I am re-posting previous work during March.
Since 2014, I’ve published 30 original poems
for National Poetry Writing Month every April. You can read more by clicking the NaPoWriMo widgets to the right ▶
Reply to a Bumpersticker
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful, obscurations dense,
propensities o too long standing, the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion
becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated.
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool;
what up wit dat ?
Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets.
Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe,
attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.
Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz.
Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down cocaine
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain. Snap fingers . . .
Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . .
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money.
Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner—
it’s not funny.
Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable
under the city.
Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.
Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.
Twinkle Schascle Yochim: LEROI JONES Live @ The 5’O Club
LINKED VERSION
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat. Bebopping Mao is so very uncool;
what up wit dat?
Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful) and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful in the streets
Predictable tirades where whitey’s the foe, and attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show: dull dialectic.
So what if the liberals that bankroll you love it? Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is? You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it, mired in the shizz.
Your lines are pure mannitol; dumbed-down cocaine (The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!) the syntax is whack in yourghetto refrain Snap fingers . . .
Still you wait for your war – or the Black Star-Liner . . . Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner— it’s not funny.
Insulting, belittling others more noble; your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable under the city.
Inside of your Kaaba are yet many idols. Your New Ark of verse does not save from the flood. You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals but draw no blood.
Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing. You wrote for the stage and said some of it well. But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing, a nasty smell.
Post Scriptfrom Bob McNeil:
Soul without a Heaven
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Fighting all oppositional visions.
On Newark’s numerous walls,
He smears odes to Marxist contrarians.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Whose rancor for imperialists
Could torch their needs
To ashen nothingness.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer,
Whose right hand manages a pen,
Whose left banks on its shank,
And both will shiv contention givers.
Evermore, Amiri’s spirit is a disobeyer.
Delighting anti-Semites and homophobes,
His published pressure cooker bomb explodes.
Such shaitan ire never erodes.
