Hypertension

Hotep,

 December 18, 2013 will be remembered as a turning point in my literary journey.  You see, 12/18/13 was the final day of the first semester of my creative writing class.  

This particular session concluded on a very high note when on of my classmates requested that I end our first semester on a poetic note.

I obliged by reading what you now know as, “Blood On My Sleeves:  the shade of reproof.” I had no plans of posting this on W2TM.  That is; until I saw the impact of this particular expression.  In doing so, I’ve learned that some of my best works may be the pain and strife the masses have yet to encounter.

This semester, I’m taking three writing classes.  In less than a year, I’ve experienced the literary work of Viktor Frankl, Ken Lamberton, and Rick Bragg.  I’ve read various essays by accomplished literary scholars.  And most recently, I met critically acclaimed News and Observer columnist, Barry Saunders.  Word is bond!

One of the three writing classes I’m taking is called, “Journaling.” I’ve already shared the pain of wearing a red jumpsuit.  So now I want to share a recent entry in my journal about the stress within the halls of the death row housing unit.  I call it, “Hypertension.”

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Hypertension

Too many times I’ve been awake for sleepless nights. Frequent fights, before me or within me, ignites the pain rambunctiously moving through my veins.

Good morning stress…

Hello drama…

Good evening melancholy…

I guess sweet dreams weren’t meant to be.  At least not for me… unless they pertain to my hopes and aspirations of leaving this box far behind.

The constant dealings with fish bowl minds will bend the hardest of men.  Time and time again, you’ll find yourself spying on that man in the mirror that’s always crying.

The unpredictability within the halls of Unit 3 has the potential to stain the mental, of each resident without warning.  If you’ve been here long enough it’s just another morning.

A walk to the chow hall doesn’t necessarily mean the only thing you’ll be fed is food.  Unforeseen trauma is always on the menu.  So what’s a Mann to do?

A Mann who’s obligated to spilling expressions of encouragement and inspiration to the masses, while my existence drips like molasses.

I mean, don’t get it twisted; I’m on top of my pen game.  It’s just a shame; every time I open my eyes the scenery and happenings within remain the same.

Every man for himself.

Crabs in the barrel.

I gotta get me, me!

It’s no wonder a large percentage of the death row population suffers from hypertension.  A tension with no end, like the oblivious steps into the unseen gin.

It seems like going without sleep holds the disappointment to minimal damage.  The carnage capsulated within the concrete of Unit 3 is calamitous to the consciousness of the pursuer of righteousness…

But, then again; dead men can’t be heard.  So what do you do?

Do you continue to walk the green mile, mute to the world?

Or, do you pick up pen and open the doors to the land of the lost?

I’d much rather leave this realm as a sleepless beast with the pen, than a well-rested polluted soul incapable of seeing the beginning from the end.

Hypertension won’t be the death of me.  Ya heard?

Still Living,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Mistaken Identity

Hotep,

The apocalyptic style of writing is a literary tool capable of camouflaging the education of disparities within our every day existence.  What may be revelatory or prophetic to some, proves to be a mystery to others.  Na mean?

This is one of the reasons how I’ve come to appreciate the literary expressions of J. Dushame Murrell, a.k.a. “Roc.” His work has been featured within this movement since his 9/11/11 debut, “The Art of Expression: Heroin vs. Heroin/ Mourning vs. Morning.” This piece was written class now available to North Carolina death row prisoners.  It’s an expression in which Dushame shows a great appreciate for writing, and takes on the responsibility of being a positive and constructive influence to those on the other side of the wall.

On this KING DAY, the evolution of the assassination of a great president, to the assassination of a great president’s character, rings throughout this expression called, “Mistaken Identity.” The parallel of the dismal Hurricane Katrina relief efforts to the broken levees of this North Carolina justice system is simply artistic genius.

Nuff Said,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

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Mistaken Identity

South Park – Kenny or Kennedy

Fix my journal – Remember the turn left on Fitzgerald.

Travel through the brawls – memories of white hoods,

Horses – vision of burning wood.

Cartoon thoughts to scream cease.

The smoke will leave you hoarse – voice less.  R.I.P.

Not ready to die – just put scarface – n – my diary.

Watch the ghetto boy survive – Identity theft.

Approaching the likes of Willy Lynch with stealth.

Touch any forbidden fruit – I promise you troops,

Blood, sweat and tears – Dog’s barking.

Mothers labor – n – fear!

To sit in these forsaken streets – Remember the Dream.

Neighborhoods ‘MOVE’ for Kings. Identity…

Motion for non-violence denied.  MANN of STAT…

Witness a moment of silence.

For the peers being taken for granted.

Malcolm, King, Huey P., PAC – So many drums beaten –

My heart won’t stop.  Cherish Barack!

Who they labeled a coward, Depict as a communist.

Michelle advocating the Pro BLACK FIST!

Identity Crisis…

Death now on sacred ground

How many burials will never be found.

Amazing grace – Exhume the carcass of WIC,

Programs up for Auction, while cops negotiate –

The coffin of a soldier.

Domestic abuse

Got the audacity to confuse – adolescent AMBITION

So the youth appear to be suspicious…

Art of view

Media Master – Viewers Discretion.

A King’s profile should never be apprehended

For Department of Corrections.

Welcome to the Terror Dome

And this ain’t Katrina.

The levee is broke – FEMA don’t exist,

And negotiations never been for…

Mistaken Identity.

J. Dushame Murrell, a.k.a. Roc

Copyright © 2014 by J. Dushame Murrell

A Mother's Love

Hotep,

In the earliest stages of a physical existence, a mother is the life source.  When we come of age, we tend to take that life source for granted. 

I can appreciate Lil’ Bison’s perspective on the relevance of Mother Earth.  Mankind has turned it’s back on her as if this life source is no longer relevant to our physical existence.  Na mean?

As a parent and grandparent, the state of Mother Earth has the ultimate relevance for me.  That’s my take.  I’ll let Lil’ Bison do the rest.

Peace,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

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Peace,

Once again my friend MannofStat has enabled me to share my thoughts with the Masses.  Thanks man. This means more to me than anything that Webster guy could come up with to explain it.  

Much love and respect for you always.  And thanks to all whom embraced “To Be Civilized.” (http://word2themasses.blogspot.com/2013/08/a-native-introspection-to-be-civilized.html).

My ancestors respected Mother Earth to the upmost.  She was still is the provider for their every need.  Very rarely did any Tribe take more from Her than what was needed.  They knew that if they destroyed Mother Earth, they were only destroying themselves.  If today’s youth were taught to take better care of our Mother, would the future of their grandkids’; grandkids have a healthier place to flourish?

Winona Laduke of the Ojibwe Tribe says, “The Earth is our Mother.  From Her we get our life and our   It’s our responsibility to care for our Mother, and in caring for our Mother we’re caring for ourselves.  Women, all females, are the manifestation of Mother Earth in human form.  

We’re her daughters and in my cultural instructions – Minobimaati Siiwin – we are to care for Her.  I am taught to live in respect for Mother Earth.  In Indigenous societies, we’re told that Natural Law is the biggest law, higher than the law made by nations, states, municipalities and the World Bank.  That one would do well to live in accordance with Natural Law, with those of our Mother.”

ability to live.

Human beings are the most intelligent of species, yet we lack the sense to be ONE with Nature.  Destroying the very substance that sustains our existence.  To some people Nature may seem cruel, but we must understand a Mother’s love is unconditional.  To take care of Mother Earth is something that all mankind should come together to do.

One Love,

Lil’ Bison

Copyright © 2014 by Paul Cummings

Getting Schooled

This post was scheduled to be published on 12/15/2013

Acrostic – a poem or series of lines in which certain letters, usually the first, form a name or motto.

American Heritage College Dictionary

Hotep,

Professor Anathea Portier – Young has become a much-welcomed fixture of my creative writing class.  Today’s session (12/4/2013) was the professor’s third appearance since the origin of this literary quest.  She has yet to disappoint.  Real talk.

Exploring the motivations of the authors, of the books of Isaiah and Lamentations, in the Old Testament scriptures of the Bible.  Professor Portier-Young encouraged the class to engage in the acrostic style of written prophecy and funeral songs within God’s holy word.

It took less than an hour for me to come up with the appropriate acrostic expression.  At one time, MannoStat was merely a pen name.  As you witness this evolvement from pen name – to the praxis for capital punishment – recognize that MannofStat is a brand like no other.  Ya heard?  So, here’s this weeks written assignment: 

MannofStat: An acrostic of Hope and Amazement

M- Managing time when time is most unkind.

A - Alleviating stress through written expression, while awaiting the correction of the state’s transgression.

N – Noticing each sunrise as the Creator’s fresh start.

N – Never letting go of the hope that magnifies this art.

O – Ostentatiously, but patiently, revealing a thirst to reach the ears that make up the mass, majority of an upstanding societal class.  Not the first or the worst.  Not the best or the last.  Just open minds welcoming new finds.

F – Forensics lie in my path.  My truth tramples their math.  2 * 2 = 4, but the state’s murderous allure can’t swipe away the fact that my blood, sweat and fingerpirnts don’t add up to murder.

S – Surviving through the ink within, this pen, when dying to relinquish all hopes of freedom is the primary option, capitulation can be a deadly spin.

T- Testing the waters of fate, by expounding on acts of injustice and the practice of law taught in a classroom of hate.  But wait! 

Does that make me the bait for the state to consume, and then resume, the Mann – eating practices of this present date?

A – Always attentive to the course set before me.  My travels selectively permit alliance within a red sea of defiance. 

Water my seed; fulfill my hunger;

grant my need to never go under.

T – Taking nothing for granted.  Everything I do has value from this day forth. 

The crime of silence is an exploitation of violence. 

My scream for justice roars throughout the Net. 

Touching people in places that some may consider cosmic spaces.

My Word is to the Masses.  It’s much too late for the order of gag.

Going beyond the fence is now past tense.

Every branch of God’s tree of life is a root of the MannofStat snag.

Fruitfully 100,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann