50 years of what?

if you thought

the dream

was alive and well,

wake up.

the death knell tolls

to usher in

the living hell

which has engulfed

a nation in turmoil.

america,

the land of the free,

still desires strange fruit

hanging from a tree.

brown skin,

dark skin,

it really doesn't matter

because the end result

is splattered brain matter

amidst the party and bullshit

rhetoric

of justifiable homicide.

they claim genocide

but that's a racist rant

which coincides

with the apathy

displayed

when it's time to convict

for the loss

of black souls.

...and the death knell tolls.

can you feel the pain,

the welling of tears,

the sordid fear

of terrified black children

as a police cruiser

pulls near?

are your eyes wide shut

as a mother cries

while her son dies

over and over

on a digital cloud

for an insatiable crowd?

two score and ten,

the blood lust

has returned again.

scarlet life

runs thick,

spilling into cesspools

filled with angry white sheets.

three k's a day

will help keep those

negroes at bay.

the media sends images

precise and subliminal

that make all the monkeys

look like criminals.

...and the death knell tolls.

bow your head and weep.

does God hear the screams

of his children

gathered like sheep

for the slaughter?

there is a movement

to make people of color

the guilty entity,

even if the truth

sings loud and clear.

does black flesh

not bleed,

does it not shed tears

and hope for the future?

maybe it's more appropriate

to don the facade

of a modern day slave

and watch

the invisible whips

reign once more.

fear of a black planet or the real america?

What’s happening in Ferguson isn’t new.

If you’re black and living in this land of the free called America, you’ve been programmed to accept the madness. There is a fear that resonates through America. It's a manufactured fear that all black men should be watched closely. The problem isn't in the people. There's a deliberate glitch in the system. We are ALL brainwashed to react a certain way. The value of an African American life is no less than any other. Yet when viewed through the media lens, we don't mean shit.

What about MY fear as a black man? Will a fed up police officer, having a bad day, use me as target practice? Will other people, who embrace violence, lash out at me for being an undesirable color? The challenges of being Black in America are REAL. If you're not a rapper, athlete or actor with cash, your life is worthless. Those are the attributes necessary to survive and function in the post racial United States of America. If you come up lacking in any of these areas, you’re automatically labeled a thug. People want to see you eradicated for the vermin that you are. You’re an uneducated piece of crap that needs to be shipped back to Africa. The next time you hear that insanity, take the offer. Politely ask the idiot to fund your trip back! People are going to say and believe what they want. What’s the bottom line? Being black in America puts a target on your back.

There’s a resounding sadness that comes with viewing another incident like this. Each time it happens, the level of acceptance grows. Each time an African American body lies cold in the street, the disrespect of the individual begins immediately. No longer is there a time for grieving and asking of questions. There is the rush to guilt factor. Obviously there has to be some kind of crime committed because the person shot to death…was black.

No. I’m not going to write a glowing epitaph for Mike Brown. I’m not going to call him a hero, like so many are doing for Darren Wilson. What I will say is that none of us are perfect. I woke up hating my boss for lying to me. I didn’t pray, when I was supposed to. Instead of eating a balanced breakfast, I scarfed down half a bag of potato chips. Hell, I even had a few lurid thoughts about sex! Does that mean I need to be gunned down?

We have become so insecure and obsessed with race, right has become wrong and wrong has become the norm. We no longer see each other as equals, until proven different. If there’s black and white, there has to be a problem. Unfortunately, the aftermath is overwhelmingly death.

We will never be understood or respected, until the deliberate brainwashing of this nation is addressed! There will be more lies spread to discredit and insult the integrity of the African American race. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. The first instinct is to kill it. That means there will be no need to waste time trying to justify acceptance.

When attacked by an angry mob, John Merrick, aka The Elephant Man, cried out, “…I am not an animal! I am a man!” Have we come so far, as a so called nation, that we ignore the pleas of the downtrodden and shove their rights under the rug? Better yet, has that rug been replaced by bloody sheets? Are we going to see water cannons and dogs unleashed, as people simply ask to be treated with dignity?

A tad over 500 miles away from Ferguson, monuments stand in Birmingham’s Kelly Ingram Park, reminding of the fight for equality and understanding. The horror, brutality and racist acts, which where committed, happened 50 years ago.

To anyone oblivious to what took place, it might as well have been yesterday. For anyone who thought they were living in a post racial utopia, it’s time to wake up.

No. This is not new. Google "1960's riots" and you'll discover horrible, disturbing photos that could describe tensions today. Reality is a hard pill to swallow…especially when it’s being served with a glass full of bullshit.


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wurdz © 2014 all rights reserved

ferguson blues

bullets

have become the norm

in the midst

of a storm

that can no longer

be kept quiet. 

body counts rise, 

while lady liberty 

closes her eyes. 

heart wrenching cries 

from mothers 

burying children too soon, 

as hecklers loom 

and the reaper swoons. 

"education is the key," 

society screams, 

as obviously being black 

makes one 

an uneducated goon. 

double standards 

are tossed about like candy, 

while the humanity 

and clarity 

are lost in translation, 

regurgitated as bile 

flung upon a garbage pile. 

...while in the middle, 

innocence sheds tears 

which crystallize 

on hearts made of stone... 

justifiable 

is nothing more 

than an excuse to execute, 

where are the black cats 

who wore berets 

back in the day? 

zoot suit wearing zombie, 

with slicked back hair, 

showing up everywhere 

begone... 

where is thou faith?! 

once in the cross hairs, 

the media is there, 

dirty laundry is aired, 

sensationalism is their only care... 

and that's what dead niggers bring. 

sit in church and sing 

because freedom 

won't ring 

from the mountain tops. 

while blood flows, 

insensitivity grows 

making black skin 

a sin... 

and willie lynch 

will prevail again. 

controlled insanity according to..

hellooooooo...
lightening fast
ad-libs,
delivered with ease,

snaking their way

inside unsuspecting

craniums,

like an overdose

of valiums.

not to be confused

with boring,

which induces snoring,

there was no time

to blink

when he was in sync

and in his element,

rising to the occasion.

drama to bring tears,

thrilling renditions

to kindle fears.

the scope 

of talent 

was amazing

and bordered

on breathtaking.

add was transformed

into a triumphant

cacophony 

of hodgepodge antics

which altered

the world of funny men.

he was the new standard,

follow or be lost

in an imaginary toke

and puff 

that was never needed.

did he roll out of bed,

with comedy rolling

from his tongue,

or was it a grand 

cover up

for the demons

which heckled

and mocked 

at every turn?

the world loves laughter...

but does that humor

pull itself

from the dark 

recesses 

which torture

and possesses 

that which struggles

to be free?

a soul in turmoil

yet willing

to share joy

with a deranged world.

you don't have to erase

the experience

from our minds.

we were thoroughly

enthralled by all

your extraterrestrial

exploits.

this is not goodbye,

it's na-nu na-nu,

because there's still

so much to learn.

shazbot...

the rush

where did it begin,

was it the hen & gin?

started out

as a quick 

get away,

a time to play,

didn't mean to stay,

yet the heat

of the moment

was an electric shackle

which imprisoned

wanton desire.

as if on fire,

the cadence 

exuded by their lust

thrust them

into a don't look back

scenario.

she envisioned

herself

at a rodeo

doing a do-si-do

on the tip

of his libido.

a few more sips,

past the lips,

and their hips

bucked and dipped

in time to sweaty moans,

such sensual tones,

and they threatened 

to reach the mountain top

together. 

that damn liquor

always made her

give in quicker.

in the morning,

sordid confessions

to the vicar

would soothe

her aching conscience.

but for the moment,

her hunger

was satisfied.

that feeling 

was justified

when she testified 

with a thunderous

climactic roar...

her second encore.

he smiled,

she cooed

they embraced

and the mood oozed

into dying heartbeats

amidst sweaty sheets.

catnip by candlelight

a midday

manifestation of mischief

called to her

and she

acknowledged

the need to feed.

it was naughty

but necessary...

the rumbling,

between thick thighs,

elicited familiar behavior

and a warm sigh

as she succumbed

to devious delights

which reeked

of satisfaction.

curiosity

doesn't kill her cat.

it just purrs

in gentle strains

which soothe

the canine lusts

of her invited conquest.

knock, knock

"entrez vous?"

he brought wine,

to emphasize

the wicked things

he planned to do.

hungry hands

slide

across supple skin

and the festivities begin.

dark room, candlelight

blindfold

to blur her sight,

while he teased

the spots

which begged

to be pleased.

wet kiss fantasies

glide

through licked lips

and create

libido drenched

highs...

church bells chime

at the stroke of three,

releasing

pent up frustrations

finally set free.

a taste,

to savor

her last few drops,

and they drift,

quietly drift...

pink

silent tears

stream

down, down,

lost in the swirl

of rain shower

warmth.

she feels

that part of her

which defines beauty,

sensuality

and desire.

a gentle cup,

press then rub.

her mind wonders

to mama

and what she was told 

to look for.

is it there?

the dreaded thing

which threatens

to pull depression

from the womb

of happiness?

one more time...

this was not the future

laid out

in her best plans.

mouthing prayers,

while soft squeezes soft,

a slow stroll

brings her face to face

with lost hope

and tainted faith.

she curses the woman

who looks back at her.

how could she let this happen?

head in hands,

tired, listless 

emotions

drag her to the kitchen.

one, four, five

shots of tequila,

before glass shatters

against black & blue backsplash.

she hums melancholy coltrane,

dances and twirls

to the syncopated loneliness, 

and collapses

onto cold white linoleum.

with puffy eyes,

pink from indulging denial,

she laughs herself to sleep

and dreams

of black & white yesterdays.

riding the wave of throttled insanity

her music plays...
silky smooth,
spontaneous rips
over syncopated riffs
and shadows
that move in time,
as muddled reminders
in my mind.
i beg release
from the essence
of what draws me closer
to the borrowed
death,
which heckles
relentlessly,
any attempts
to purge my desirous
addiction
to her.
remy and blacks,
she scaled back,
i fear not her evil,
even though
the needle tracks
race up her arm
in droves.
but it's an improvement
over wire tapped lobes.
her music sways...
the skin,
the loco motion
is all i crave.
sweaty loins
and heaving thrusts,
at any given moment,
it's only in her i trust.
my decency has long gone
astray.
her lipstick,
red as the lust
of our indecent
liaison,
leaves wet trails
which ignite
spontaneous eruptions
that feed the corruption
we embrace so true.
emotionless smiles,
powered by her pity
for the creature
she has spawned.
but each body obeys
the rhapsody,
found in heightened
fine tuning,
and soars
in majestic triumph.
her music frays...
yet it will play
again.

the request

she asked me

what i did 

and i told her

that my words 

were the essence

of things to come.

she smiled...

"you're a writer?"

i smirked,

returned a slow nod

and sat on the edge

of the bed.

"show me..."

she clicked

the switch

for some

boney james,

lit a candle

and dared me

to go insane,

on the supple sensuality

she bared for my pleasure.

threw my hat 

and leaned back,

with the stealth

of a lioness

she attacked

my ego.

shirt ripped,

neck nipped,

sweat sipped...

then she was flipped.

because she wanted me

to show her.

piston dances

while slow grinding

advances

us towards the peak

she so eagerly seeked

when challenging 

my physical muse.

legs wrapped in carnal

delight

as moans drenched

in ecstasy 

play a sinister game

of tag with her lips.

we feel the drip, drip

of her upon me

and prepare 

for the glory

she wanted to see.

scratched back,

rhythmic headboard.

a push back,

she was on board.

...and the fire died.

embers,

burning at the end 

of a filter-tip,

as she remembers

i'm a writer.

adrift on the sensuality curve

sugar coated visuals

spurred 

by torrid bouts

of clandestine wishes,

pulled them 

into a wonderland

filled with decadent delights.

chocolate upon cocoa,

drenched

in a sea of swarming 

undulation and seduction,

their sighs

reach heights

unknown to the naked libido

and the sounds

of rhythmic bed springs

foretell a future

held in limbo.

bound 

through lustful longings

and entwined 

heartbeats,

the pull 

of oneness

saturates wet lips

and sweaty hips 

while roaming hands

dive and dip

into areas that cause

tantric explosions.

dancing together

in a unison 

borne of desire

and fed

through intravenous

hits

which spark 

passion drenched sighs

and melodic cries

before souls

are electrified

in sweet release.

deep into double brown,

the stares 

are returned.

quickened pulse

subsides into 

thump, thump

thump, thump

while angry flesh

screams for an encore.

tongues,

wet with wonderment,

glide across glistening avenues

and reminisce

over the bliss

of majestic memories.