wordle 10.01.10

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copyright  2010  blackstarr

Poison (part 1 of 8, from “A Tincture Of Tellurium”)

Tellurium . . . she was its human portrayal.

born in the year of fifty two,

passivity consummately overdue.

When she revealed herself to me, this sensuous Aphrodite

was a delightful one-hundred-twenty-eight pounds,

sister to the four winds, free-spirited, untamable.

Tell them that she is as exotic as neon, but, is, in no way, as innocuous.

Her beauty will be astonishing, a rare sight, to be sure.

But, let them be warned that she is

at the same time . . . toxiferous . . . noxious,

a tincture of tellurium.

Her voice was euphonic, yet, like a Grecian siren,

it was full-scale seduction,

and, imminent destruction.

She came to me as the eidolon,

that dream of perfection found, which never comes to be.

And, in the end, she became

. . . my injection,

. . . my addiction,

my reason for self-annihilation.

She was liquid xenon, flowing and unresponsive,

and, nearly as unattainable, her free heart unrestrainable.

My actions brought no reactions.

My words of affection were

. . . weightless molecules,

. . . soundless thoughts,

lost to the wind.

She was a secret code, an indecipherable mystery.

Here was the essence of the arcane,

perched upon a cryptographic plane.

Her eyes pulled me in, and,

her touch replenished.

Her kiss drained me of life itself.

She remained . . . ensconced, . . . unsolved,

even cloaked in a veil of non-divulgence.

Tellurium . . . but a faint trace is certain obliteration.

for to grasp the exotic, to taste of the erotic,

obliteration would have been a welcome relief.

So I grasped, I tasted, and, hastened my own undoing.

She was . . . astonishing . . . a rarity, she was a tincture of tellurium.

***************

copyright  1997  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

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photos from across the web

emergency (re-posted for those who lost their lives)

on 911 to the one,

we looked down the barrel

of a loaded gun.

i thought this might be

w w three,

no more me.

on 911 to the one,

aloofness became undone.

it finally hit home,

four shots straight to the dome:

two fatal shots, in nyc,

in pa, a flesh wound meant for dc,

in dc, one lay critical . . .

nothin’ personal . . .

strictly political.

on 911 to the one

we thought the lasers were locked on stun.

we got sucker-punched, erbody out to lunch.

we dropped to our knees and began to choke,

and our opponent disappeared

in a cloud of fire and smoke.

on 911 to the one there came a loaded gun,

with hollow tips, that brought us to our knees.

we screamed “oh my!!”,

released a sigh, wondered why,

and then we all began to cry.

on 911 to the one,

not a cloud, yet no sun.

we wallowed in the shadow of the enemies’ gun.

first came sorrow,

then our thoughts about tomorrow.

in less than twenty-four,

they had a name, so they claim,

and yet, they hesitated just the same.

on 911 to the two

will there be a me and you?

will they be caught with their knickers down,

to never even hear the sound?

will they continue to assume

that no real danger looms,

that we’re all simply sayers of doom?

perhaps it’s not too wise

to criticize those with watchful eyes,

whose jets no longer leave the skies,

while battleships dot our oceansides.

perhaps they’re locked and loaded,

mimicking C4: waiting to be exploded.

but on 911 to the one

we faced a loaded gun.

terror paid a visit to our home

with four shots straight to the dome.

we fell victim to a loaded gun

on 911 to the one.

copyright   2001  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Bulletproof by Raheem Devaughn

photos from across the web

got malt? (excerpt from “the village”)

at twelve clocks,

off to the mailbox.

no one saw him fall.

at work.

on company time.

but, the company’s dime

is making him ghetto rich

for a couple or three days

out of every month.

**********

off to the store with the red and yellow sign.

five chicken wings – that’s what’s up.

salt, pepper, ketchup?

two loosies, and a fifty cent hug.

he hollers at shorty,

who doesn’t even shrug,

pays him no mind

(why she so unkind?).

never needed you.

it’s all good.

there’s more fish in the sea,

(to himself) said he.

malt liquor chaser

for a two o’clock blunt.

**********

no hustle and bustle,

just the hustle.

getting by, getting high,

getting paid off a slip-and-fall case.

living that fast pace,

always up in your face.

ever poor,

never rich, an’

always bitchin’,

wouldn’t dare be caught snitchin’.

and he never lets it all inside his head.

man-child: ghetto born and bred.

**********

copyright  2008  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

**********

Images used in this post are from various sites across the web.  If any photos belong to you and you have an objection, e-mail me ad I will have them removed

a renaissance for the new millennium

here is
a renaissance
for a new millennium;
now is a time for literary finesse.
ours is a time
for new paths to be blazed,
the time for palpable ideas
to be raised.

we contemplate the
future that lies
with our next generation,
we question the choices
of our past,
we criticize the errors
that have brought us to
this place of turmoil.
a renaissance,
a new millennium,
a consciousness of grand proportion.

we press pen to paper
and social awareness is revived.
we debate
the topics to which
blind eyes had once been turned.
we answer the questions
of ages gone by,
and set the tone for those who
sit in silence, teeming with anticipation.
our renaissance.
our millennium.
our consciousness of grand proportion.

sharpen the blade
of intellectuality
and let its acuteness
and accuracy
run us through
until truth’s blood
flows freely from our minds.
then, let the wounds of incivility
be healed by the power of commonalities.

now is the time of literary finesse.
there are new paths to be blazed,
and fathomable ideas that need to be raised.
a renaissance.
a new millennium.
a consciousness of grand proportion.
i dare say
“a renaissance
for the new millennium . . .
a consciousness of grand proportion”.

copyright 2008 blackstarr
freerealm@gmail.com

Brand New Day by Tim Myers (ft. Lindsey Ray)

Images in this post are from various locations on the web.  If any belong to you and you have an objection, please e-mail me and I will remove them.

young white sburbanite (excerpt from “the village”)

on any given friday night,

a young white suburbanite,

cruises in his beamer,

into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.

he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags

that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,

but that silver spoon is the very reason why.

he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,

lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.

he’s looking for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder,

music getting louder.

young white suburbanite,

in the middle of the night,

loses himself in another man’s culture.

not understanding the subtleties of cp time,

he hits the club way too soon,

stands around with beer in hand,

realizes that the night was not so well-planned.

but he’s fly and hip and dope and –

and thinks he’s ahead of his time,

but the reality is that he simply

got there way ahead of time.

the music swirls within his head,

and the sistas think it’s so dred

that he’s holding his own,

while out of his element.

but to his detriment,

the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.

now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.

and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

beer has him moving to the beats,

the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.

“yo – young white suburbanite!

some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,

but homeboy’s homeboy has had

one too many rollin’ rocks.

young white suburbanite

struggles with all his might

to get his homeboy standing upright.

now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.

young white suburbanite

came to the city,

blastin’ fiddy,

lookin’ for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder.

whitebread

got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.

cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.

he’s just trying to understand

why we always catch it from the man.

tries to understand what that’s like,

he beats a path to every open mike,

struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.

a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why

he can never feel the pain like you and i.

he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –

“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.

it’s neither out of compassion,

nor because it’s popular fashion,

but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers

prey upon the innocence of the sons.

**********

on any given friday night,

deep within the urban blight,

from dusk until daylight.

lookin’ for some

black flava,

brown suga’,

white powder.

out of the gloomy mist and into the light,

comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.

copyright  2008  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Lose Yourself by Eminem

Images: silver spoon (metalmuseum.org), Rolling Rock beer (hoppsy.com), Flava (myrunkspace.com), Bey caricature (pinoypix.com), Philadelphia skyline (wordfromtheweb.com)

“when” (excerpt from Black Woman)

When I hold a BLACK WOMAN in my arms,
the world is mine.
There is nothing more that I could want for.

When I hear a BLACK WOMAN tell me that
she loves me, my life becomes complete.

When I look a BLACK WOMAN in her eyes,
it is my glimpse into paradise.

That is when I
feel her warmth,
when I
hear her magic,
when I
see her majesty:
BLACK WOMAN.

When I feel the softness
of her skin caressing my own,
a feeling of exuberance overtakes me.
The ebony skin of a BLACK WOMAN
is more radiant than a diamond.
Her skin is richer than fresh cream.
A BLACK WOMAN
has a softness like that of windblown clouds.

When a BLACK WOMAN speaks,
and her words drift into my ears,
I am no longer a void, no longer alone.
When the words that she speaks
express her love for me, I find a completeness,
and total satisfaction.

Her words are not just phrases,
nor sentences, nor mere thoughts,
but, their sound is
music,
their sound is
poetry.

My heart, and,
even my soul,
can feel the piercing stare
of a BLACK WOMAN.
When her eyes meet mine,
I am
mystified,
hypnotized,
mesmerized.
The eyes of a BLACK WOMAN
peer into mine,
and, they are filled
with love,
yet, they can be clairvoyant:
crystal balls . . . knowing, reading.

When I hold a BLACK WOMAN in my arms,
I feel the warmth of her embrace,
and,
when I hear a BLACK WOMAN speak my name,
I hear the magic in her voice,
and,
when I see the beauty of a BLACK WOMAN,
there is majesty in her face.
I have but to speak the words:
BLACK WOMAN.

copyright  1997  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Black Magic Woman by Santana

photos from la2day.com and wallpapersgalaxy.com

a whispered love

you whisper your love

like stolen kisses.

as with summer drizzles,

so, too,

you sprinkle your love

in whispered drops.

yet, even in the roaring crowds,

i hear

the whisper of your love.

copyright 2007  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

Breathing Out by Doveman

photo “SF Rain” from watersecretsblog.com

verb

why can’t i
just look into your eyes?
why must i
give in to my demise?
silence is not deception.
it is reflection, introspection.
let’s just call it soundless conversation, or perhaps . . .

“verb!”, you said.
“l-o-v-e”, i responded.

(i thought that my verb was heart-filled,
thought that it meant
‘me-you,  you-me slash we’.
but,
could it be that she
could see that we
two were too new,
and knew that ‘we slash me-you’
was just a hypothetical? )

my verb was something quite un-designed,
and, as yet, totally undefined.
my verb was unspoiled by over-zealous thought,
in its finest state of raw innocence.

but, . . . it was my verb.
i had been looking into your eyes,
holding soundless conversation,
reflection without deception.
you said verb,
i said l-o-v-e,
and deception was the interpretation.

copyright  2000  blackstarr

freerealm@gmail.com

“Tossed Salads and Scrambled Eggs” from “It’s Just Jazzy”

sculpture “introspection” by Matthew Cummings

photo “beach chairs” by Paul Walsh

wasted membranes

i get high on crystal meth;

i get stoned, like a soul picnic.

wasted membranes,

you’re gone,

and i’m left with twisted grey matter.

she’s my pusher, wide open,

and ready for action.

she, her, they.

i know it’s you,

but do you trip like i do,

on the vapor trail?

get busy child, trip like i do.

i’m jaded, i’m faded, i made it

to a place

where darkness veils

when all else fails,

and darkness is the mask

that hides us all.

it’s been three days,

and, now, I’m starting over.

there’s high and low

and crystal meth is high

and twisted matter is low.

and i know it’s you, but you

don’t trip like i do.

bound too long,

you know it’s hard,

or do you?

you’re wild, sweet and cool,

wide open

and ready for action.

i get high on crystal meth;

i get stoned, like a soul picnic.

i end up with wasted membranes.

and i know

you’re right,

but i’m left

with twisted grey matter.

copyright  ©  2008  blackstarr

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freerealm@gmail.com

“Busy Child” by The Crystal Method