Ring Shout (Part 1)

From wikipedia.org: A shout or ring shout is an ecstatic dance ritual, first practiced by African slaves in the West Indies and the United States, in which worshippers move in a circle while shuffling their feet and clapping their hands.

D.O.I's Neologisms:
About 4-5 years ago, I attended a program named the Junior Scholars Program in Harlem, NY. As a part of one of the group sessions, we were required to learn a ring shout and perform it. I operated a giant wooden stick as the only method of percussion. The Ring Shout was dedicated to one of our group leader's deceased friends. I felt the need to write and record a song about it two years later, entitled simply "Ring Shout." Tonight, after deciding to expose the truth, I felt the need to go and re-record the song with new lyrics and enhanced (emotional, not auto-tuned) vocals. Here is the first portion:

Someone tell me why he had to go today?
That’s what his mom would say.
Gone too soon, before potential was reached
And now, his mom can’t stand on her two feet.

He had the experience of escaping death.
Utilizing life until the very last breath.
And now a neighborhood gathers to mourn the loss.
An ocean of tears is the only cost.

Everyone, please stand as we walk the path
Share your memories, thoughts, wonderful laughs.
For here lies an example of youth defined
And how brothers gather for each other one last time.

I’d like to thank the mother for this wonderful soul.
We can feel his spirit although his hands are cold.
His only crime was stepping out of the door.
To further his cause, spread his wings and soar.

I will not ignore that he made some mistakes
But we won’t explore that route, for all of goodness sake.
The press corps said he was full of hate,
But everyone here differs, with NO DEBATE.

We didn’t get to see him expound the distance
And make us all proud, how we miss his existence.
He was on the way to having great piety
And being a monumental asset to our society.

So, mother, father, brothers & sisters.
Do not stop living or let your souls wither.
You have to remember he’s in a better place
And with this memory, just picture his face.

Hook:
J.J. has died today, J.J. has died today.
And, his mother cries out, “Only THE Lord know why he took his body away”
All I know is, for this wonderful soul, heaven will be his path today.

I wish I could meet our group leader today, and perform this song for her. It is one of my saddest, but one of my favorites to listen to and understand its significance. Rest in Peace, J.J.

Hi(atus)

                             Sapphire, author of Push, dropping knowledge

Its been a long week(s). Too long. I really don't know what I've been up to. I've been wandering through a fruitless haze, a drummer-less funk that seems to not be leading anywhere.

I thought college was suppose to HELP you find what you want to do. I had a better sense of that shit riding the 3 train past Brownsville everyday. Smoking my haze beneath white statues in black-and-brown neighborhoods. Walking through my grey block at four in the morning. Then again, what I wanted then was easy: to GET OUT.

Get out of this living and go someplace far, where there were hills and sun and blue water. I always dreamed of that, when I was starry-eyed and couldn't pee straight. NOW, it seems I'm more inspired where I came from. I want to do something -- change -- where I came from. But it seems like I can only start from here.

Expect some big tings (Jamaican accent) when I go for them, and I only dream big.

"Hi haters, I'm back off hiatus. I feel just like you, I mean even I hate-us." Kanye West Grammy Family

Mr. Stress

D.O.I's Neologisms:

Good evening. This is Mr. Messed Up calling at the entrance of your building. I’d like to speak to fed up or disgruntled, or the socially inept and humble, please? Yes. I’ll hold.

While the elevator music drifts and my arteries split apart in rifts, I continue to hold this gift.
It is unspeakable and intangible, it is hidden in your palm and under your mandible, it is that handy.
It torments the intellectual with an addiction of one day, candy, and the next
The feeble need to see the dream burst in a frenzy given by that virus-laden needle that brings everyone to equal status.
Equally dying to no one, testifying “HELP ME! Can’t you comprehend my physical manifestation of emotion called crying?”
No. Because I am as messed up as you. I may be the Dr. Phil of love as called by a few, but I still suffer from this indoctrinated state imbued which caused you to turn to this satisfaction in the first place.
It’s quite unfortunate that your unwillingness to say no caused a chain reaction, breaking down the doors of the erroneous faction
And the camera’s still moving in action, so never stop discovering, my astronaut.
It’s not your fault, and never has been.
So, why did you make it yours? I told you to come find me before it was too late.
But you made me trek up an electrified gate, jump over a tight space, and slap some sense into your handsome face.
Don’t continue punching and kicking me, I care for your life! Can’t you see my motive though the light is flickering? For all you bicker, you still haven’t realized I’ve saved you.
So, I’ll call or return later, when I’m sure you’ve returned to your proper state of grace.

If only I had a method of returning.

Signed,
Iniquity.

Love in Native Tongues

Native Tongues

Every midkiss breath and moan with you
Is an exodus.
Of Truth.
Love.
The Genesis.
That’s why, to get any misconceptions out the way with
Their “out-of-lover” translations

We speak in our native tongue

And they dance. An Indigenous Artform. Involving the Simultaneous
Deconstruction
Of how art
Is formed.

Building buds playfully stack on top one another.
Reminiscent
Of the natural interaction between infants
The Basic Building Blocks of eternal relationships
Ships, weathering Bermuda Love Triangle storms
But We wont sink.

Just submerge ourselves in the depths of our demigod Poseidons

Talking in tongues, is talking in oceans. Tidaled in Salva.
Kisses representative of something like:
The Clash of the Titans.
Motion Picture Kisses rewind us to a time with all the above, previously mentioned elements… Building Buds. And Saliva.

Revert us to our native tongues.

Our Tribe. Called. Questlove.
Twisted Tongues. And
Folded Fingers.
Resembling Roots.
Of the Tree of Life,
Bonita,
Bonita.
So, through these midkiss breaths. Midkiss moans.
Free us Like Moses.
hearts stroll through Crimson Kisses.
Dangerous Waters.
We exhale intralinguistic hymns that can only rival the divine.
The way our tongues spiral, resemble the twisted staircase to heaven
From two young tongues
Hailing from the city of God.

Brooklyn, NY,

We smooch stories,
Bible-orgraphies,
Fables, Fairytales, whatever you want to call it, we
Des Tours de Babel,
Babylon( Babble on )
Get our
“Ba- father, Bel- God”
we get our church on in this daily religion of sacred sins

and here before us,
we have the interaction of our sacred objects:
Building Buds and Saliva.

Revert us to our original form:

The way our tongues clasp
So shamefully natural,
Tight
like minority encoded handshakes
Resemble
The Mystery of the Pyramids.

We kiss Egyptian. Whisper Messages from Mecca. Old Testament Heavens. Jesus high on cloud Nirvana Nine.

We don’t fear controversy. Nor clichés.

I love you’s never get old. Forever Fresh Chemistry is defined by the elixir of content and desire.

Drink up.
The levels in the tower of babel, only get higher.

Social Doctrine

D.O.I's Neologisms
Finally breaking the pattern of using Madonna songs as titles. I'm upset. I broke my promise to myself just to fulfill a social doctrine.

I’m back in the mystery, the history, the limiting misery.
To his or her 3^rd degree, inaudible and unwanted poetry flowing from
My incredibly pink lips or emanating from my non-packed body that no female wants to touch.
I hardly got the hell out of dodge and out of there.

Out of where? Or, underwear? Be aware? Or simply beware?
Take goddamn care if you wish to remain in this red danger zone.
Your fame and, and already mind-blown psyche will be prone
And your crushed heart further eviscerated by an unmanned drone.

No phoning home or wishing on this blood-spewing gnome
No garden of sexuality indifference to protect or equality sect
Your ears will be blown out, and she’ll force your ass to shout
Façade it as if she’s devout, then the next morning, “peace, cub scout.”

That’s when you fall off your cloud, scream aloud, LOL, laugh out loud too!
But know no one’s hearing your expletives, “help me, dammit!” they’re too busy assimilating to the crowd
It’s not my job to immerse myself in the hot tub of heartbreak.
So why do you make me attend where the ground shakes

Thanks to corporate businesses? Manufactured hallmark?
Throwing a baseball so fast, my heart’s out of the ballpark.
Fuck tomorrow. I mean it. We survive if it never exists.
Because those dear to me will always tell me not to take that forbidden kiss.

So, I’m forced to watch these stupid ass ignoramuses frolicking in this crudely assembled bliss.

Voices

D.O.I's Neologisms:
No one told me this road would be level one
That our memories spent together would all be under the sun
That the roulette we spun, empty it would always come.
So, I have to get back to you before it all becomes none.

Before I decide to be a nun, change my value
Submit myself, just like before, even though I never had to
And if I’m complicated, sorry, I give really bad clues as to
How I’m feeling. Reeling in my biggest catch of the day

It speaks volumes that keep stealing my tireless ways
Then, I come to you for healing, only to find you’ve gone astray
And now that my status is “Dream Deferred,” how can I be of use to you now?
Can I go back, oblivious, no questions, complete disavow?

I believe that’s called a second chance. Not too many
of those are thrown into our hands. So, as I take a glance
At this water, which is supposed to soothe me.
Since I [expletive] you miles away, I find it hard to enhance myself.

Faltering at advancing elsewhere, and catching glowing eyes
At first glance. They say heart demolishing is all around, so just dance.
Nah, because then I’d be conforming again. I never wanted it, but my duty
is to break the norm, inform of my experiences, and hibernate

Until I transform. But this tingly sensation is the only weight
That brought me out and is desecrating all aspects of me.
So, I’ll keep searching. Until I find a cure for this manipulative thing.
I’ll find me reform someday.

Sky Fits Heaven

D.O.I's Neologisms:

And, here he is. Sitting in uncomfortable silence
The sirens blaring back and forth do nothing to quell the unending violence
Yet, among the tyranny, self-hatred and bigotry, he finds vibrancy.

His eyes kept swirling around, to the back of his neck.
Always in protection mode, as they know what’s coming next.
Another award show that demonstrates that whomever’s in charge has vexed.

Has paralyzed the listening public to the point where we no longer reach for the skies.

But, rather, into her eyes, screaming how could she make the same mistake again, and yet had not realized
That, miles away, someone is wishing to be her
Do the right thing so her two unborn can feed her
Knowledge, self, truth. Lifting this supposed weed curse
So her guiding spirit leads her to be first.

Even though she betrayed him, he wishes for her success.
Cause they’re both livid at the TV, as who won wasn’t best
It’s all going the way of the destiny manifest.
But, this is not his issue.

His disturbance lies in the blood-stained tissues that speak the ill words
“I really do miss you.”
And, if ever more his past life once again becomes an issue,
He can dig deeper. Use his cane or reacher. Once again become the teacher
To show he’s in control. On top of his soul although his dreams are stole.
Remaining the sole, he looks to the sky.
Learning that heaven’s still there for him to fly

To.

Dreaming with a Broken Drum

I used to think I was born in a swirl of synthesizers that sounded like slave ankles wading in a thick river. 

In the background, horns were "oh-ooo"-ing and violins were crying so beautifully that nuns would gladly trade their souls to possess such tears. 

A bass clunked in its dirtiest manner. 

Add the symbols of a cymbal and a whip crack of a snare drum and I was born on a rainy Wednesday, a name from my mother and some rhythm from my father. 

All ten fingers and all ten toes. 

All eighty-eight keys and all six strings.        

             

I used to think I lived in a castle, stone and brick buildings hovering over my every movement. 

Water that swept the gutters and curbs were moats and church bells warned us of impending danger. Figures who never left the corners of our dilapidated castle were dragons with pointed Champion hoodies for horns. 

They blew smoke out their noses and kept bruised claws in pockets. 

This was a castle where broken English speech were incantations, cooking pots with soup were spells that lingered with a salty stench, and gold fluid in glass bottles were elixers for eternal youth. 

Music always played. 

Gunshots were fireworks for celebrations and my mother, the Queen to me, sat on her throne, hugged me...

And told me to stay away from the windows... 

              

I used to think nothing could come from dreaming. 

All I could control was my dreams, all soaked in brandy, so I could live with one foot outside of reality. One foot in and one foot out so I wouldn't completely lose my mind. 

One foot in and one foot out so I couldn't hide from how I grew up, where I grew up

Why I grew up. 

And with every sentence I figure out why brandy soaked dreams 

Mean everything.

Performed this some nights ago. WASSUP? (Jay-Z voice)

Get So High Off..

I'm like a Russian mobster, drinkin distilled vodka

'Til I'm under the field with Hoffa, it's real
Peal the top up like a toupee
Mix the water, with the soda
Turn the pot up make a souflee
All of y'all can get it like group page in your 2-way
I'm livin proof that crime do pay
Say hooray to the bad guy, and all the broads
Puttin cars in they name for the stars of the game
Puttin 'caine in they bras and their tomorrows on the train
All in the name of love


Jay-Z Allure


Shouts to Afflicted but I got the camera...what's good with the models? Let's get on that.

Sorry

D.O.I's Neologisms:
My fate. My fate will depend
on this next message I send
bringing us closer to the end of professional relationship.

These demons make hate us with our fears
and they think they can take us when it’s all clear
Because to our voices, hearts, and minds, we adhere

Dearly beloved, I have finally made it to the summit
My voice is echoed so those with goals can hum it
And I have asserted that no one can take us from it

In that case, why do you cry? Why do you balk at the thought of saying goodbye?
Why do these inferences make our friendship sessions go awry?
You don’t need to fight me, I’ve been forever by your side.

Don’t make me the king of sorrow
Just because I’ve borrowed my experiences from great leaders
Doesn’t mean my heart is hollow.

I just follow my gut to get me out of the rut
And with four months left, I think we’re stuck.
Because, out of this body, out of this soul, great things are bound to erupt.
So, I’m sorry if this is all a bit abrupt.

Signed,
Forgiveness

"What the Fuck is a Freewrite?"

I’m listening to “The Prayer” by Kid Cudi.

And I’m wondering.

If I could really freewrite something.

Recently,

I’ve curved cravings for the high by being in this cave.

Allegory

of a love story. Platonic plays reflecting self are mirrored in these stone walls

soiled

with my thoughts.

Dreams and Nightmares role play in my bed sometimes. Trading Places.

And I’m wondering. Compared to the passion

of the couple beside me, is my wordplay empty?

Most days, our sex is just

movement.

For the sake

of movement, moves play dominant, suppressing thoughts into submission.

Literally, I have no idea what these ideas mean. They just are what they are.

Independent.

And in them, I am dependant. My name under their income taxes. I am an orphan and I loose track of where my foster care lies sometimes. In bed maybe.

Within the walls soiled with thoughts, a roof of confusion, I write without direction.

I watch

fingers

strike

keys

with discretion

and I can’t figure it out till it’s over.

LCD screen

Journal entries record dreams and nightmares

swapping wives

with death and taxes.

Competing.

Raw.

Transparent pages declare

waR

when I change them and I can’t tell which couple is worse. And even as individuals, I don’t know them until we’re over:

Dreams. Nightmares. Death. Taxes.

So I must be content with content across this very screen metaphysically telling me I never will.

I stop typing… The cursor blinks. And I wish my eyes didn’t close so often. I miss things so often. See them when they’re open. And I miss them when they close again.

I find myself rudely staring at my seed. (I)t looks at me up from this cradle of pages. And I find myself again.

But I still don’t understand.

What the fuck is a freewrite?

Human Nature

D.O.I's Neologisms:

I feel a disconcerting state of discontent approaching quite soon. It is the month where history is celebrated, yet for some, it is also the worst month of the year. Forgetting the fact that I divulge into another year of adulthood at the midpoint of this month, I’m searching to do something. I’ve called everyone I know who could give me a truthful answer on this situation. I have a plan for the next four years of my life. Everyone around me is telling me to take it easy, don’t worry about that physics test two days from now. This thing called “senior spring” is upon us! But I know that which is easily given to us can be revoked just as easily.
Position: where do I stand? Do I enjoy the speechifying of our president or am I forced to enjoy it for obvious reasons? Do I want to chill and have fun, throwing the cares away, or do I want to do the responsible thing? It’s like a tug-of-war. Of course, without all of these questions, life would not be nearly as interesting. That doesn’t stop the disconcerting feeling: I see a lot differently than my comrades around this time. I’m looking for things to keep me inspired, and not lamenting about the dreary days ahead. I’m still going to care about the kids that, despite their behavior around their own kind, beg for leadership and guidance from someone they actually care to hear from. I guess that makes me dear, but not the only one. My mind hasn’t shut off because there’s a plan for me. I was once told that God wants you to leave things to him, but he doesn’t want you to be stupid. Of course, that opens up a new box of interpretations that I take only one thing from: follow your mind.
I felt a jabbing at my back yesterday. It was a ball from a kid who wanted me to follow him to the baseball field and play. I stepped on the diamond, didn’t know the entirety of what to say, nor the history of the field on which the air I had to slay. The kid asked me, “why are your shoulders so high? Everything is supposed to be okay.” He had a happy-go-lucky look on his face. I felt a drop of rain and shuddered. He opened his mouth and gave it a taste, as if he was kissing God at the top of his place, and it became their warm embrace. He didn’t have a care, so he dropped the ball, and said “race you to the street, I dare.” I wasn’t prepared to divert my energy from my problems and into the soles of my feet just to race this kid. But it provided an out, and from my problems, I hid. We sped along the route, cars drifting along. My mind raced three times as fast as our steps. I let him take over, as it was futile to accept the challenge of being a kid again. We reached the finish line, and he pulled out a gold medal. He placed it in my palm, and as my thoughts began to settle, I asked why I was to take the prize. His way of winning was not the best or the fastest, actually, a clever disguise. He wanted me to take it and keep it as a symbol. Of what? Of whatever I wanted it to be of. I held it high so its luster could be free. I didn’t care if the next driver went blind or slammed into a tree. My purpose was only to find the significance of this metaphysical manifestation of a judge’s way to determine who is the best. And the kid asked me why I intently stared at it? I told him it must have some purpose. And I had to find it. He took it back and put it around my neck. “That was its purpose.” He smiled and left.
I don’t know what is coming next. I want it to be immaculate. I want it to be filled with no mistakes. I want it be being held in the arms of someone who cares, or any euphemism that those words entail. But, I’m constantly reminded that worrying about it is not my job. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I have trouble falling asleep because of it, but it’s the truth. I’m going to find a repairman who can mend a shattered coronary artery. It’s been dislocated for six years, and it’s the reason I haven’t been truly happy for all of this time. Maybe I can return to being that kid I met yesterday.