Last week I went to hear Twin Poets perform at the Philadelphia Free Library. Moved to tears by their powerfully vivid words, I walked away troubled by their poems and rhymes. I realized I've heard those poems and rhymes far too many times.

Poems about... streets bleeding and babies dying
...about baby girls on they backs, legs spread with one eye open and other shut tight

...about daddy's in prisons wishing he coulda woulda shoulda took care of his son, cuz now Jr.s gettin swallowed up by the same streets that put him in the belly of that proverbial beast.

...about the revolving door of baby boys in and out of emergency rooms; swearing that only with death will they ever prove how hard they really are.

...about feigns deciding nightly whether to feed their children or their arms.

Tired of these poems and rhymes.

I know. I know.
the poems must be written and the rhymes got to be heard.
the streets have a story to tell, the people have secrets to holler
you wanna talk to God, tell it to the wind.
I know. I know.
but i can't help but feel like this record is stuck on repeat... like a DJ on a perpetual scratch
like we all stuck doin the same ole two step

How many more poems we gotta write? How many more rhymes we gotta hear?

appetite for the bean

What I miss about Boston, in no particular order:

1. Urban Outfitters Bargain Basement
The anticipation of what funky treasures await. Racks and racks of "irregulars", off colors, designer oopsies- basically, store rejects. SCORE. I'd always walk away with a cute lil somethin at an extra discounted price and cheese all the way through 'da square.

2. The Original 'tute
From sophomore year 'till the day they put the chains on the doors in preparation for demolition, the tute was my home. Dean Petty served as surrogate mom with comfort and wisdom in her every word and touch; Mr. Kamara- the uncle with an open ear and a word of advice. The tute is gone now but I carry around the sense of security and love it gave me as I try to establish another home.

3. Woody's on St. Stephens St.
Greek Pizza + Quesadilla soup + a great friend= HEAVEN!!

4. Brown Sugar at Fenway
The perfect place to splurge on an orgasmic plate of deliciousness.

5. Caribbean Folks
How I miss the colorful, boisterous extraness of my fellow islanders. The flags, the music, the food, the culture of the Caribbean are loudly missing from my new city.

6. Wally's
I'm still searching for the Philly version. West Coast Wednesdays with Jazz fo dat Azz and Sundays with the cute drummer in Usual Suspecks. Boston's best kept secret was slept on till last summer, when it was quickly adopted and made home.

7. Creativity of Boston finest
Aahhh, Bostons finest. How do they do it? How they managed to find the time and energy to coordinate complete outfits from head to toe, I'll never know. Hats, jackets, shoelaces!! I used to clown them. But I must admit, being away from it, I miss the head to toe Spongebob Squarepants/Celtics/ M&M get ups. A+ for originality.

8. Silver Slipper/ Mikes Diner breakfast
Sunday morning cravings for Silver Slipper. The shuttle to Dudley. Only to discover the breakfast jump off is closed, with no rhyme or reason whatsoever. I swear they never had any legitimate hours! The disappointment. The rage! The #1 down Mass Ave. to stand in line at Mike's Diner.

I know most of the time these list are made up of nice round numbers like 5 and 10 but all I got is 8. So 8 it is. I'd be lying if I said I'd rather be in Boston, but I'd be frontin if I didn't say there are many people, feelings and sights that I truly miss.

Now Hear This.

On the first day of Delaware Sen. Joe Bidden's presidential campaign, he characterized his democratic running mate Barack Obama as:

"the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy."


Wow. '07 has been amazing for us so far ya'll! First the Super Bowl and then finally, after centuries and centuries of being dumb, dirty and ugly...
Our Savior: OBAMA!!!!

As far as the brothas go I'd be all set... if they weren't so damn fine.

There's something about brothas that makes this complex game of hide and seek worthwhile.

There's nothing like a brotha... I've been to the other side... I know.

Black men have a confidence and swagger that's simply irresistible. Mixed with a little cockiness and a fuck the world attitude that's inexplicably sexy.

Nobody fills a suit like a brotha, or looks as dope in a pair of jeans, tims and a hoody.

That slight limp, practiced from the time they're able to walk and perfected en route to manhood is imitated by many yet never duplicated... the bass in their voices is enough to start a chill from my big toe up to the tips of my locs.

A shiny bald head, a lion mane of locs, a low dark ceasar, a mean fro... shiiit, even a tapered up high top; midnight black, chocolate brown, or butta pecan; full lips and strong hands... our brothas are flavaful in every sense of the word.

He can be the silent introspective type only speaking to drop knowledge, the audacious funny dude, the entrepreneur always making moves, or the quiet nerd teaching and leading our future.... whatever they're doin, they look damn good doin it.

The streets are mean right now. Dates are obsolete, chivalry is dead, respect and decency are a rarity. The days of note passing (Do you like me? Circle yes, no, maybe) are over. Interactions tend to be overly sex charged. It's hard to meet someone who's actually interested in you and not the idea of you. Through it all, I hang in there... reassuring myself that God is just taking his time piecing my man together. Giving up on brothas is not an option, our destinies are interdependent. We were put here for each other. As long as he keeps searching for me, I'll keep searching for him.

Happy Black Love Day ya'll...

Through my Rear-view Mirror...

You ever just observe people through your rear-view mirror?

You see some interesting shit.

One night while driving down South St. I heard screaming, I looked around to see where it was coming from. I looked through my mirror and saw a taxi driver. Straight losing his mind. I mean dude, was straight wylin. Screaming at the top of his lungs to no one. At least no one that I could see. His taxi was empty. His windows were fogged. The shine from the red light we were stopped at gleamed off the white and blue stripes of his taxi, making the scene appear all the more eerie. It was like there was some deep pain or demon buried inside him he was trying to exorcise. I didn’t know whether to fall out laughing or cry for him… so I just shook my head and turned off that street as soon as I could.

One afternoon after work, I observed this young “Legally Blond” type chic in her car. Girlfriend was twerking her neck, rolling her eyes and straight cussing someone out (as good as any sista). Once again I checked, although her lips were moving furiously, there was no one in the car. Whatever song was on the radio, she was feelin it, and she was letting that invisible fool know that he would not be getting away with that shit no more.

A black woman the other day had tears in her eyes. She was on the phone. I watched her as she received some bad news. She couldn’t believe it, this couldn’t be happening. I watched her. I tried not to, feeling like I was eavesdropping on a personal and very private conversation amongst loved ones. Green light. I looked away and drove on.

...college students in their hoopties worrying about exams, single moms planning the night’s dinner, men fantasizing about women other than their wives. For a brief moment at a red light, I glimpse into a strangers life. And I gain another bit of respect and appreciation for people and the struggle that is humanity.