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I’ve never been the one to follow the crowd. The basic principle behind my choice is simple: if I see a group of folks doing something, I force myself to stop, look and decide if what the bulk of folks is doing aligns with my own mindset. More often than not however, my mindset will automatically oppose whatever I see the majority doing because of the groupthink policy of this day and age. It doesn’t matter to me what some marketing department’s demographic research says about me, companies can NOT make a product geared towards me based on mass attraction; I renounce and ‘appeal’ such logic.

The reason is that such logic dangerously categorizes a group of people and asserts homogeneous thinking. Such is the case with the candy wrapped rap that is quickly decaying the teeth and fattening the collective body of the Hip Hop community. While everyone is entitled to their opinion, what becomes of the worth of said opinion when it is based upon and influenced by the thoughts and actions of an entire assembly of mislead and misinformed people? We have become lyrical lemmings led to a deadly, self-propelled free fall that awaits us at the high point of Hip Hop’s mainstream popularity… and there’s no place else to go but down.

”Mass Appeal”

Unless delegated by God,
I can’t be led by mobs.
I’m not like the rest of the flock that blindly follows.
Feeling my way through Braille passage
By stealing away with groups to hail the masses
Simply seals my faith into a frail package that’s decidedly hollow.

Such methods of exodus plannin’
Leads to textbook and reckless abandon.
To be restless and stranded are its awful aims in the long term.
Though I reckon this madness
Is wretched and drastic…
Its essence is massive as it attracts traffic like moths to the flame
caught up in the cloth as it burns.

Compacted in drafted winds, it’s like fledgling child liars.
Rather, the pattern can spread like wildfire.
Grounded higher, the proper vantage brings all into focus.
So instead of drudging through drowning mires
Where sudden moves create crowd divers…
Be crowned and sired – move the crowd beyond being throngs of locusts.

If you want to gather crowds,
Organize it against what’s happenin’ now!
Don’t leave ‘em scamperin’ after bandwagons bound to be left behind!
Don’t feed ‘em reruns of empty rhetoric –
Don’t beat lead drums into empty crevices…
Don’t be a bum like emcees with no messages –let your destiny shine.

Be at the head as a lead guide.
Leave Red Seas 20,000 leagues behind.
Lean against the grain – seek and find your irreverent relevance!
Dare to show different strokes of genius.
Dare to lead indifferent folks to Jesus…
Evoke a provoking thesis lined with eloquent severance.

Don’t react to systemic stimulus –
Detach roots from insipid kinship.
Use the given wisdom sent from Him – reject groupthink fallacies.
Challenge what’s known with solid research.
Seek the chalice of thrones with a knowledge rebirth…
Acknowledge and reverse ghetto mindsets blindsided by hoodwinked mentalities.

Cause conflict! – contradict the dismal plight
Of unconsciousness that haunts the critical might
Of flocks the size of the Israelites – at least they had Aaron and Moses.
We’ve let our souls follow pitiful guides essentially
Because we’ve got role models who pivot their liability…
Which leads to abysmal strife and misery from plentiful errors chosen.

We’ve been called out to be taught different –
So fall out from dream walks into vision.
Like Stephen Hawking, exceed the limits of your surroundings.
Don’t let corporal forces coagulate and congeal you.
Push court ordered warrants for mass appeals through
Before such tactics kill you with the kindness of kindred crowding.

© 2008 Reggie Legend
Steel Waters, Inc.
reggielegend@hotmail.com

For you, Reader, that name might immediately conjure up the actor-later-turned-poet who starred in a score of gangster films. But instead I’m referring to the Oakland-based wordsmith who blew me away with his performance of Breakbeat Jesus. I can still see a screaming crowd of poets going on as if the first few lines of his poem were to a favorite jam from back in the day; that jam that once moved them in indescribable ways.

Since then the original has been recorded and posted on Youtube, along with its remix Breakbeat Jesus ft. Joshua Walters on beat box. But his range goes way beyond this powerhouse poem. So instead of trying to explain how much I’ll do what us poets do best, which is let the work speak for itself!

Cathedral

Keeping monks hours, I rise
at midnight to a false dawn
where the sun pauses at the horizon
to creep sideways like a crab.

Our crew chief materializes at the door
salmon roe dripping from his palms
large as prayer beads. Midair, he draws
the sign of the dollar. Then, I am Lazarus
summoned. Baptized in fish blood,
a rain slicker my shroud and am clumsy
as any thing newly risen from the dead.

Men in ripped rain gear lay stretched
along the hallway floor in obscene shivering
parodies of their former mainland selves

We pray over the burning incense
of a marlboro and return to the sanctuary
of our ice steeple. We chant
beneath a malevolent god—a huge metal tank
furiously hiccupping fish and drooling arctic water.

It stands, at the altar, a cross.
Like good apostles, we bow our heads
having already taken vows of debt, poverty
believing our lives prior to this
was a vision had between shifts.

We use herring for our communion.
They represent our sins and spewed
before us every 15 seconds are a new
assortment of reasons to repent.

Here’s a herring for every time I cursed my father
Here’s one for every time I wished someone
dead or reached into my pants whispering a girls name.

Here’s one for jealousy, for laziness, for blasphemy,
for idolatry, for rudeness, for selfishness, for vanity
for stealing, for cruelty, for lying, for boasting, for
anger, for envy, for greed, for sex
for chrissakes, make it stop!

MAKE IT STOP!!!

After eight hours, I spend breakfast
on deck surrounded by the quarantining ocean
so barren and desolate it is
even islands cannot grow here.

Suddenly, there appears on the surface
of water a severed stalk of kelp. I blink
twice before convincing myself it is not
a dead woman
floating, forgotten
her hair spread in a black web.
It’s just… uprooted seaweed
that, until now,
has only known sunlight
in its prayers

anyway, this apparition frightens me
because
this is the first time
I’ve ever seen a dead body
and was
envious

This Past Saturday At The Farmer’s Market

An African brother shoves a basket of boysenberries
at us as if paying a debt. They bleed
on our fingertips, plead sweet mercy on our tongues
Asked his name, the man smiles proper, his hand a gift,
says: “Too Complicated.”

We buy nine dollars in cherries
off him, all white and red and spotted
and sweet and sour, too. Flavors
turning in our mouths anxious as police lights.
We – no, I—nearly trip over this sister pushing a baby carriage
We know her, but couldn’t pull her name for nothing!
Her new daughter asleep in turtle shell carriage
her cheeks soft as rain soaked petals.
Her three year old son standing sentry
digs into our kettle korn sack only after momma
stamps approval with a glance.

Later: fish tacos for me, Himalayan
curried chicken for her, us both lunching
watching children bounce in the fountain–
hot pepper toes pickled cool in water. Giggles
going off like Chinese firecrackers!
Dimples in bloom! Tiny teeth at separate corners
of the mouth grudge matching! Thighs
you’d want to fried chicken bite so golden brown!
Pity another poor momma, her daughter catfish
writhing on her lap– mango shake shook
everywhere! The little girl on a straw
never blinks, channeling opium addict ancestors
thru the unique ecstasy of fruit sugar.

This is us at farmer’s market, circling
back to brother Too Complicated who
offers one arm for her, the other for me. A chain
of chins on his shoulders. “Where you been,”
he says double hugging us. “And why has
it taken you so long to come back?”

Friday the 13th Part 14 L Is For Love

Oh, to be married
yet
not be able to
say the words, ‘I love
you, darling’
–is what Jason has for nightmares.
Jason remembers
standing on the shore
of crystal lake years ago, trying
to make those word-sounds
like the kids,
Yielding a noise from his throat
like gargling
like moaning
like the blues.
This is what led him
to speech therapy.
Working with Dr. Amy
(simple enough to say by week 2)
teaching him
for the first time
the alphabet.
‘A is for axe.’
‘B is for body’.
It took months, this
process of learning–
of feeling words, whole
complex words in his mouth
Say: Library. Say: November
until what was left of his tongue
would lay exhausted against
the crumbs of his teeth.
It was like dating in a way..
He and Dr. Amy,
would have lessons
while walking downtown.
Say: Mailbox. Say: Bus Stop.
And they’d have the best time
sitting drinking tea
Say: Toast. Say: Milk.
Until one day
Jason stands toe to toe
with his wife: “Who
was that whore I saw you with
downtown today?”
And Jason learns
how easy it is
for words to get stuck
in the throat. Say: Stutter
And in his next
lesson he asked Dr. Amy, how
do you pronounce a lie?
How Do You…
Say: Old Friend?
Say: She just asked me the time?
But in marriage,
secrets don’t live very long.
After a while, it was Jason’s
wife who stopped talking.
Until one day, while she
peeled potatoes
in the kitchen, Jason
returned home and
placed Dr. Amy’s
head in the center
of the dinner table,
her hair a potpourri of wild flowers
all easy now to pronounce
–roses, daffodils, irises, daisies–
and, for the first time,
said to his wife,
“I Love You, Daring.”
A is for Always. F is for Forever.

Negro-Geist!

I. Daddy

old crow, jack daniels understood
my father mouthfuls at a time.
Jim Bean and Old Forester
were uncles in hard glass suits
they’d roll up in the knuckle
crack & sign of hennessey
taking its first breath, then hound
dog laughter & dominoes
falling in hail on the grave
yard of the dining room table.
Relatives who existed
through stories would ease
in like zombies on ropes of
blue marlboro & newport & camel smoke
then demand a séance in spades, coon can
& texas hold em

no wonder they call it spirits!

Spirits baited my father with
couvoisier, snatching him out of his body
like a river catfish and he’d vanish! like that
spirits made him burn rubber scream
in the driveway, stand on my bed a sloppy
marionette & speak in tongue
or just toss pans and skillets at midnight

I wouldn’t see his ass again
till the next afternoon looking
like something had chewed
all the sugar out of him
and spit the gray pulp on the couch

II. Johnny

My cousin Johnny volunteered
for possession every week.
Spirits lit that nigga up like vesuvius,
he was certified!
electroshock exorcisms did nothing
empty bottles & cans
were his weekend storm warning
old english, colt 45, crazy horse,
cisco—they’d demand sacrifices
in blood so bottles of
haldol & thorazine
would dice roll under the couch
Friday nights, then doors
slam to splinters, tables
get flipped, walls
kicked until strait
jackets lay waiting on
the lawn. Momma
would site visions of gang
boys with tire iron erections
& johnny’s convertible skull
with its metal vent as if
it explained anything.
it didn’t.

‘tween dusk Friday and dawn Saturday
he’d still be ready to
blow this muthafucka up.
You want some of this?
Do You Want Some Of This?!
oh no oh yes oh no oh yes
I’ll be damn I’ll be
damn I’ll be
damned!

James Cagney is a writer, poet and performer from
Oakland, Ca. He’s appeared as a featured artist at
venues such as The Starry Plough, La Pena Cultural
Center, Above Paradise Lounge, Spasso’s Cafe, The Java
House, Mahogany Restaurant, OK Hotel among others. He
has also appeared on stage in the Afro-Solo
Performance series, Four Brothers with Will Power,
Ritual Theater 2000, and Celebration of the Word with
Maya Angelou and Quincy Troupe. He is the author of
four volumes of poetry including Transmitting The
Disease and Hot Death and the forthcoming Blood
Strangers. His work has been published in Asili
Journal, Cake, Drumvoices and Sussurrus.

This is me broken
For months you’ve documented this spiral
Downward with flashbulbs and camera rolling
This is me broken
Same body you praised for hourglass
Now ridiculed as ticking time bomb
Read more »

The Godlist by T.S. Hand

“Hope ya ain’t goin’ far.”

I didn’t answer him, I just climbed up into his early-nineties Ford dually and set my rucksack between us. He made another stab at conversation. “Pretty girl like yaself…dangerous to hitchhike, even around here. They’s crazies all around this side of the Sierras.”

“I know,” I said, looking right into his eyes for the first time since he shoved the truck down the highway. Either my response caught him off guard or the way I gave him an all-too-knowing look, but he seemed to shudder a little. Maybe I had already given away too much. We made small talk, and I let little notes of laughter hang for awhile on his unfunny jokes. He commented on my intelligence, to add to his earlier “pretty” complement. They always did this, always tried to appear so kind.

I came onto him subtly, enough to let him know I was interested, but not enough to make him think I was for sale. He got the hint. After we passed a sign out of Lone Pine, California, cautioning “next services 77 miles” he called my attention to the nasa satellite array a couple miles east. Six upturned mushrooms big as freighters pushed their stalks up to the sky as the seti project’s search for Truth.

It was then—with my attention turned east—when he cut the engine and began his acting debut: “Oh, shit, shit! Goddamn this piece of shit—”

“What? What is it?” I knew the stunt.

“Goddamn truck run outta gas, all a way out here.” He really was making this too easy. His biggest mistake was pulling off on the frontage road, where he said we wouldn’t be hit by any drunk drivers. I eased the cap off the spray canister in my pocket.

He hopped out of the cab once we rolled to a stop. He said he’d call Triple A to get this whole mess fixed. Good play, I thought, most girls have probably fallen for that. I saw his fingers mash nine digits into the cell phone’s key pad, knowing that Triple A is a ten-digit 800 number. He carried on a great fake conversation, really an Oscar-worthy performance.

Jumping back in the cab, he flipped on the radio and scanned for awhile. The only station in range, propitiously, was an evangelical station. I asked him if he believed in God. He said, very openly and matter-of-fact, “Sure, I think God’s in them mountains over there and in that little fishing stream we passed awhile back. Maybe God’s in these little moments that test your mettle, too.”

“That’s all just marvelous, but what about the balance between good and evil and reckoning and all that? Don’t you believe in that?”

“Well, uh, sure honey. But when ya get to be my age, ya start to see that it ain’t all black and white like they taught ya in sundee school. They’s good wolves and bad wolves in all of us. The one you feed everyday, that’s the one gon’ win.”

I pretended to mull this over, like his words had made some profound effect on me. He decided the time was ripe to put his hand on my thigh. We both looked at it flopped there, helpless. I’m sure we had completely different thoughts on what would happen next.

He leaned in for a kiss, eyes closed. I maced his tear ducts and open mouth. While he flailed around, going on about, “What the fuck! Jesus!” I fingered open my cargo shorts pocket. A more cultured man would know that cargo shorts are suspicious on a girl who looks as good as I do. I took out the medicine bottle of ether and soaked my handkerchief in it as he groped along the door for the latch. I strong-dosed him, enough to keep him from moving so much but not enough to knock him out.

Opening my own latch, I climbed down and around to his side door to let him out. His weight helped the door flop open and he collapsed in the cloddy sand. After a few deep, controlled breaths to decide the Gameplan, I worked on his face with my boots and at some point he lost consciousness because he stopped blocking.

Skulls are like piñatas: once you split them they practically dissolve. Pink bits and red and tooth squeezed out of the entrances to his caved-in face. After his pulse stopped, my rucksack of tools took its normal position on top of the sternum. I put on my gloves and fitted the surgical saw attachment to the cordless drill. I carved out his upper and lower mandibles and removed the soft palate; teeth are a bitch to get rid of, and on this trip I didn’t have access to an incinerator, though there were some smelting kilns up in Bishop if I was feeling mischievous and daring.

Only one car passed in the half-hour and there was a high sandbank concealing me from the highway. I unzipped the vacuum-sealed pouch and removed the six-foot bag and from the other rucksack pocket I pulled out the Tupperware of Centenella larvae, which would dispose of 200 lbs of evidence in a few days. Before I zipped the whole mess up to throw him in the hole—oh yeah, I dug a hole after I removed his dental records—I plucked up his sausage fingers and dabbed one in the pools forming near his neck. I opened my notebook to the bookmarked page that said “ Terrence Bedford” at the top. Somewhere near the bullet points of “occupation” and “offenses” I smudged his gooey fingerprint, blowing lightly on it until the stain turned maroon.

Ten minutes later I climbed up to the highway. North to the right and South to the left. I opened to the back of my notebook, to “The Godlist.” Of the nineteen entries, eight had strikethroughs already. After crossing through “Terrence Bedford, rapist, Big Pine, CA,” my pen rested on “Othelia Downs, child molester, Needles, CA.” I scampered to the southbound side of the highway and was about to thumb a ride when Mr. Bedford’s cell phone rang in my cargo pocket. After contemplating the 800 number appearing on the caller-ID screen, I answered.

“Oh, hello,” offered a warm-voiced woman, “someone from this number requested the emergency fill-up service. We’ve dispatched a tow truck.”

“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Is there still a problem?”

“There was, but I think we fixed it.”

For those of us who have highly flammable pockets:
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