heard to color tell a tale of all that kind of magic, this is a movement, this is a movement, this is a movement, listen, even if we are divided with staying strong to me, you poets could do no wrong with words piercing like acupuncture in the brain, thick like a Michael ladder, Michael ladder, Michael ladder, thick like a Michael ladder, it could break on your brain, these motherfuckers have no choice but to run and there ain't no shelter from the sun that sees speaking seeds rising, I'm gonna be speaking seeds, speaking seeds, rising more black press, rising, keep on rising to our top in a freedom rags and an African voice, this is a movement, this is a movement, this is a movement, this revolution is alive and words are the smoking guns, I see y'all in a minute, Brooklyn moon, let's do it, word up Brooklyn. Happy birthday Cherie, Willie Pradamo to the stage, come on baby. We just gonna shut it down like this, we're gonna keep it moving. Moms came up here with a roar, so when the rudder was like that, can I come up here with you, all right, all right. What do you have to say? All right, say it, say it. Y'all ready to hear some nice poems? Yo, so the thing is, like you think you write these poems alone and you don't, you don't and you have to come to these kind of events to find that out, yeah? The language, man. I wanted to read an epic poem tonight, man, you know what I'm saying, like, you're fucking my time over here, you know what I mean? All right, yeah. All right, this is called, this is an excerpt from In the Kingdom of Bang and Blab. All these poems and not one to go home with, bring some, she says, you talking so much? Figure out, always figure it out, stop, be that shit that is. I remember things how things remember me. In the morning, think of end, whistle, bird, like what kind, rock, dove, sounds like, just sounds like, just as it is. All I do is walk by things, not looking, kills me just as looking might. If I was going to transfer now is the time, there's always a way out, but you have to be about something. Yours go bling black, mine go bling blue, blacker, blacker, hitching the back of your rock of ages, all those beautiful thoughts spilling, spilling, spilling. Second unit came with samples, happy to be blind, true systems, blank or teeth, no hunger. Apart from money, what is left to spend? It's true, you could be a lot of things given everything that's out there. No matter how you cut it, people who know this for sure are very suspicious of this nothing. Here comes the night or dressed in flight, a teller always asks if that will be all told, always says, I didn't know. This is a stick up, don't make it a sit in. A little something about the beginning before it starts, the attempts to find yourself at off peak hours, no images would be perfect for this chill in the cut, stances all the greedy people chase each other, rum is the new thermal underwear. Snow falls faster than stock prices, tells more tales than a dead man, the time it takes to say that's it. No more biting from the rewind, no more picking up more than what's left. Better to choose a street's sunny side for the breakup officially. What's funny is that nothing is funny. Between future and fury, what keeps you is here to stay. I have it down to a science, blindfolded standing on my head. Breath taken recognizes breath given. To start you find that torture is a finger pointed, nails ripped at breakneck speed, nipples scraped with watts to find that what survives are the breaks, the shots. Forget what you saw. Thank you. Yeah, yeah, he got one more. Yo, I just want to thank Jessica Kiermour till I love her, you know, I love you. Thank you for a bunch of things for publishing this book. And despite all of my politics and education, reminded me the happiest times of my life when I was writing poetry every single day. Yup, and I'm gonna get back to that. Walk on, black woman, walk on. Walk on, black woman, with your head held high and your shoulders back, walk on, black woman, walk on. Let the world dance to your music, hug yourself each daybreak, see yourself in all things majestic, walk through life as you are. Be loved, be graceful, be black, be time, be the sun, be beautiful. Walk on, black woman, walk on. Be creative, create, create yourself in the imagination of darkness in the warmth of your womb. Populate the world with little wide-eyed black girls with big smiles. Walk through life as you are. Be loved, be graceful, be black, be time, be the sun, be the sun, be beautiful. Walk on, black woman, walk on. Let your footprints tell your stories. Raise your voice and be counted, wear your crown all the time. Walk through life as you are. Be loved, be graceful, be black, be time, be the sun, be beautiful, be love, be graceful, be black, be the time, be the sun, be beautiful, be love, be graceful, be black, be the time, be the sun, be beautiful, be beautiful, be beautiful, be beautiful, be beautiful, black woman, because you are beautiful. Be sassy, walk your rhythms, put your hands on your hips, Let the world revel in your brown glory. Walk through life, black woman, as you are. Let the trees envy your sway. Let the wind imitate your emotion. Let the mountains gaze in awe and the earth's shape to welcome you. Know that you are our comfort, black woman. That the world needs you. So walk on. Walk on. Don't look back. Don't look back. Walk on with your head held high and your shoulders back. Walk through life as you are. As you are. Be loved. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be loved. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be loved. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be loved. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be love. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be love. Be graceful. Be black. Be the time. Be the sun. Be beautiful. Be beautiful. Be beautiful. Be beautiful. Be beautiful because you are beautiful. Walk on, black woman. Walk on. Stand up for me. stand up for me. Stand up and clap for these poets and help me break all heck out rocks to end out our night. I'm gonna make it quick because I know we gotta get out. Stand up if you are unstimulated by stimulus, lost your job living with the threat of losing your job and know someone who lost their job and needs your job because they lack a good paying full-time job with health benefits to ensure failing health and the help of loved ones due to the physical, mental, emotional, psychological, social stress of unemployment and the great recession. Do you believe yourself to have a safe secure place called home in a rapidly declining labor force? Have you lost your home? Are you about to lose your home or do you lack home ownership? Do you? Are you living in a state with a high rate of low home ownership? The biggest being District of Columbia followed by New York followed by California with a steep decline in home ownership in Detroit with 40,000 fewer owner occupied homes in Wayne, Oakland, McComb, Livingston counties and Inner Ring suburbs and such as Oak Park and Harper Woods and Hazel Park and Dearborn Heights in Detroit. Are you concerned at all that home ownership declined in the United States for the fifth straight year leaving home ownership rates 1% less than they were three years ago? Are you worried at all that you may never own a home rent a home sub lease a home build a home or have a home that you can call your own are people stalking around your home to see if you might be home alone are you are you worried about the great recession are you working full-time part-time half-time on your own time on no time at all are you feeling confident are you feeling about confident about the third quarter economic expansion in the fourth quarter of sustainable growth even though sustainable growth for the majority does nothing for substantiality to reduce unemployment or reduce structural problems caused by increasing unemployment caused by layoffs caused by kickbacks caused by people who want to need a job caused by people who have no power people who want to ensure that they keep a job even if it means they must ensure you remain unhired or lose a job have you ever thought about the fact of what you would do if you were not hired to do what you do are you expecting a recovery in the great recession are you unbothered by labor statistics that show almost an increase in the civilian labor force and a substantial decrease in participation rates with a dip in rates as they pertain to age and a dip in race as they pertain to gender are you engendered are you legally married are you unmarried are you engaged to be married are you partnered are you separated are you divorced are you single are you heterosexual are you straight are you gay are you straight but curious are you bi but curious are you heterosexually identified are you homosexual inclined are you out are you in are you closeted are you asexual are you ambisexual are you transsexual are you transgender are you post-op pre-op are you considering an operation are you polygamous are you monogamous Are you sexually ambiguous, sexually frustrated? Are you pedophilic? Are you keeping? Are you dating? Are you happily dating for the first time? Are you gradually dating for the last time? Are you finally dating in midlife crisis? Are you aware that less than 50% of American people with and without children are legally married, even though the total number of legally married people and couples as higher than it has ever been? And though most Americans choose to marry, a growing number of Americans are single or living unmarried with partners which challenges American work policies according to the organization distribution and redistribution of benefits. Are you aware that 50% of first marriages in America end in divorce and 60% of second marriages in America end in divorce and 73% of third marriages in America end in divorce and that marriage in America gives you the legal right to file joint income tax with the IRS and state taxing authorities creating family partnership under federal tax laws allowing you the legal right to decide business income among family members or inherit a share of your spouse's estate including social security, receive an exemption from both estate taxes and gift taxes and fraud property taxes and gives you the legal right to have all legal rights to your spouse to receive leave or leave social security, Medicare, disability, benefits from or to your spouse allowing you the legal right to give or receive veterans and military benefits such as those for education, medical care and special laws. Are you aware that these rights are only available to some of you who call yourselves American? If you are aware of any of these things, you are not alone.