“You’re living at a time of extremism, a time of revolution, a time when there’s got to be a change. People in power have misused it, and now there has to be a change and a better world has to be built and the only way it’s going to be built is with extreme methods. And I for one will join in with anyone, I don’t care what color you are, as long as you want to change this miserable condition that exists on this earth. Thank you.” Bookmark and Share Bookmark and Share


onething i have desired of the LORD

Well lovers and haters, I am currently in Kansas City, MO for the onething Conference. It's definitely been a roller coaster to remember. Spending the last days focusing on the Lord and things pertaining to the Spirit have been life changing. It seems that this conference will serve as a reference point; a moment of clarity, even a momument of sorts. Similiar to the BC/AD paradigm. Well, we'll see about that. Tonight is the last evening of the conference and although it's only been four days it feels like double; so much has been packed into a concise schedule.

At the core, this occasion has summoned a melange believers from across the globe. I believe 11,000 showed up. To me, that's a beautiful thing. To see the vibrance and heartbeat of Christians looking to further themselves is edifying. I've met a handful of people I'm going to keep in contact with, one of my aspirations in coming.

Although it bears my family, loved ones and earthly possessions, I loathe the thought returning to NYC. I long for the sense of community that accompanies the IHOP family. Who knows, I may end up here in the coming months.

Tonight the fellows and I will embark on a road trip back to Tennessee and ultimately back to NYC. One thing.


every saturday

Today I helped my cousin pack in preparation for her move. It seems she's found a "deluxe apartment in the sky" (in the Upper East). For some reason, it brought me think about the ways I spent other Saturdays in my short life. Studying and dying in New Hampshire, high on some kid's bedroom floor, in the Nyack breeze and under -----'s love. There have been so many Saturdays. In gratitude, I feel overwhelmed by the abundance of my experiences.

i moved!

I created an empty nest. Nevermore will I be the boy in the back of the house, living off of the fruit of my grandfather's fixed income. I've lived a life from a Coke bottle, embracing the cool, sticky sulphuric sweetness of it all.

I left my room in 141st vacant for the fourth time since 1999. i should have wrote this a week and two days ago but the intensity of it all was a bit much. I'm out; that is my lasting sentiment. I am free to make decisions and recant them on my own. Not that that hasn't been the case since birth, but now the weight solely rests itself on my shoulders. Is this all an illusion? Can a parent ever cease to worry and rock anxiety on her breast?

I shall soon find out.


birthday boy, follow the green lights

November 18, 2006: a birthday to remember. Simple in its implications, broad in its emotional content. I spent the day with my beau and mi abuela. We spoke of future plans, contention and our solutions. My grandmother isn't too happy about my choice in this particular woman. After her expression of distaste for mi novia, she has also accussed her of using voodoo via flan to allure me. Needless to say, I come from a very colorful family.

It used to sting but as time spends it means less to me than the day before. My actions in pursuing her, my woman, need to be driven by love, selflessness and a simple desire to be with her. The input from those around me can often pervert and distort that love, which shows me a great deal about where their hearts and minds are. If someone you love has given themselves to another person the peculiarities and particulars of that person shouldn't matter. The fact that I am in a mature, mostly, loving relationship doesn't matter to gma. I guess you can't please everybody birthday boy.

She and I checked our "Fur," the new Nicole Kidman flick, def a pleasure. I finally unDSed my China Lebron IVs, yet another pleasure. We ate at Mama's Food Shop in the Lowa, wonderful. Our cold, dry hands loosely held stick of tobacco as we walked on Houston. All in all, a solid birthday.
I'm moving out in a few days and my anticipation is mounting. Can't wait for Wednesday.


anonymity of the hoodie

I was on my way home tonight when I saw one of my mom's friends walking out of his front door. I was prepared to walk past whilst flinging a 'what's up' his way but this guy wanted to talk. Okay, deep sigh, 'dang it's late.' Small talk, banter, I say, "hey, where do you store your bike during the winter?" As the words were leaving my mouth I realized what I had asked him. He went off. The man started on this trip that ended like this, "if i catch you in my yard...you're dead."

It was then that I saw the fire in his eye and the unsteadiness of his gait. After an ancillary embrace I walked off into the night--amused.


the oddities of a man in search of truth

I spent the last hour walking around the campus I spent five of the most formative years of my life. I sit, overwhelmed by what met me: vivid recollections of the experiences that have shaped my present form. In my hand, a burning, whistling menthol cigarette and in my chest the resonance of a life past.

Preeminently was the memory of a past love. Our time together haunts me like nothing I've ever experienced. I recall times like our conversations at A.B.'s grave. As morbid as it sounds is as damp as my night was. Years ago we sat there, on stones that still remember our names, our conversations, our love. What strikes me most about her and our relationship is the present. The absence of her presence as dug a grave in my heart, only to be filled with dirt, flowers and a resting stone. HERE LIES US.

As young as we were, I am still convinced that I found true love there. She may not say the same, but inwardly, deep beneath the sea of insecurity and hurt, she believes it to. For that we have not let go. For that we will always love, over that tombstone.

On this night, I recalled the fear that passed through me like oxygen. Fear of expectation, fear of man, mostly fear of myself: the true self that still has yet to come forth. In the end I realise we weren't just kids, we were young men and women searching for meaning in a desolate world.

I remembered my car and all the memories that accompanied it. I realise it for the blessing it was and feel the weight of it no longer being present. I guess you could call this evening memory lane. That winding road is a lonely path that few will brave but all must face. I have, on this wet, starless night. I have faced my demons.


a guide

i just touched base from watching the flick: "a guide to recognizing your saints." i sit with the resonance i didn't expect to experience. the crux of the film is a boy's relationship with his father and the world that is falling apart around them. dramatically portrayed, i was brought to tears. at the peak of the film the obvious hit me. i felt the sulphuric taste of what my father did, or didn't do, sit on my bottom lip.

absenteeism is the word that emerges amongst all others when i think of my father. i once asked him why he left us. he told me some reason involving his tour with the military. i accepted it then, because we were there in a car; my arm was vulnerable in that damp car, not his. i attempted to wrap my mind around it then but i can't now. for a father to abandon the son he's created must involve more than exploits in south korea. i could accept, fear, impotence, hatred or simply lack of love but not knee high boots and fatigue.

dito stood in the foyer of his building and decided to walk. walk away from the sordid life and the emotional paralyzed father that was all smeared over it. i listened to him then.


broken homes aren't a rarity, but they should be.


poem: evening commute

How vast and how effective you are in sapping young men of the vigor and stellar women of their beauty. You are as unto an unlikely parasite, gnawing away at what we thought we had left;
after all the hustle and bustle was done, ourselves.
You bite and chew and swallow that which we hold dear; o’ wretched workings of this intricate system. We are then left to only recall shadows of ourselves, like jaded paintings on the wall, simply hanging.

Oh time, how shall I know thee? How can I grasp thee with hopes of mastery?
I see a rising sun that sets on me as if I were its’ own. I am. Settled at placid bays that resonate sounds of our surroundings.

I belong to the day like it belongs to me. We are servants one to another, working that which seems expedient. How is it that a man can work all his life yet not have anything to show for its value, no met potential, just weariness and wrinkles to accompany his death bed. I shall find my path of truth and wisdom as a sojourner in search of freedom. I will find her and lay hold of her gently, while I ask her where she’s been all my life.

And then, I shall be free.

previous sentiment: black woman

Revolution skin, a term that properly depicts what you’ve lived with.
Your aura exudes a most inexplicable awe from your neighbors.
My black woman, with hair and beauty flowing down the concavity of her back. It’s held too much anguish, too much unnecessary pain. Allow me to lead you to plains of placid waters, whereby we could bathe ourselves. Allow me to wash you with words you were always skeptical of. Let me speak into you; verbally displaying your worth, your value, before God, your past and every ex that made you question.

Black woman; You who watch over yourself, allow me. Allow, me. I’m taking precedence over your fears, your insecurities, and over your need for radical feminism. Release me to advocate.

O, Black woman, symbol of valor and enduring strength, come back to the place of acceptance.

At this moment, I feel that to give myself to anyone besides a black woman would do myself injustice. I see it as several things, furthering the black community, investing in a woman with whom understands me to a greater capacity and simply loving a beautiful vessel. Watching a black woman glow is unlike anything else.



this song only last for a short while. let's dance will the music lasts. dance to the music, dance, dance, dance. shout for a while under the heat of the rhythm. let the blaring vibration of the speakers pulse through you. under your skin, inside your nerves, between, between.

This morning I went to the construction site we're working at, our contractor has a penchant for being excessively late. Why not take a walk? With Switchfoot in my ears I walked towards the rising sun. The lyrics came through, "my heart is darker than the ocean." Tears immediately filled my eyes and I began to uncontrollably sob. I knew the Lord was touching the part of me was slow to forgive. I can forgive others, but to myself, I inflict unnecessary self lacerations. He touched me there, when several minutes earlier, I prayed for his presence to come "in a way I couldn't imagine."

He is.



para closure: TAC

Red letters that I see on my page; trying to recollect something, trying to represent something, trying to. Reasons for which, reasons to forget and understand that I found you in the first place. What is sought is found and somewhere beneath the blood stained page is you: crippled, alert and waning. You told me that I'd never find a love like you. I tried not to believe you.

I understood it when you cradled me and fast sleep was near, when I held off on tobacco and loose women. I was afraid to believe you for the chance you were right. In Solomon's voice I found you and reveled in your bosom. I found solace there, yet I sought refuge elsewhere: in the arms of intreprepidation; she knew me well. Perhaps better than you did. Who knows the bond our dark skin made in the night? This is the reason I have searched for you in quiet hours and roam like a man of dim light. To forget your darkness, to immerse myself deeper than you, or she, ought to search for me. Beneath sheetrock and poetry I lay waiting there like a virgin in anticipation. You knew me then.

I gave you that shiny locket and told you to rub it when you were afraid. I emphasized that it'd make our fears dissipate into the Northeast winds. You believed me for my ferverence. What if I had told you to forget and set aside rubbing and disaster for those other women? Would you not be distant these days? My prayer should have been for easy thoughts and summertime melodies.

For you I have cried tears that don't exist.


the song

So I’m walking from work and a distant sense of guilt arises from my chest. The object of this feeling is a love that was lost, a irreconcilable relationship. How she adored me so? And how I gave her so much of myself. It stings to remember that I couldn’t give her me. The me that she wanted more than Africa, Jeff and the late night prayer walks. I could have. We sat in that restaurant and I told her of the fear that kept us apart. She told me she’d never leave. But even heroines grow weary and lose sight. She lost me when her impatience took reign. My fear and her frustration: separation, distance and ultimately relocation. Where have you gone, you with hair like the sea. I rode there in the canoe we created. It was costly.

What did it cost you -----? Do you ever consider my condition? I reflect on yours often. If you could have run to mind, I would have found you. But your back, it gave way. It couldn’t bear the toils and shit of false confession.

Under that tree I found you, sinking, sliding, sitting at the base of my ‘fro. You called it yours when you knew it was Ghandi’s. You called it yours when you knew I was far. You asked me if I liked her. I liked you. I liked you. I liked you.

Do you recall that snowy night when I gave you that pill? I placed it deep. Who could have found it but her? Did you vomit it out when I fell asleep? Go back to that apartment and find it and look at it. Tell me if it still makes you melt when I sang to you: my off key-no-high-note-hitting behind. I let you hear me moan like a dying child. I cried before you like a broken widow. I gave it to you. So find that pill.

We drove in my car listening to Jewel. You put your hand on my knee and reminded me of God. I looked over at you with your legs crossed and saw us in a cloud. We traveled far that day.

I would have walked, walked off that cliff for you. Could you see me over the edge of vulnerability? Sinking, soaring down in a fit of ecstasy and reason—for you. Find that pill and call it home. Put it under your left armpit and do the chicken until it dissolves back into your skin. I took a picture of you nude in my mind of minds. I loved you. I showed you the veil and removed it—why not wait -----?

At the edge of remorse and dimples I find you searching. Where have you gone? I told Missy to tell you I care. But that caring hurts like mothers who love too much. I am your mom, so get the fuck out of the house and go back to college! Two and a half years is not enough. And when you come back you’d better have a husband or a degree, preferably both. –Mom

I took a picture of you when you were on our hardwood floor, barely smiling. You looked like a woman, like a graduate. I had a hard on, not for you, just because. Your hair looked like a stormy wave on my floor. I told you not to move, because “you look(ed) beautiful.” You lied still but your eyes wandered. I thought I was your husband: Your Dwanye. Am I the one who should have run toward you, with arms flailing like you would have done? You caught me off guard. I was there, we were there, in Harlem and suddenly, the pill. Visible to me. How could it be? I should have told you not to be afraid, that I was a man who made manly decisions, but I wasn’t. No I need someone to make me forget, make me forget, make make me forget. I don’t want to see African under my eyelids, I don’t want to see a brunette and Nikons give me flashbacks to strong to live under. I know you are whole, healed: sanctified, delivered, but I’m not that holy yet. I still love.

The prospect of moving seems fatal but feasible. Ascertainable. Questionable. Will someone hold my hand and bring me to forget about that pill and all it contains? Else I will be mad, roving, ranting, craving. Craving cannolis, craving short cotton t-shirts, craving more. Realistically, more than I can take. More than I care to admit. That fucking pill. You saw it first! Why?

What does your mind do when it sees me? Does it recoil like a fatigued penis or does it dart like shadows under fluorescents? I needed you there. I needed to hear you call my name; to face your shoulders toward me and mash your head between my chest. I needed to call you mine. Is my love unrequited still? Like a solitary jellyfish washed ashore, am I that sullen?

You should have waited for me to take you away.


On Writing

In an essay, Joyce Carol Oates mentions how she feels about her life as a writer. The immensely successful author expressed that she never claimed herself as a writer in a “pretentious” sense of the craft. I, on the other hand, find a struggle not to shout from the rooftops of my innate art. I don’t feel this way out of pride, but for the sheer excitement of living out a dream of my youth. Through my subjective lens being a writer is one of the most fabulous things to be.

I grew up reading the classics: Moby Dick, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Poe, and the like. I wasn’t as much so concerned with the author’s lifestyle or plight, but the stories they had to tell. I recall being drawn into Poe’s morbid depictions with “The Raven.” Particularly, with Edgar Allen, I thought as if I were reading an extension of myself. That the text was a part of my experience. Something I would inevitably lay hold of. I remember being force feed novels, and then seeking them on my own. I traveled thousands of miles away while sitting in my house in Jamaica Queens. What I experienced as a young reader was the author’s ability to draw in a person; allowing them to fall in love with the characters and their lives.

At the age of nine, my grandfather, who raised me, passed away. My grandmother knew I would have a difficult time dealing with it, so she bought me a journal. She thought it could assist me in getting my thoughts down. When I first saw, it I immediately compared it to a diary, something I imagined a young white girl would write in. Seeing its wide, dark shape I knew it was nothing of that sort. I opened it, and observed its thick lined pages. I thought of the possibilities. As my grandmother left my corner room, I picked up a pencil and began to write. It was there that my love affair with writing was birthed.

Throughout the years writing as taken me into places I would have never imagined. I found myself in ciphers, whereby hip hop lyrics came alive off the pad I scribbled them on. After applying to college with a weak HS grade point average, I wrote my way into an undergraduate program. And while there, I wrote feverishly in and out of relationships. I have written the heart of God, so that others may hear it, and by hearing, believe.

An element of writing that deeply woos me is its’ internal quality. Being an introvert, I find it natural to live in my head and stay there, until something or someone draws me out. With writing, I don’t have to leave. If I did, my work wouldn’t be the same. It’d be detached, forced. People would know it. In a sense, my design/personality lends to my life as a writer. My agent/editor always says, the writers who are extremely extroverted don’t write much and the contrary have trouble promoting their work. I don’t particularly foresee that as an issue, as I love being to myself and “in my cave.” Yet simultaneously, enjoy and require interaction with others. Balance, in any lifestyle is crucial: it is that, which I seek.

As a writer I have faced some interesting experiences. Specifically, in my contact with the opposite sex; the writer and the lover have met at a “shady” intersection. When in love, or in crush for that matter, one often does impulsive, spur-of-the moment things. In my case, I may be walking to a destination, and become inspired to share my thoughts with the pad. After doing so, I feel it my duty to express this, new inspiration, with the source thereof. Mmmph. Always not a good idea. Especially, when this inspiration has occurred once, or twice or thrice before with other muses. Even worse, with other muses in nearby proximity. The young writer learns to write and store, as I’ve had to.

Speaking of the idea of a muse. I find some of my favorite work has come as a result of it. The thought is, find someone (usually), or something that leaves its imprint on you and create from there. Poetry flows naturally from my bosom when its Spring and I’m in love. Not just in love with being in love, but truly experiencing something unique with someone who is or isn’t transcendent.

Some of my most heartfelt work was stemmed from my interaction with a female. Whether it be because of my design or for the fact that she is the pinnacle of creation, I know not. For example, “A Thousand Poems:”


I want to write you a thousand poems that bellow deep from who I have become.

I want to write you 1000 poems that take writers their entire lifetime to write. Only to complete them on their death beds; finishing their last sentences with closed eyes and open hearts.

I would like to see you as you are, again and again and again until I understand ----- -------- --------- (someone’s full name you don’t want to see) comprehensively without varying weights of equivocation.

I would like to write you a thousand poems that sat tattooed on the backs of a thousand cattle on hills of bliss.

I would like to show you, while in my white long johns and have you tell me to “put some clothes on,” smiling with an affection that emanated your true being.

I want to you see what’s subject to a thousand closings of the shutter of my mind.

It is my plausible regret that these desires have become subject to time and experience, however real they may be.

Looking back over this expression, I am overwhelmed by the moments I see with such clarity. Inwardly, I regret that the majority of times my muse as been a woman and not a man. I’m speaking of that man who loves me without end, a place of which I’ve pushed. It is by him that I have love, existence and holy matrimony with the trinity I’ve yet to fully comprehend. I think I’ve come to one of the realest reasons why I do this; because I’ve sought for him through women. As this has changed (and changes) my work has become a reflection of that.


Where hast thou hidden?

I just came off the E train of which I slept for the last 45 minutes. I walked out of the train station feeling like the stork the brings babies to their mommies dropped me off on Canal St. I'm trying to gather my thoughts and resurrect my mind's eye. My brain seems to still be yawning, while it mocks, "I'm currently not in at the moment, leave a message at the BLEEP." Oh yeah? I'll subdue you. You gray, mushy mishi masshi ball of wonder. Reading that last statement out loud tells me it's won for today.

It's a pleasure to find myself in front of the surreal glare of a flat screen monitor. I'm expericing two things, the joy of the moment, which is accompanyed by institutional A.C. and a latter emotion, paranoia. I'm wondering whether or not the box I'm fixated on is plotting it's coup on me. Writing is a both a grueling and joyous pleasure I find it hard to pass up.