TODAY’S LESSON…
Shakespeare staged the world;
the auction block a memic—
Othello, its prize:-
Truth is always deep;
revealing reality—
liberating minds:-
Truth’s love never lies;
untwisting false-sucking tongues—
revealing itself:-
What happens when rotten strange fruit…
Hanging from trees of auction block wood
Become stinking pieces of black flesh…
Dried blood putrefying in murderous streets…?
When crystallized tears of remorse…Laden and
Loaded with explosive grief…Flow down weary
Faces wrinkled by time’s trials, tribulations and
Treacherousness and neglect of freedom, justice
And equality, all become like inconsequential
Sunned raisins and festering sores…?
When visions of deferred dreams become blurred
Realities,
Fogged by the steam of volcanic anger…Pray tell…
What happens?
Pray tell…what happens? And then what?—Please,
Pray tell?!
We have seen every ghastly act and recorded it.
Yet more grisly deeds yellow in archives
waiting to be resuscitated and refined.
Tyrannosaurus Rex awakes in a drop of amber,
takes a gander, decides to go extinct.
A Dark Net spreads like arsenic and syrup.
Cell phones retweet daily holocausts over donuts.
Evil has friends on Facebook.
The commonplace entertains the unspeakable
as if it were merely an eccentric uncle.
The unborn and the born are culled,
Plague businesses thrive.
There are killings on the market, viral wars
burst spiky eruptions of emojis.
Slave traders operate from strip-malls
owned by chauffeured demons,
while journalists huddle in their alabaster cities
undimmed by human tears.
Pandemonium is the addiction of choice
and the eyes of those in power
glitter in the clear blue sky-dreams
of both the heartless and the homeless.
Drugged you are America,
soon to be sold on an auction block
of your own drugged choosing.
We once sang for you America,
O Beautiful America.
(Apropos of Hughes’s Proverbial Question)
What happens when rotten strange fruit…
Hanging from trees of auction block wood
Become stinking pieces of black flesh…dried blood
Putrefying in murderous streets…?
When crystallized tears of remorse…Laden and loaded
With explosive grief…flow down weary faces
Wrinkled by time’s trials, tribulations…treacherousness—
And neglect of freedom, justice and equality
All become like inconsequential sunned raisins and festering sores…?
When visions of deferred dreams become blurred realities—
Fogged by the steam of volcanic anger—Pray tell…What happens?
Pray tell…What happens? And then what?—Pray tell!
THE EURIDITE MONK
(Apropos Thelonious)
The misunderstood rhapsody
of the ebony-ivory union
reflects a oneness of time
and space fathomed
but to the freed ears
picking up the syncopation
of mind body and soul
of the sellers and the sold;
While gyrating auction block
crescendos split crazy melodies
shoveling shattered shackles sliding
sliding between the mosaic beauty
of the whining keys echoing echoes of echoes.
Let your ears blink
and it all slips sleekly by
and the uninformed cannot comprehend
the beat of rhythmic thoughts meandering
a melodious mind leaving mental footprints
tap dancing on seasoned tympanums
vibrating blue notes between bebop bars:
harmonious inertia movements
challenging a decrescendo fading
of the monk’s mosaic mastery.
PSALM 1: FOR MY CHILDREN
These minds are mine. Mine
to shape, mold and give control:
budding hopes in the furrows of time.
These fruits will bear new seeds
to sprout and meet our lingering needs.
Hope is a starving hunger seeking to be fed;
Faith awaits the reality of visions of the dead.
Lost dreams remain forever asunder;
never see the light nor hear the thunder.
You are those of whom the ancestors spoke;
You are those who will splinter the chocking yoke.
You will destroy forever the auction block.
You will be the new leaders of the wandering flock.
You will be those who will take us over the mountain top.
Stuck in an existence that you don't
belong
Why were you chosen for this time and
place
Look in the mirror you see a different
reflection
Can't even decide what makes you happy
Nothing but a sellout is what you are
Standing on the auction block to get the
top dollar
Striving to just fit in but your overwhelmed
with indecision
These feelings weigh so heavy in this
heart
Trying to find a section in this book with
which to restart
All eyes on you an example must be set
Though the pain and sadness you must
try to maintain
Stay focused stay strong words so easy
say
This reflection is you just own it and rise
to the task
Self sustaining your own sorrow doesn't
work for you
Remember the past just don't relive it
every day
The present is here and your loved ones
are near so just be thankful for what you
have
The future can be fruitful if you just trust in
yourself
Patience and diligence will bear you a
prosperous crop
Always keep in mind anyone can be on
top
This mirror is nothing more than a
reflection
It measures neither what you were or what
you will become but only what you are
now.
Elvis Memorabilia
Prepare yourself for quite a shock
Coming to the auction block
Undies worn upon the pelvis
Of the now departed Elvis
His daddy Vernon wants to sell them
By their looks you’d hate to smell them
They’re stained, they’re stretched
The dirty drawers soon can be fetched
For a measly 10 K pounds
Or there about is how it sounds
What would you do with Elvis undies
Especially ones like these old grungies
But you can be sure some diehard fans
Will take them off of Vernon’s hands
So if you’re into underpants
This here auction’s your best chance
And at the other end of the scale
His personal Bible will be on sale
I for one would choose the latter
Not the one with Elvis splatter
Mdailey 8/28/12
(Check out a photo of the skivies at RollingStone.com)
When I go the market, let me buy real
For my money give me concrete things
Despite my money being a figment
Of all my work and toil
I do not eat fruit, nor wear clothes
Nor live in houses
That carry risks of hunger or nakedness
I do not want to be a nomad again
Pelt with melted clouds
Wandering on Wall Street pavements
Amongst the greed of callous hearts
They sold at the auction block
They gambled at the cross for a bloody frock
The market sells what it does not own
They sell bet
That my life will fall into debt
For all my labour from morning until death
The trade on my sweat
But I shall not buy my own tiredness again
I hate the risk of pain
And the silent clinking of the chain.
For every stone I lay I bleed
Bone batterers the pile at my feet
Are foundations so I succeed
Making my triumph out of defeat
Brick by battering brick I laid
Each flesh fanged stone rising up
Against being sore and afraid
Grimacing but gulping from the cup
Of spite, of jealousy, of hate
Offered me; their secret hemlock
By which I am galled by fate
Poisoned since the auction block
With al my feathers littered there
These stones are my babel of despair.
just because you see me walking down 'ho boulevard does not mean i'm for sale...
i don't have an advertising sign up inviting you to taste and see
a woman can't walk down the street in broad daylight
dressed in a baggy t-shirt and sweats
rockin' an afro puff on a hot summer day
without being propositioned
in violation of my rights as a woman to be free from sexual harassment
and I’m mad about it
my “NO” to your obnoxious offer is real talk
and you should know the difference between what’s for sale
and what’s not on the auction block
so g’long
an' lef’ muh tuh walk in peace
makes a woman want to carry a concealed weapon
and go blasting
could never walk the hallways
play in the yard
or even pray
without somebody bothering me
pulling on my clothes
or grabbing at me
for some sick reason
the next one is going to get a surprise
so g’long
an' lef’ muh tuh walk in peace
~in honor of the women who have walked ahead of me...
(c) 2011 PoetryofMotion!
All Rights Reserved
Sold Out
The blogger screams
And I trembling
Naked before the fogless eyes
Dangled like butcher's meat
Stand on the auction block again, the mist of profits screening pain.
Against the gavel rising and falling
Leading bidders for my flesh speak superficial of my loveliness
Orishas mangled in the history of my undoing
Native faith betrayed by a foreign cross
Emigrants hustled in the market of pain.
Tomorrow we all shall reap the howl of coming misery
Ontology broken as a vase on a strand of prophecy
Debacling us in loneliness, nothing left to sell
Itinerants of the global disaster
Earn nothing from the learning of the dying market.
Sold out: is the "it is done" of the cross
Infinite wonder: profit and futures falling
Nature nailing the arthrithic hands
Gladly to the gallows of our grief
I have known nothing built on innocent blood stands
Neutral before the rope of justice
God dangles from his branchless throne.
She never forgave him for not giving her his last name or
letting their only child be sold on the auction block.
When she was raped he didn’t hear her screams.
When their second child was taken away he just watched. Then he went away.
She never forgave him once…
He never forgave her once for having the bastard child,
Blonde hair, blue eyes too good for the sun.
How his ears went numb from the wails of her ecstasy.
She was always in their kitchen cookin’ up sumthin’ and
he never forgave her once…
They jumped the broom but never made it over.
Five-hundred years later, things haven’t gotten any better.
She still hasn’t forgetten that he didn’t give her his last name and
He didn’t forget when she shared a bed with the massa.
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