Spoken Word

Spoken Word

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Where You Belong!!! for my brother Dennis June 1, 1953-July 25, 2010

If I could rewind days,

back step through yesterday,

Pause the hour, 

before the tears,

freeze frame the minute,

that you were still here,

anticipating your next breath,

I would moonwalk minutes,

stomp the present,

and hitchhike a soul-train line, to the past

to those natural days of

"braid it tight Vickie

so the afro could pick out just right."

To those super-fly do's

and magic shave don't's

and those super-fly zoots,

in the mirror to watch,

My handsome brother flaunt,

"Mr big stuff tell me now

who do you think you are

Mr Big stuff, you drive a

big fine fancy car, Mister Big Stuff."

I would chase those glory years,

of track star fame,

and girls in the bleachers,

screaming your name,

of trophies on display,

and press release,

If I could rewind the day,

set my mind at ease,

stop the clock,

and stop the time,

rewind to your very prime,

I would find you as twin,

one speaking gospel,

the other seeking sin,

If I could rewind the day,

go all the way back,

to before the slip,

To hustling peanuts,

To Devil's Dip,

A place you used to play,

I'd kidnap you my brother,

And steal you away,

Then bring you my brother,

Home to today,


Tuesday, March 3, 2015

This Place Without Feeling I written 14 Jan 1986

My heart is not breaking,
nor my head aching,
No gasp of laughter taking,
my breath away,

My feelings have all gone numb,
of this life, what is the sum?
I maintain no ultimate illusions,
or minimal intrusions,
to multiply confusion,
and lead my mind astray.

As you lay there in death,
I stand here bating my breath,
thinking it can't be true,
but the person I see,
laying in front of me,
is certainly you.

I wish that you would speak and sigh,
say it's all been a lie,
a simple-minded notion,
to determine devotion.

Instead, no emotion breaks forward,
or pupil go lowered,
as tears fall toward,
the floor.

'cause this place is without feeling,
emotion or willing,
or time to be killing for,
no bridges have crumbled,
as tear blind we stumbled,
we never even mumbled,
our last good-bye,
now I stand in this place,
no smile on my face,
or gleam in my naked eye.

The Prophetic Psychotic

What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

Is it spoken out of love,

or is it spoken out of fear?

Is it envy turned inward,

or rage set loose,

or courage that brings the poet forward,

to speak the words she choose?

Is he a rising prophet predicting doom,

or trying to convey some truth,

or is she psychotic you presume,

expelling litanies of her youth?

What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

Is it because they were born to say things,

others simply can't?

Or because when they speak they say it smooth,

while others merely rant,

or is it because they speak their truths,

in rhyme, and prose and chant,

then walk away, and leave you pondering their parlance?

What makes the poet speak the words,

that others want to hear?

and their poetic prophecy become psalms,

never-ending, in your ear,

like a psychotic syntax, their voices clear,

their stories told, their truths to fear,

The poet is a prophet,

whose spirit waste no time,

but reincarnates into another psychotic,

and lives again to rhyme.