love your city

move on up
January 21, 2011, 10:39
Filed under: trill

you can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation, trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, would’ve happened…or you can leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on. – tupac amaru shakur


only if i could show you
January 19, 2011, 23:39
Filed under: trill | Tags:

when i was in the 5th grade my teacher told me that i was oversensitive, to which all i could offer was more tears. it hardened me…i remember so clearly thinking how dare she expose me to the entire class like that. i don’t know why that hard exterior was so important to me even then, but it was. i’ve always been hyper-sensitive to problems foreign to me – television commercials, newspaper articles, photos of dogs waiting to be adopted. you name it, i’ve shed a tear over it. i carry the weight of the world on my shoulders and sometimes it breaks me. but aside from every day trifles, i really try and keep personal dramatics on the low. i dare you to try and break me. and maybe it’s because of my stonefaced, coldhearted modus operandi that i am able to suppress my own bullshit; hold it up against the world’s bullshit, come to terms with its insignificance and move on. but, in doing so, i end up thinking about how the next generation will not know tigers…or honeybees…or quite possibly, swimming in the ocean…and the whirlwind in my stomach rises and blows right out of my eyes.

i know your stories
January 17, 2011, 22:00
Filed under: street scriptures

and now i’m like a major threat/’cause i remind you of the things you were made to forget

i suppose it’s something i’ve already touched on a few times, but never to a level that i’m satisfied with, so i’m going to try and write more about the books that i am currently courting. not really sure where i want to take it, but i imagine, as with most things, it will take shape as it goes. to set it off, i’mma bless you with a list of books that tupac shakur read. if you know me, you know just how deep my love for pac goes and how far-reaching his influence was on a young me, and it will make all the more sense once you read this…

monster: the autobiography of an LA gang member | sanyika shakur
assata: an autobiography | assata shakur
ponder on this: a compilation | from the writings of alice a. bailey & the tibetan master, djwhal khul
the phenomenon of man | teilhard de chardin
kabbalah | gersham scholem
thoughts and meditations | khalil gibran
telepathy | alice a. bailey
the autobiography of malcolm x | as told to alex haley
ah, this! | bhagwan shree rajneesh
roots | alex haley
the tibetan book of the dead | w.y. evans-wentz
black like me | john howard griffin
bhagavad-gita as it is | a.c. bhavtive-danta swami prabhuapada
the confessions of nat turner | william styron
the psychedelic experience – a manual based on the tibetan book of the dead | timothy leary, ralph metzner, richard alpert
james baldwin: the legacy | ed. quincy troupe
initiation | elisabeth haich
the meaning of masonry | w.l. wilmhurst
social essays | leroi jones
the grapes of wrath | john steinbeck
i shall not be moved | maya angelou
and still i rise | maya angelou
i know why the caged bird sings | maya angelou
nature, man and woman | alan watts
linda goodman’s sun signs | linda goodman
zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance | robert m. pirsig
a raisin in the sun | lorraine hansberry
native son | richard wright
the practical encyclopedia of natural healing | mark bricklin
the complete illustrated book of the psychic sciences | walter b. gibson & litzka r. gibson
1984 | george orwell
one hundred years of solitude | gabriel garcia marquez
the destiny of the nations | alice a. bailey
the visionary poetics of allen ginsberg | paul portgues
the dictionary of cultural literacy | e.d. girsch, jr., joseph f. kett & james trefil
the diary of anais nin | anais nin
the souls of black folk | w.e. burghardt dubois
the psychic realm | naomi a. hintze & j. gaither pratt
tropic of cancer | henry miller
nostradamus: the milleninium & beyond | peter lorie
the state of the world atlas | michael kidron & ronald segal
catcher in the rye | j.d. salinger
sisterhood is powerful: anthology of writings from the women’s liberation movement | robin morgan
in search of our mother’s gardens | alice walker
savage inequalities: children in america’s schools | jonathan kozol
at the bottom of the river | jamaica kincaid
music of black americans: a history | eileen southern
moby dick | herman melville
life and words of martin luther king, jr. | ira peck
art of war | sun tzu
interesting people: black american history makers | george l. lee
blues people | amiri baraka
all you need to know about the music business | donald passman
all god’s children: the boskett family and the american tradition of violence | fox butterfield
black sister: poetry by black american women 1746 t0 1980 | ed. earlene stetson
the harder we run: black workers since the civil war | william h. harris
makes me wanna holler | nathan mccall
great white lie: slavery, emancipation & changing racial attitudes | jack gratus
imitation of christ | thomas a kempis
teachings of the buddha | jack kornfield
no man is an island | thomas merton
mysticism | evelyn underhill
wisdom of insecurity | a.n. watts
secret splendor | charles essert
life as carola | joan grant
serving in humanity | alice a. bailey
here and hereafter | ruth montgomery
the prince | niccolo machiavelli

(mine in bold)

she even
January 14, 2011, 02:01
Filed under: trill


is this beautiful creative whirlwind that my boy claudio has the pleasure of calling his boo. i hate to admit that i would have never (never say never) known who she was had it not been for their union. i’ve never actually met her but that’s the beauty of the internet. you can be in love with people like fefe talavera and yelawolf.

she does all sorts of work, all of which you can discover by clicking the links at the end of this post. crazy lil’ monsters and this incredible work with letters and big murals and isn’t the way she says mural the cutest? and what a fucking babe. and the icing on the cake is that she makes some pretty dope music under the name lil monsta. and she even has her own sprite can…

this my muthafuckin’ m.o.
January 8, 2011, 18:38
Filed under: floetry

“everybody has to die, firdaus. i will die, and you will die. the important thing is how to live until you die.”
“how is it possible to live? life is so hard.”
“you must be harder than life, firdaus. life is very hard. the only people who really live are those who are harder than life itself.”
“but you are not hard, sharifa, so how do you manage to live?”
“i am hard, terribly hard, firdaus.”
“no, you are gentle, and soft.”
“my skin is soft, but my heart is cruel, and my bite deadly.”
“like a snake?”
“yes, exactly like a snake. life is a snake. they are they same, firdaus. if the snake realizes you are not a snake, it will bite you. and if life knows you have no sting, it will devour you.”

n. el-saadawi, woman at point zero

you know i believe in hell
January 4, 2011, 23:30
Filed under: floetry

and soon the train will be leaving. foreign foreheads leaning against the cold window watch their last interaction, inventing fairytales as to how these lovers got this way.

rien n’est plus belle que la vérité et rien n’est plus séduisant que l’avenir.
le futur est mieux que le présent. c’est plus beaux d’y penser car on ne sait pas encore ce que nous attend, he says to her as she stands in the open arches of the train door.

he is gazing up at her, silently professing the love of the ages to her welcoming eyes. she wants to memorize every moment, every instant and each word. make a movie to replay their final moments, like she could forget him even if she wanted to. she can’t stop touching his face, feeling the electricity pass from fingertip to cheek. she kisses him over and over, each with different intention. each one speaks a story, each begs for the future to hold a place for them. he frantically searches for ways to stop those tears from flowing over. impressed with the restraint of his own tears, he cannot help but wonder if she is being strong for his sake, knowing that seeing him crumble with kill her where she stands.

something like this could never happen on a warm night. the cold is biting, and it may have just frozen their tears. she watches his hot breath mixing with the bitter air. his short, quick breaths suggest struggle. she clutches to his chest, knowing the stroke of midnight is fast-approaching. she cannot feel his heartbeat and wonders if the body finds a way to put the heart into a coma when in peril. the pain will soon be piercing. for now, let us be numb, it says.

his stomach sinks when he tastes her salty lips. instantly he is transported to the warm, sandy days that left them seasoned. no longer remnants of atlantic kisses, he resents that he will never forget how her sadness tastes.
silence. a moment of calm before the storm.

without a word of warning, the doors slam shut. the sound of her scream is caught in her throat, the silence of which is muffled by her fists banging on the window. hot tears burn his face, his hands are bloodied from trying to pry open the doors and his legs know that soon they will no longer be able to outrun the train. his screaming is almost maniacal now, matched only by her deafening sobs. she cries not only for their stolen moment, not only for the brutality of finality, but also out of frustration at herself for needing it to come to this to believe him.