Noblivian

I can’t sleep because clowns will eat me. They threatened me so I didn’t proofread.  To be read aloud:

            Sit down children. Quiet your minds. I’m going to tell you a story about youth who run deep, four or five to nine. In dimly lit rooms they sit around discussing matters of universality, matters of the mind. They play guitars and they freestyle sing and speak. A little song is in each of us. I see myself as the poet journalist. I smoke too much though and it’s hard to gather the motivation to speak about the coming revolution. So here is the revelation…we are the revolution. We really are the future because we are living in today, and we will change destiny if we can cheat the game.

                        Get right with the world son. Get a job. Pay the bills and call your mom.

                        This is your life son just lay down. You aren’t a king you have no crown.

                        And every day leads to your domestication.

            What can I say about those demons of the night? Well they were from places very far away from each other. They are from places far and wide. They have gathered on Ivy Hill across the great divide. A trek more turbulent than the Bering Strait, I’ll tell you they are and who they ain’t. They came from lands that lay near different oceans. They come from homes resting on different tectonic plates and the shift, the same shift that squeezes the earth together pushing up ground and creating the mountains. This same shift brought these youth together.

                        Take a little nap, a little intermission.

                        Sleep this life away, there’s not much you’re missin’.

                        This is Ivy Hill bliss. This is wasting the rent.

                        These are strangers in strange lands, miracle workers with no hands.

                        This is a society with war demands. A world more full of can’t than can.

                        This is change in this time and place.

                        Walk to your own drummer. Create your own pace.

                        Like a shooting star be bright, then, vanish…

                        …Vanish without a trace.

            We’ll tell our children we met in the blizzard of ’03. I don’t know if we’ll share about the lines and on the mountains we ski. So we say “We were playing the guitar and we were strumming these chords and we were speaking from heart and we were unified not apart and we came from different homes and we were born with different tongues but we have something in common all the same, a desire to beat the game.” No, we won’t say that. Drugs are not socially acceptable, and therefore when we have children, we will leave that out. Life shouldn’t be one big TRUTH commercial.

                        You’re chasing your tail, biting your own behind.

                        And if you’re looking, what will you find?.

                        Is there a treasure at the end? Is this rainbow a friend?

                        Were we better off in the storm, better straying from norm?

                        So lover lay down and lover lay still.

                        Lover open up, open up wide, happiness is knocking.

                        It wants inside. Lover lay down, lover lay still.

                        Take lover eat, this orgasm in a pill.

            Does the moon captivate you? Do you stare at the sky in awe? Do you realize across oceans they’re killing over Allah? I don’t think the world should end over who is God. We kneel down to our own deities and we look at different faces, pigmentations, and concentrations of melanin and we see what? Differences. Reasons to kill. I’m in the company of Tennessee Signs, Russian crooners with philosophical minds, Russian lover having chocolate for the very first time, a Blockbuster Viking with facial hair of red, another youth whose name I forget, a Jules with a cornrow mane, a Jahalia now that’s a fine sweet name, a Molaka a mythic creature ancient stoner, and all of us have come together. Wait. Who am I? What is my name? Have you read the writing of the child of the slave? A Negro Speaks of Rivers, that was Langston Hughes. I can’t say my name. I haven’t paid my dues. Not yet.

                        The best sex I ever had I had with myself.

                        It stemmed from creativity, this collective entity.

                        Then it entered me and it came strong and I came hard.

                        And I can’t look at sex and art and take them apart.

                        They’re one in the same to my eyes, to my mind.

                        I came again while swirling my pen writing my words sharing my verse.

                        Is the quick-witted tongue a blessing or curse?

                        I don’t know but I can’t sleep. The demons refuse to leave me be.

                        I think therefore I am. As a woman I don’t need a man to be.

                        I can do without your flattery. I can give my own compliments.

                        You’re like relish, mustard, ketchup, just a condiment.

                        You’re a compliment to an already made dish.

                        I am the real. I am the shit.

                        Pass the A-1 Steak Sauce and give me my meat raw.

                        I want it bleeding. I’ll take this communion.

                        This is your body I’ve broken for me and I take it eat.

                        This is your blood I’ve shed for me and I take it drink.

                        In commercial rap it’s a requirement to talk about sex.

                        What’s between your legs is merely a tool to flex.

            The world is different when you don’t sleep. When your waking hours far exceed those spent asleep you see the creatures of the night and hear words we fear to speak. Inhibitions fading and temptations invading the space that you reserved for intelligent thought, this is a war, and our minds the battleground where the victory is won or lost. We are soldiers. We are warriors. We are fanatics. We are the infantry. This is destiny. Take the sword from its sheath and the gun from the holster. This is the Wild West and you can’t cry to mother. So you must take the hand of the man beside you and claim him as your brother. When he falls you must kneel and take the burden of that other. Take the burden of that other. Yes you are your brother’s keeper. We’re running trying to lose the grim reaper. He’s after us. Some call him Satan. Some call him Lucipher. He’s after us. Some call him Satan. Some call him Bush.

But my political views let me aside them push. No, no, I think not. Think for yourself. Don’t bank on me, or CNN, for the news about the world you’re living in. Investigate and speculate and decide for yourselves if this war is the ugly American’s greed, pride, and hate. So look at that cross. Look at that crucifix. Ask yourself what has it ever meant. God said make no idols so what do you do? You paint what you think is his face, you develop a theory of a master race, you dip that cross not in bronze or lace, but gold, all the while tell your congregation to tithe 10 percent, lie and tell them they’ll get it back ten fold. I have no beef with God, in fact I like the man, but dare I say that this was not his plan. Churches made of brick. Your skin, and ignorance, is just as thick. Dare I say the point has been missed?

It’s 5:45 in the AM. Am I a child of God or the Son of Sam? I will not eat green eggs and ham. I will not eat them Sam I am. I will not eat them because you already have. You malnourished little fool. You unwilling little tool. Bite the hand that feeds you. Bite that hand. Time for another cliché, “damn the man.” These are just the ramblings of a girl afraid to sleep. These are just the ramblings, the illogical stream of consciousness mutterings to fulfill an assignment requirement. Or is this more? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, who holds truth, is it God with his many names? Is it Jesus, Allah, Yaweh, Jehova, why is it that God is such a Casanova? The mere mention of his name, any of them, has you in a trance. Now over that name you take a gun, you board a plane, a ship, you fight for a hypocrite, you’re in your trance, convinced you’ll liberate foreign lands that you’ve only seen on CNN or national geographic documentaries, while there’s men innocent in penitentiaries, young men and women are giving their lives like this is the Crusades and they’re American missionaries. The fight for our country’s freedom may have been won with a gun but my ancestors were enslaved by it. I don’t intend to come off as bitter and jaded, but I think you’re hiding cards up your sleeves, and I don’t know why you must cheat your hand when you’re the one that dealt it. This is America. This is capitalism. I don’t need to know God’s name. I know in this land his face is green. We’re in America child, even in our synagogues, mosques, and churches it’s all about the Benjamins. Yeah I just quoted a horrible rap song. I’ll kill myself later. The End.