I Just Can't Explain This Shit at All

I will sacrifice myself upon a train of bed bombs,
lie flat
while each tick transforms the formation of my heartbeats
to the pulsating of countdowns. Thinking backwards,
I know this all too well
and most times
I erupt from fear

as if my flesh were an alarm clock -
smelling of chemical concoctions and conditions
cocked like gun shots, shower sprayed explosion.
My body's the exposition of embarrassment
centered positioned off the exquisite,
unbelonging to the collection of these marble
sculptures, and sandstoned statues.

Each stare is reminiscent of Medusa;
and then I kill,
without hesitation-
each neck sliced definitely, sculpted perfectly
in the name of justice
by the waist-side

I do not care for justice.
As it is born, I will die.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Where the Dust Falls

**There was another post (now deleted) before this that began the discussion about the lack of black writers in bookstores. I renege on that earlier statement, and clarify that those black authors do exist, but at the demise of cliche titles that probably don't even sell significantly more than the desired counterparts.**

Art is art. Music, Painting, Literature and/or even Dancing all receive the same praises or lack thereof; which is why I shouldn't be surprised at the lack of "attractive power" that good, creative, black books seemed to possess. I'd expect it with rap music, because, unlike literature, it doesn't take years of formal practice to produce. So why would any music listener feel entitled to listen to music as loose and ill-refined as rap music (nowadays anyway)?

Literature stands apart from such amateurish labeling, but it's subjected to the same pressures of unconscious prohibition. This prohibition stems from the inability of current publishers to relate and/or commiserate with black, contemporary authors.

It's frustrating to walk into a Borders store, go straight to the African American section, and see mostly "street lit" books on the life of thugs, pimps and overwhelmingly so, sex (yes Zane, you). If anything at all, I believe these "street lit" books have their moment of enlightenment and entertainment, but at what expense can this be proven. Do these books sell so well that they MUST be the face of the black, literary world? I strongly doubt that. And it's not hate.

I'm sure Zane has her pleasures. Her gritty details involved in describing contexts that lead to sexual situations, and then those scenarios themselves. However, lets be a little skeptical. Reading Zane is like watching Grey's Anatomy; seeing the same thing over and over, though contextualized differently. Can we get some more knowledge to compete with an, already, overly stereotypical characteristic of minorities?

Monday, March 22, 2010