vintageBKlyn
a blackgirl's permutating manifesto on windowsill marigolds & freestyle guerilla acts


Thursday, March 27, 2003  

Well, you would think in these bloody uncivil times I would listen to wholesome uplifting music, like Sweet Honey in the Rock, Cassandra Wilson, India Arie, or Erykah Badu whose cd's constantly rotate on my stereo. Nah, peeps. It is official:50 Cent reigns on my speakers, peaceful darlings. Not even Nas whose hiphop switches from exalting Nubian Queens and saving the original essence of hiphop to banging big booty ho's while getting high off haze in the Queensbridge center, wins the majority of my favor these days. I'm straight supporting the gully tip every morning after I drop my son off. 50 is the psychotic, yet clever lyricist of G-Unit whose violence and pathos matches Eminem's white boy serial killer ways. And they fit perfectly together lounging in exploited riches on top of Dre beats. I never got into Em. He's got lyrics, grinds personal pathology into catchy diddies, but that voice! That mean whiny truck engine he rhymes with has no bass. That irritates me. He just sounds crazy and pissed off. Well, on a bad day I can sound like that too. No props, E. However 50's got that cool lazy slur and he's not trying to be understood as anything but a bad guy who just happens to rhyme toting a weapons' arsenal the size of Fargo. He's been shot 9 times, has lived to tell the story 9 million ways, and makes interesting configurations of spilled brains, skullies, and a lot of bullets. Dre's beats as usual move slow through the dragon's belly rumbling smooth at the bottom of the trenches. 50 rhymes from the bottom flowing mostly destructive gratuitous violence through the country's streets and guess what, there's a whole bunch of us who like it. And what is that about? I can condemn Bush to burn against walls of fire, but then I'm bobbing my head to 50 Cent like what, Brooklyn, yo, word is bond-this shit is hot. I am a mother to a young Black boy in america. Have I lost my mind? I remember, at the end of the day, 50 is entertainment. He feeds the curiosity of the goody goodies who, like me, ban their kids from pulling the trigger on a water gun. OOh-what's it like not to give a fuck about karma and sing excitedly this gospel chorus:
I love to pump crack, love to stay strapped, love to squeeze gats--but you don't hear me though.
I love to hit the block, love my two glocks, love to bust shots--but you don't hear me though
Oh, I hear you, Mr. Cent and I confine my listening to the privacy of your cd. I will not be attending your concert and if I see you in the street, I will run. Fast. Far away from you. Why? Because as stated in the middle of this piece, you''re kinda nutty. But dude, love your romantic duet with Nate Dogg, 21 questions. I'm not getting attached to you, though, the way I did Biggie cause it seems like your main goal after accumulating big cash and bigger guns, is to become eulogized. In the meantime...Go shorty...it's your birthday.....

posted by coloredhoney | 10:04 AM


Wednesday, March 26, 2003  

I try not to be numb because then you can't act, you won't think forward. But I am facing difficulty in not capitulating to the murky waters of grief and sorrow. My brain has unraveled and fallen on my shoulders. Keep ya head up, Tupac would say. But I can't. I have no eloquence, no elegies, no parables, no old Negro spirituals to lift over to Basra or Bagdad. I have no words for the mothers who weep far past their own deaths for their children instructed to kill other mothers' children and anyone else standing in the way of oil fields. I thought I had been inoculated against american absurdity a long time ago. I thought I possessed enough pessimism to ward off the arresting shock of raw imperialism. However, this fictitious war, in the words of Michael Moore, has taken my breath away. Cause that's the thing; this war is not fiction. Brought to us on the stage of technology via satellite and digital cameras the bombs drop like DMX and Jet Li are on the set deflecting them with fancy Kung Fu kicks. Nothing deflects, instead the air swiftly guides, the bombs, missiles, F-16 fighter jets delivering Fed-Ex death to the marketplaces, the homes, the hospitals, the water systems, the bloodlines. The rubble and dust that were once a city called Badgad float on hunger, dysentary, dead cells and blood. That the Iraquis would defend themselves makes Blair and Bush instruct their spokespeople/puppets/mimes/talking heads to respond to accusations of inhumane tactics with indignation. "Why didn't you hear me make the point earlier in my speech that this is the 15th anniversary of Saddam using chemical weapons to kill thousands of his people...there is a pattern of cruel behavior and I don't know what to call them, these people-paramilitary is too positive- these thugs- I call them- set up military targets within meters of civilians...do you see how cruel they are, how inhumane they are...We have our army putting out the oil fires as we speak...As we said we want to preserve the oil fields for the Iraqi people" Who are these people, these bull headed thugs who refuse to do what's best and hand over their country to Daddy? And remember our military is doing everything it can to direct missiles towards targets with clarity. There have been mistakes but we are perfecting the trajectory of the missiles, the new and improved Tomahawk ones. "We're not sure if it was an Iraqui or Coalition missile" that bombed the highly populated Shaab district of Bagdad while it slept and the pentagon staff ate lunch. But rest assured we're going to figure it out because our tanks, machine guns, and nerve gas murder only to liberate the Iraqui people."

Birds chirp outside my window right now, holding a delightfully animated conversation. I wonder for how long?

posted by coloredhoney | 12:40 PM


Monday, March 24, 2003  

I've been rereading a lot of june jordan lately. i only hope to one day write with her power, her artistry. she gives it to you straignt, no chaser allowed. june 14, 2003 marks the first year anniversary of her death. read Some Of Us Did Not Die, honor her communal and spiritual intent, get to know her words, her strength and discover your own.

She Knows What Time It Is

the world's seas and rivers parted
when news of june jordan's death
spread through earth's underground
splitting solid surfaces
the news stopped the planet's heart
halted the flow of air
all matter stilled

her humble smile disguised
no conviction
no fighting word
spared no necessary critique
to the death she checked
fake wars racist projects
brutal regimes confines of gender
wings plumed from her
back in blue green gold
orange and red
flames
brilliant feathers of fire
she embroidered rhythm
shook loose metaphor into
spiral dances
if he had known, Jay-Z would have said
she was sick with words. pleeze.
she remembered
paul laurence dunbar spoke in the genius
tongue of the Black poor a tradition that
travelled through
the talkling drum in her poems
she rejected
jailed english
chose language that restored
power to the people!
wrote Poetry for the People
cause she understood
poetry be the people
she measured the fatal cost of silence
against the high value of voice
and
raged woman black against
our blithe murder
imposed mule order

like louis messiah wrote of toni cade
bambara
june jordan made
"revolution irresistible"

posted by coloredhoney | 9:48 PM
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