Monday, May 16, 2016

Subconscious Consciousness



“The Dream thrives on generalization, on limiting the number of possible questions, on privileging immediate answers.  The Dream is the enemy of all art, courageous thinking, and honest writing.”
‘-TA’ Nehisi Coates

What is the meaning of, ‘Ghetto?’
In the beginning of the middle ages, ghetto was a term that described a European city with a walled quarter – restricting the movement of Jews.  In today’s modern era of racism, ghetto can be a mentality derived from the experiences of living a hard life, capable of paralyzing a person’s consciousness to that of a dreamscape.

“Don’t you know?
That it’s true.
That for me,
And for you,
The world is a ghetto.”
‘- War

Who THEY say you are is who you will always be.  That is, unless you can dream yourself away from THEIR reality.  But, even the Promethean dreams of me spitting truths of fire to the world, conclude with the reality of the state’s buzzards pecking away at the root of my being, day, after day, after day; bringing me back to a walled-state of existence; ghetto consciousness.

So why even dream in the first place?  Why should I want anything more than what is tangible?  I often find myself wide-awake, yet drifting into the seams of, what if:

  • ·      What if white entitlement and poor white trash did not determine the placement of blacks in America’s social structure?
  • ·      What if I could wake up to a world where a white senior resident judge does not have the authority to freeze all arguments concerning racial bias and the science fiction of the state’s crime lab? Meanwhile, leaving lives in abeyance.
  • ·      What if it was possible for me to wake up in a world where the resident “porch dog’s” bark isn’t loud enough to alert the establishment that Me & Mine have stepped into the front yard of the status quo?

Damn dreams…

At times, my human existence is a nightmare that can only conclude by waking up in a dream.  Other than that, I am conscious of a world where black-on-black crime is not taboo, and self-hate taints the fountains of social interaction.  

I am wide awake in this world where blacks use terms like “good hair,” light-skinned,” and “dark-skinned.” Maybe if the “Underground Railroad was no more than a subway train transporting people of all racial ethnicities in a harmonious fashion, hair texture and skin complexion wouldn’t matter.

I close my eyes and the fear of acceptance unveils the route of a trailblazer turning tragedy to triumph. The truth is, your subconscious can make life so sweet.  However, the inevitable squint toward reality enhances the view of a world where minorities refuse to see themselves as a majority.  Capitalism and fascism affects all who fall beneath the standards of the Bush & Trump-type Klans; the true whites.

You got blacks trying to think white…
You ain’t white.
You got Caucasians that embrace the black plight,
And are willing to fight,
For blacks intent on being white.
Right?

“Hate gives identity. The nigger, the fag, the bitch illuminate the border, illuminate what we ostensibly are not, illuminate the dream of being white, of being a man.”

“The world is a ghetto…”

100,

MannofStat
Copyright © 2016 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

WordPrint








Bunions and blisters basically bombarding a balanced base
Anchored by hammer toes and ingrowns,
Yet I still stomp with the charisma of a Black Frat.
Achilles heel burnt by the passion of running the point.

For those that don’t know,
I can go like Arcidiacono; on and off the floor
Bending these creaky knees,
Clearly bringing fire from my core;
Don’t mean I’m gonna take the shot.

Not the shooter…
These hands of a stuntman hold up 2 V’s
Cause from beginning to end,
I’m a NOVA in this penitentiary sky,
Tightening my Big 5,
I beat on a chest far too familiar with heartache…
Boom! Boom! Boom! … Banging
With fist that’s been shootin jabs since the womb.

Basketball is a lifelong love, but life?
It ain’t no game.
Playing dead ain’t real and I feel,
Inadequate is my name…
It’s a damn shame
When memories gotta keep you in it to win it.
Seeing through the gloom and smelling the future
Produces the WORD that makes a dying existence infinite.

WORD… Official… The real… 100.
WORD? Is that so? For real? It can’t be.
WORD travels fast, can only be slow when stuttered.
WORD can cut ever-so-deep whether exclaimed or muttered.

WORD goes higher than any trip or high.
WORD leaves my soul and genuinely inseminates receptiveness…
From the bottom to the top – circulating throughout,
As I walk what I say.

The Underdog knows no surrender only knowing
The 1st place of a Champ by initially being a contender.
There’s beauty in this struggle of rising to the occasion.
WORD!!

Copyright © 2016 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Til the End


A short love story by Leroy Elwood Mann


[She sat in the chair, her back against the wall, looking at him across the room.] The stress in his eyes made him look much older than his 35 years.  His gaze was centered on her presence, and it was evidently clear what he was feeling for her.

The last time they spoke, he revealed that he had been in love with her since they were kids.  She had no idea such an infatuation existed between them.  They were just kids.  How could he – or she for that matter – know the meaning of love at such a green stage in their lives?  She had always liked him, but never considered any relations other than a platonic friendship.

Daleah Freeman shuffled in her seat.  The discomforting thought of missing out on “Real Love” simply because she did not see herself as his type of girl, troubled her. She knew success in the highest occupational sense.  But the success of having a true love and growing with a soul mate was far beyond her grasp.  That is…until this very moment. 

Her soul mate was mere feet away, yet his current circumstance made him untouchable.  She felt a strong urge to stand up and proclaim the true love that had been hidden to her eyes.  After all these years of a love lying dormant, she wanted every person in that room to know that this man – her man – was indeed the best man.

As the urge to love out loud grew within her being, she looked around the room.  The looks of contempt, retribution, and hate on the faces surrounding her temporarily suppressed the urge to reveal what she could not admit to before this moment.  Her stomach twisted in knots, “How can they feel this way about someone they don’t even know?” Her thoughts were so loud she subconsciously covered her mouth.

The man she loved was strapped to a gurney, standing upright.  A microphone was pushed toward his mouth and without the least bit of hesitation; his heart spoke above the mutters of the execution witness room.  “I love you, Lee-Lee.”

His dying words released the floodgates of her tears ducts.  She felt a warm chill throughout her core as all eyes made the connection from his words to her seated presence.  She could clearly see the ancestry of lynch mobs, grand dragons, and cross-bearing arsonists in their vitriolic glares.  At this point, Lee-Lee was beyond being intimidated.

Before the man she loved was injected with the serum of inhumanity, she stood from her chair and spoke as if her words would kill the hate within the room, and shatter the transparent partition that separated her from the physicality of true love.

“An innocent man is about to die here!  And, I love him to death!”

Is this the end?


100,

MannofStat
Copyright © 2016 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Monday, April 18, 2016

The Brink of a Dying Chill



Jing! Jing!
Jing! Jing!
Sounds of a good day.
At a time when emotional funk stunk up my life,
A string attached to four bells spoke when I didn’t have much to say.
Jack and Jill Ice Cream,
A natural born hustler driving the truck to make C.R.E.A.M.
Plus a ride along but it wasn’t my dream
Although pulling that string released the chill within my pent up steam.
Jing! Jing!
Jing! Jing!

Leaving the top of the city for the shallows of
“THE BOTTOM” could be a dangerous trail
So my sales window activity
Was sharper than a musketeer’s rapier
When all the while,
I pulled that string to ring
A song in a ghetto child’s ear.
Jing! Jing!
Jing! Jing!

Ruminating a building bulldozed by bullies with badges
Boisterous about burning buildings where blacks live
Basically bonds two brothers bound for the bosom of breaking news bigger than butter pecan,
Restores my recollection of the rants relative to rationing relief to residents recovering from the reprehensible response to revolutionary Rastas,
I knew no imposters.

“Don’t try to eat up all the damn popsicles,
And don’t be asking a bunch of fucking questions.”
My only instructions from a peckish instructor
My driver, Big Brotha “D,” formerly know as “Pee-Wee” of the IMPERIALS OF SOUL.
Housing project gangbangers, my guidance from sun up to sundown every bit of 3 sixty 5.
34th to 38th, then 41st for a block party stop.
A stationary ice cream store with the lure
Of a foreign language, my driver made me his interpreter.
Those bells, amidst the yells
Of an urban district inhabited by political animals.

Listless from vicious police attacks on the backs of blacks, no counter attacks
Just the peripatetic mentality to avoid a policeman’s strap.
My adrenaline was high, as kick came to our truck in droves.
I served push-up popsicles, twin popsicles, the fudge filled chocolate crunch popsicles, and Mickey Mouse popsicles with the chocolate ears, eyes and nose
Those didn’t last long at all
The overhead change distributor spoke when coins would fall…
Chk… Chk… Chk. Chk. Chk.
Quarters. Nickels. To dimes.
Dimes. Quarters to nickels.
Chk. Chk… Chk.

20 sales in, my bells sounded exhaustion
Jing. Jing… Jing. Jing
The driver took my place, accelerating the pace.
The change fell heavily, but steadily
Into big bruh’s diligent palm.
The daylight star moved east to west and our popsicle freezers held nothing but calm.
My heavy eyes took in the ice cream smeared faces of “The Bottom” left in out wake
Jing… Jing.

Then black cops made us stop.  Cause we didn’t STOP!!!
At an intersection,
The connection from our old hood to our new home
Boom! Bang! Run Lump!!
Pee-Wee’s body was no longer his own.
A Richard Allen mob, 2 chrome-plated senders.
And black trigger fingers at the ready
A day of progression impeded by oppression leaves the impression,
In a blink Life can turn deadly.
Jing…

MannofStat
Copyright © 2016  by Leroy Elwood Mann