© Sulē Cerdan 2014

The Color of Truth

The cleanse of a smile,
The wave of a hand,
The drift of a laugh,
The heart understands.
So I’m sayin’...
You can’t put a color on that.

The grace of a stride,
The hope in the eyes,
The breath of fresh air,
The words of the wise.
Don’t deny...
Cuz you can’t put a color on that.

The sorrow of tears,
The grieving of loss,
The circle of friends
to help shoulder the cross.
At all costs...
Man, you can’t put a color on that.

The peace in your mind
The spirit of love,
The wake of your dreams
The One up above.
Spreading love,
Cuz you can’t put a color on that.

© Sulē Cerdan 2014

Midnight Daydream

Take my hands.
Wrap them around your light
like a python until your heart spills
all over me like a waterfall.

Soften my heart.
Hard things are
like promises,
they always tend
to break so easily.

Open my eyes.
Some can tell me
that God is real.
But you...you
can show me.

Enlighten my dark.
There was once a
monster living under my bed.
He moved inside of my head
and had a brood of bébé's kids.

Some nights I’m afraid
of my own thoughts.
So I write them down
like eviction notices.
But like this daydream,
they always return.
Unwelcomed.

© Sulē Cerdan 2014

Summer Of 89'

You left a love letter chalk-outlined
in the middle of Quincy and Lexington ave.

Right where our parents parents
used to play hopscotch with slave bones.

20-feet above it your heart was found dangling
like a gold chain from a white noose-knotted
shoelace bowline tied to a power line.

The neighborhood kids played cops & robbers
underneath it everyday that summer without
looking up once. You would of thought they
had an iron ball & chain shackled to their necks.

That was the summer your heart
became a mistletoe for His kiss of death.

Just maybe once upon a time guns were boom boxes.
And revolutions were fair-skinned babies everybody
wanted to have.

But something happened...
Someone lost hope...
Somebody forgot...

© Sulē Cerdan 2014

Sulē - "Walking Down The Street" (Video)
Inspired by Suzanne Collins "The Hanging Tree".

Lyrics:
Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
They gunned down a man, who only wanted peace.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
Where dead men called out, for equality.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
You might not make it home, because of bigotry.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
Please lower your pistol, and come and march with me.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
You might not make it home, because of bigotry.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
They gunned down a man, who only wanted peace.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
Where dead men called out, for equality.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different will it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Sulē - "Walking Down The Street" (Lyric Video)
Inspired by Suzanne Collins "The Hanging Tree".

Lyrics:
Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
They gunned down a man, who only wanted peace.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
Where dead men called out, for equality.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
You might not make it home, because of bigotry.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
Please lower your pistol, and come and march with me.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street
You might not make it home, because of bigotry.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
They gunned down a man, who only wanted peace.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

Hey you, hey you
Walking down the street,
Where dead men called out, for equality.
Same shit keep happenin’
No different would it be,
If we keep livin’ life without humanity.

When You Die...

Will the earth swallow you like a harlot on a
one-night stand — graceful and seductive but numbly?

Or like a serpent — slow and (w)hol(l)y but breathtaking?

Maybe even a drunkard guzzling whiskey —
regretful and riotous but unforgettable.

What will these poems that I master(P)iece with
dinosaur bones mean when death deciphers them?

Who will dig up their skeletons barehanded in a graveyard
of memories; In a night sky of fallen stars; In a deep sea of
emptiness?

Some people epitaph your last words
on the tombstones of their hearts.
While others place a rose on your
grave and disappear forever.

Beauty still lingers. 
Love still dwells. 
Search deeper.

save our souls

I search for you
in midnight walks,
in aimless trains
and barefaced talks.

In ghetto blues
and closing walls,
on lifeless faces
and broken laws.

I wonder why
you never show,
how could you let
your children grow?

The world is such
a lonely place,
sometimes its tough
to lean on faith.

But still I try
to hear your call,
so if you listen
please break my fall.

Phenomenal Woman (After Maya Angelou)

All the fellas wonder where her secret lies.

She’s not a damsel in distress or a floozy in disguise. 

But when I start to tell them, 

They swear I’m spewing lies. 

I say, 

It’s the flip of her hair, 

The bat of her eyes, 

The jazz in her laugh, 

The gift of her thighs. 

She’s a woman 

Phenomenally.  

Phenomenal woman 

Is she.

She catwalks into a room 

like a lioness in the wild.

The women study her gait 

while the men’s jaws-drop when she smiles.

They gather around blocking out 

her shine like a posse of rumbling clouds.  

I say, 

Its the oomph in her hips, 

And the peace of her mind, 

The bounce of her breast, 

And the faith in her spine. 

She’s a woman 

Phenomenally.  

Phenomenal woman 

Is she. 

Men hate to admit it, 

but she steal’s their hearts with ease. 

A simple good morning text 

Or a friendly kiss on the cheek. 

A strong woman can make the 

Toughest cutthroats weak in the knees. 

I say, 

It’s the poet in her fingers, 

The world in her palms, 

The mother in her hugs, 

The wisdom in her calm. 

She’s a woman 

Phenomenally.  

Phenomenal woman 

Is she.   

Now you understand 

Just why her heads not down. 

She doesn’t smut or flaunt her butt 

Or live to make men proud.

When you see her on the street, 

It ought to make you bow. 

I say,

It’s in the sway of her arms, 

The poise of her chin, 

The tour of her curves, 

The taste of her wind. 

’Cause she’s a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman

Is she.

Cigarette Break

I’m ah fuckin’ 1AM walk alone in a snowstorm;
ah moment of silence in ah monastery full of mute monks…

…when the world sounds like one pompous crescendo of fuck yous;
one cemetery of ghost playing the quiet game.

Just snow squishing beneath the sole of my timberland boots,
ah memory bank full of reality checks, and darkness—
ah whole fuckin’ black sky of darkness seeping into
the open wounds too often mistaken for my eyes.

This is home.

Midnight body bags the saint inside of me
and brings out the criminal like ah sheriff.

The unknown excites me.
Their fear makes me feel alive again.
I wonder how many times a day she pretends.

Life can be so fuckin’ selfish sometimes.

When I come back I promise I’ll be ah martyr or something,
but right now I just need to get the fuck out of dodge…

Blue Devils with Black Hearts (Kensington Ave)

Imagine seeing the same
dope fiends EVERY morning.

Nodding off underneath the same railroad bridge
like a corpse covered in tombstone.
Begging for change on the same infamous
drug corners spewing the same sob stories
like preschool teachers.

(…Her eyes were two glass crystal balls
lodged in her face scrying hopeless.
She needed two quarters. I wish I could
have given her hope instead…)

Wearing the same tramp
stamps like medals of honor.
The same prostitutes that
were once daddy’s little girl.

Now they open their legs
like paychecks; like
virginity grows on trees.

Life for them is a tightrope
bowline tied on two dead-ends…

Building Sand Castles For Mermaids

A Woman’s heart is 90% ocean.

The 90% that remains unexplored.
The 90% thats just remains of relation-
SHIPwrecks littering ocean floors.

After tripping down memory lane enough
She starts sweeping the pieces underneath
tidal waves of secrets. Then waves
goodbye to love like one-night stands.

The blueness makes blue our favorite color.

We yearn to skinny-dip into an ocean of Her.
To let Her emotions run deep into the lifeguard
of our arms.

The 10% is what we can’t take our eyes off…

What our hands vogue shadow puppets of at night…
What foxily creeps into our sweet dreams when
we’re sound asleep…that is until we fuck the
angel out of Her.

But don’t worry Love…
I promise somewhere there’s an
island with your name written all over it.

Pothead, Troublemaker, or Plain Old Slouch?

You know the laid back kid in High School
who was always the last one to class and
the first one to leave?

The one that the teacher
would call on just to see if he was paying attention,
even though he never was?

Now this kid wasn’t a jock or anything,
but he made being a loner look pretty cool –
the same way lions make killing look artful.

Its kinda weird you know,
because you see kids like that and
never really know how to classify them.
You don’t really know if he’s a pothead,
a troublemaker, or just a plain old slouch.
At least until you invite him into a smokers circle
and he nicely declines like a square.

But deep inside you admire something about him.

You admire the way he makes peer pressure
look like some far-flung cliched myth.
You admire the way he can skip class
so quietly and not brag about it.

Ha!

Most kids practically sign up for suspensions just so the whole
school can hear their name being called on the loud speakers,
ya know?

Honestly,
I just wish it was more kids out there
who were brave enough to stand out;
who were wise enough to know you didn’t
have to be a stereotype to be somebody.

…Well, we’re all grown now though,
so I guess reminiscing on my petty
High School memories is futile.
They say High School is nothing
compared to the real world.

Ha!

Yeah right.

Follow me on Twitter @TalesOfSuleiman

Seventeen Burling Game

The most honest people are locked in mental asylums...

Having sweet dreams of playing hit the piñata
with a hot air balloon full of pills—
colorful ones that look like
tiny pellets of rainbows in your hand.

I heard they’re suppose to put a straightjacket
on the demons running around in your head,
or something like that.

I’m not sure if they ever do though, but I seen
a couple of test subjects and it seemed like they
put a straightjacket around their spirit instead.  

Anyway,
I believe the “crazy” are another form of Revolutionary.
Another force of Superhero inhabiting the world that swaggers courage.

So the next time you see him/her walking the down the street
and you want to point your stupid little finger and laugh,
please make sure you admire...NO, ENVY!
how easy it is for them to disregard your ignorance
and go on living like KINGS OF THE MOTHAFUCKIN’ JUNGLE!

Follow me on Twitter @TalesOfSuleiman

#Emo-jeez

How many emoji’s do you have to send
before the human vanishes out of your heart?

Before the Motherboard of an
iphone cradles your soul?

Before your phone dies like a
suicide bomber and takes you with it?

Has it ever crossed your mind
that when the sun shines too bright to
read a text message than just maybe
its trying to get your attention?

Maybe Mother Nature is no different than
an insecure schoolgirl yearning for compliments;
sashaying bare-skinned into your wildest dreams just
so you can know what the naked truth looks like.

She loves you so much that she’ll turn her skin
into a touch screen just so you can feel her again;
Surgically implant FaceTime Cameras into her eyes
just so you can stare into them forever.

Sulē - "Diablos Woo" ((Video))

Follow Me @TalesOfSuleiman

Now she can get that record deal.

"Green Power Ranger, GO!"

"Green Power Ranger, GO!"

My 3-year-old nephew thinks
he’s a Green Power Ranger.

"Dragon Buster, Fire!"

And you know what the craziest part is,
I actually believe him.

Well,
at least until motorcycles come
roaring around the corner like
a pack of blood thirsty lions…

Then he’s just Invisible Kid using
his grandpa as a human shield.

"Dragon Kick, Hiyah!!!"

But I believe all 3-year-olds are
walking pint-sized miracles that can
see through lies and skin colors.

"Tiger Knee, BAM!"

That can scare monsters away with a laugh and
then challenge God to a footrace around the sun.

That can spin the world on one finger
while making shadow puppets with the others.

"Hadouuu-KEN!"

So if being a good uncle means telling my
nephew that Power Rangers are make-believe,
than what the hell should I tell him about people?

"Power Gun...BOOM!"

“Dear Hip-Hop, Since Our First Kiss…”

One of the most pathetic things I have ever
witnessed, is rappers arguing over who’s richer…

“Ya chains fake,”
“You ‘ont get money nigga,”
“I fucked your baby mama doe! Then
made her do a somersault into the Landaulet…”

I can see the KKK right now with their feet up
eating popcorn in a mansion somewhere.
Watching fool’s do a better job than them in HD;
thinking it may be time for early retirement.

NIGGAS ARE BLACK PEOPLE
THAT LYNCH THEMSELVES.

Its sad because if you ask a rapper why,
they smile and tell you its part of their culture.
That people watch it and love it.
But people also watched the twin towers collapse,
so does that mean they loved that too?

And why don’t novelist
or actors ever beef?
I never heard Denzel Washington
call Samuel Jackson ah “fuck boy”.
Or Paulo Coelho tell Robin Sharma
he’s going to “shoot ‘em when he sees him”.

This is why people see us as threats.

So when you’re walking down the street
and white folks are locking their car doors,
its probably because in your last song you said
your “trigger finger’s itchin’ for ah homicide”.

But don’t mind me,
I’m just another hating nigga
throwing shade out the bus window.

#Ebola

She’s an African girl with a french kiss
that can make your insides bleed…

Your body ache…
the butterflies in your
stomach grow claws.

She smooches over every inch of
your body with her lethal lips leaving
a trail of hickies behind—flesh-eating
ones that look like red rose petals
tattooed on skin.

She hates humans with a passion.
In fact, the only thing she likes about
them is the way their voices crack
whenever they say her name.

Her hobby is dancing at funerals.
Her occupation is streetwalking for the Grim Reaper.
Her dream is to one day travel the world.

Fuck Cancer

My grandmother was strangled to death 
by the bloodstained hands of cancer.

I imagine the disease one night sliding
down her windpipe and tip-toeing
like a burglar into her lungs – *again*.
I say *again* because the first time
he wasn’t strong enough to finish the job.

You see,
cancer and death made a
deal years before I was born.

(…Work was picking up for death – 
as it usually does in the summer. 
So one sunny morning he 
gave a few of his top hit men
a call and told them if they came 
through as usual, the reward 
would be bountiful…)

The first time,
cancer underestimated
my grandmothers fight.
So death empathized with him
and they both agreed to wait
until she was practically senile –
COWARDS.

…Then BOOM!

Her corpse is in an incinerator
being cremated and we’re outside
teary-eyed wondering why God
always lets the bad guys win.

My dad told me something about death
being a bully and that funerals are like a
shindig for him and his posse of rapscallions.

Back then, I wanted to find every
one of them and cut their throats
with the shards of our broken hearts.

But I guess that wouldn’t make me
much different, huh?

Multi-Billion Dollar Industry

Nowadays…
kids take Adderall like skittles;
catch Ritalin in their mouth like
popcorn.

Doctors write out prescriptions like welcome letters.
Mothers read them like Bedtime Stories.

…Everybody feels a little more heroic.
They dance, they laugh, they smile –
we clap.

“Adults are never wrong”, right?

Just lock your child’s mind into a
dungeon until whatever’s left of them
comes crawling out “normal”,
if thats what you call it.

If “normal” is hot-wiring somebodies brain,
than I guess vacation is another word for
kidnap.

…Aren’t we all so lucky?
…Shouldn’t we all be counting
our blessings on bloody fingers?

If Tumblr was a High School…

If Tumblr was a High School…

Emos would be doodling love poems
on their arms instead of suicide notes.

Bullies would be stuffing their insecurities
in their lockers instead of geeks.

Snobs would be wearing their heart
on their sleeve instead of cufflinks.

Jocks would be chasing down
dreams instead of stereotypes.

Cheerleaders would be building
castles in the air instead of pyramids.

Nerds would be making history
instead of bomb threats.

Loners would have a posse of
imaginary friends to keep them company.

Troublemakers would be running for
student council instead of vandalism.

Stoners would be skipping to class
instead of skipping a class.

Teachers would be grading us on our
aspirations instead of our apathy.

…If Tumblr was a High School.

An important movie for society.

Follow me on Twitter, @TalesOfSuleiman

Follow me on Twitter, @TalesOfSuleiman

A Woman with The Heart of a Blue Whale

*(A Blue Whales heart 
is the size of a mini cooper…)*

She’s the type of girl
that would run into a burning
building with gasoline perfume
on to save her marriage.

The type that can salsa spin a
dancing eternal flame with her
bare hands and melt it into ashes.
Then pour the ashes into an
Etch A Sketch and draw a portrait
of her Soul Mate swallowing
the key to her heart.

Now if thats NOT the best way
to ignite a match made in heaven,
I’ll be waiting for God to personally
drop off a box of them on my front
doorstep with instructions.

Because angels like her
don’t go skydiving
out of paradise everyday.
But when they do……
they never wear parachutes.

*(…And its heartbeat can be 
heard from two miles away.)*

That Girl is Poison

It seems like the only time
she tries to kiss me is when
her breath is reeking of chloroform.

Chloroform?
Thats an anesthesia that packs
a punch powerful enough to TKO King Kong.
So an oral dose of…lets say 10 milliliters,
would be enough for the grim reaper
to hold a human under cardiac arrest.

Now maybe its just a mere coincidence
and my mind is playing tricks on me.
Or maybe she’s blowing the candles
out on our wedding cake at this
very moment and hoping demons
grant death wishes.

Judging by her history of
one-night stands with lucifer (her first love),
I would definitely say the latter
is a top contender – once a
two-timing whore always
a two-timing whore, right?

Yeah well,
I don’t intend on being a
prisoner of war in their little “love battle”,
so we’ll see who has the last laugh.

Suleiman Ali || The Heart Pt.3 || Freestyle

Directed by Anthony Coleman. 
Starring Troy Malcolm aka Max Field. 

Contact info below.

Noble Era's Info
Email: thenobleera@gmail.com 
Website: http://www.nobleera.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/nobleera


Suleiman Ali's Info
Email: suleiman.soul@gmail.com 
Tumblr: http://soulofadream.tumblr.com/ 
Blog: http://sulecerdan.blogspot.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TalesOfSuleiman
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/suleiman.cerdan

COMING SOON...

- Noble Era

The Walk Home

I once heard that people cut their wrist
to make it easier for hope to leak out of them.

However,
the irony is they always
run out of blood WAY
before they do hope.

So as I sit with misery for company
and a crazy ex-girlfriend named regret
banging on the front door of my memories,
I think to myself that maybe life isn’t so bad,
you know?

I mean its not exactly the
land of milk and honey either,
but maybe one day I’ll somehow miss
walking home with my head down
reading the suicide notes carved into the concrete;
Hearing the whisper of bomb threats that never became promises;
Seeing the wasted talent litter the streets like cigarette butts.

……Nah….I SERIOUSLY doubt it

Regular Day in Philly

You know what a regular day in Philly is like?…

Hearing that a young girl the same age as 

your little sister was killed by gunfire while 

walking home from school with her friends.

I mean she wasn’t
trespassing into a war zone or
playing hopscotch on a minefield –
she was JUST walking home from school.
Probably singing the newest Jhené Aiko song,
or whining about how her english teacher always
gives homework out on mondays.

WHATEVER it was,
I know she wasn’t bullfighting a stray bullet.
And I also know it didn’t cross her mind
that the grim reaper had been stalking
her since early that morning.
Waiting for his moment like a vulture.
Drooling at the taste of her death.

…And all we can say is…all WE EVER say is…
“Philly getting crazy. Everybody be safe.”

And then it ALL happens again.

Photos Leaked!!!…Again

iCloud???…SMH
You would think an eye
is literally in the clouds nowadays,
considering how easy it is for the world
to see their favorite celebs as “human beings”.

As everyday women that sext.

Whoop-Dee-Doo!

If you didn’t know,
they also breathe.
And eat, and sleep,
and say things they regret.
The same way every blasted human does, did, and will.

So never think for a second
that celebrities are mythological beings
surfing the waves of our wildest fantasies,
JUST because they live their lives on camera.

Because I promise you’ll be in for a
rude awakening every time you arouse
out of your fabricated dream-world.

Pretty Face

Ok, you have a pretty face; so what?

…Seriously, so what?

If all a man loves you for is a pretty face,
you better hope he never travels to Brazil for "business".
Because if he does, the air ambulance are
probably going to have to emergency airlift
your heart back to America, on the account
of it being broken into thousands of tiny pieces.

Sorry I have to be the bearer of bad news,
but a pretty face is a dime a dozen, baby girl.
And that will only keep a man happy for so long.

However,
if you have a spirit that makes your
eyes look like two moonlit bonfires;
dreams that compliment your imagination;
a soul as strong and shapeshifting as water;
then its no doubt in my mind that a woman’s
pretty face is the 8 wonder of the world.

Book of my Life

I hope the book of my life is so 
out of this world that aliens read it.

That right now on some distant planet 

light-years away they’re lining up to 

pre-order copies of it from God.

Anxiously counting down the days left until 
I drop dead and the book finally hits shelves.

I hope its good enough for the alien thieves to pirate it; 

For the booksellers in outer space to strike it rich; 

For the fanatics to send fan mail back to earth in packages 

of shooting stars.

If so…that would mean I lived.

Birth of a Poem

My heart and brain are like two old married couple. 

One minute they’re reminiscing 
about the first time they fell in love. 
And the next, 
they’re swearing like drunken sailors 
and threatening each other with divorce papers.

They usually do this for a solid 10 minutes 
and then it dies down with them bickering 
about how they regret the last twenty years 
together, and that true love is as much of a myth 
as time travel.

The funny thing is, they don’t believe any of it. 
Not even a single word. 
In fact, 
you couldn’t find a more perfect match even if 
you bought a box of them from a drugstore in heaven.

I guess its just some weird ritual all soul mates go through. 
Because afterward, they always give birth to a poem.

The Game Of Life

For ages newborn & up.
1 or more players.
Play Time: A Life Span.
Mistakes may result in untimely death.
No givebacks.
Losers must pick their poison.
Winners must virtually
sell their soul to reap the benefits.
The richest man always wins.
Truth is the quickest way to scare people.
Rebels are referred to as terrorist.
Cheating is acceptable as long
as you chauffeur the slave-drivers.
Nobody makes it out alive.
You can never start the game over.
Individuals are weirdos.
Weirdos are real.
Society shuns weirdos, which means…
Ahhhhh, you get the point.
Freethinkers are menace II society.
Selling hope is illegal,
but selling out is lucrative.
Questioning law is taboo.
Questioning God is routine.
And last but not least,
Uncle Sam gets to sweep atrocities
underneath his rug on the daily,
even if his hands have been
dirty for centuries.
Wallah! The Game Of Life.

Nobody Cares

“Nobody cares.

Not the news reporters, the rappers, 
the police officers, the teachers, the athletes, 
the politicians, the doctors, the pastors, 
the business owners, the coach’s—NOBODY!!!

Now if I know people as well as I think I do, 
the average person has already concocted 
ten different ways to call me a 
foolish-moron-numbskull-blockhead. 
And that only ensures one thing, 
that I have your undivided attention. 
Which means at this very moment 
I have more power over you 
than you have over yourself. 
And that smirk you wear on 
your face only proves my point.

Your trying to convince yourself that 
I’m some crazy ignorant guy spewing 
nonsense thats unworthy of your intellect. 
But still you read on searching for the dead end 
you think my moral compass has led me to, 
hoping it doesn’t lead you down the same path.

Well, 
sorry to be the bearer of bad news, 
but I was always taught you don’t 
condemn people like that. 
In fact, you pray for them. 
Because those are the kind of 
people that need your help the most.

So much for humanity, huh?”

Real N*ggas || Spoken Word || Suleiman Ali (Please Subscribe)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fh7ezlcJOyo

Blink at Blank Pages

Where do your memories
go when they are forgotten?

Is there an afterlife for them
to cannonball into, or do they
just pack their bags up and waltz
out of the dorm room of your
hippocampus without even
a wave goodbye?

A middle-aged woman would
probably say straight to the hips.
Some conspiracy theorist may
even say alien’s abduct them
from a human’s consciousness
to learn more about our species.

But I believe they become a
collage of our life handcrafted by God.
The very fragments that come together
and make our imperfect soul a masterpiece.

So in short,
I don’t think memories
can ever truly be forgotten.
I think they just take a new form.
One that only God’s eyes can see.

#icebucketchallenge

"Why can’t achieving peace on the streets 
be as easy as dumping a bucket of ice water 
on someone’s head?

Is peace not cool enough? 
Hmph! 
If thats your only objection, 
I’m sure we can start a challenge 
that pleases the masses. Whattaya say?

Maybe we can have every hoodlum 
in the world on camera dumping the bullets 
from their magazine on the governments door step. 
Yeah, that way making a statement would be an 
understatement right?

Ha!

They’ll probably be practically 
begging us to keep killing each other. 
And obviously that won’t work, 
so they’ll begin to bribe us with 
MONEY like they always do. 
The all-powerful green paper God 
we can never get enough of.

Well, 
I’m sure we all know 
how that story will play out. 
Pathetic. 
I’m beginning to think there really may be no hope after all.”

I See Dead People

12th & girard smells like a graveyard nowadays.

But even so, I still wonder what would it be like
if the pavement wasn’t made of skeleton bones.
If the air didn’t taste of blood and childhood memories,
would it still be my home away from home?
Would I still want to be an artist if I didn’t see their chalk outlines?

I swear,
if an apartment complex could have a heart beat—
they were that. They were the sitcom in an episode of laughter.

…Now they’re nothing more than…

Some nights, if I close my eyes tight enough,
I can see myself as a boy standing against a balcony railing.
High enough in the air to spin the sun on my finger
and play Tic-Tac-Toe in the craters of a Full Moon.
With eyes like an assassin staring down at my
grandmother and sister sitting on a weathered
park bench that chips away cleanly like hope does from life.

They both look like they haven’t aged a day.
My sister’s wrapping her hair into a ponytail
and my grandmother smiles at a two pigeons
fighting over a piece of bread. Shortly after,
they get up and walks towards the gates exit
like its a entrance into heaven.
And maybe it is.

They always stop and whisper something
to each other; then laugh hysterically.
I try my hardest to hear them or even say something, but
their voices are too low and my tongue feels like it weighs a ton.
Eventually they leave and I wait around patiently for days.
The same way a boy does when his mother promises
him ice cream if he’s quiet in the doctor’s office.
But they never come back.
And the truth is, they never will.

Where is Justice?

"Justice?…pshh, last place I seen justice 
was on a milk carton. It was ah picture of her 
and it said something about callin’ ah 1-800 
number if you have any information.

I think she was last seen hoppin’ into ah umm…
ah Crown Vic, you know the same car Five-O drive. 
Hmph, ironic right. She probably long gone now though, 
you know in the hood aint nobody talkin’. 
We either let our money talk, or that chopper stutter if need be.

Interviewer: What’s a chopper?

Don’t worry about it. But a couple of hours ago 
my homie was just telling me how ah cop shot 
down that black unarmed teen in #Ferguson 
the other day for jaywalking.

Interviewer: They’re still investigating.

Oh yeah, whats to investigate? 
He aint have no weapon on him! 
Thats somebodies son man. 
Somebodies friend. That wasn’t worth his life. 
But they got their hands full now though. 
Them protest loud enough to wake the 
world up out its bed of ignorance. 
Mark my words.

Interview: Thanks for the interview.

No thank you man…thank you.”

Journey to #Ferguson

I can hear the protest in #Ferguson
from the rocking chair of my front porch.
On foot, thats approximately 872 miles away,
which means if I left at this very moment
it would probably take me 12 days to get there.
Thats right, the riots are loud enough
to hear several states away.

However,
I have to take into consideration
that my skin looks like a bullseye nowadays,
so unless God can thread me a bulletproof vest
out of prayer, I probably won’t make it
out of Pennsylvania alive.

And last I heard there were
war tanks moving at the speed of drive-bys,
rubber bullets being buried in flesh,
and enough tear gas to make you cry bloody murder.
Before that I heard some dwellers of #Ferguson
decided looting from Walmart would be
the best way to honor Michael Brown’s memory…

On second thought, maybe I should just stay home.