The revolution…

The revolution will be televised, or in this case, it will be written.

Blacklisted will soon be available on Amazon and published copies will be available for purchase!

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Coming August 2018!

No more silence but solace and surrender to racist claims, racist names, no room for fame cause they hate you. It comes from your own kind, it comes from your own mind. Black man. Black man. Didn’t you know? The trigger, the whip, the chains, his brain melodically hypnotized by Black man Biggie, Black man Tupac, Black man Miles, Black man Thurgood, Black Man Medgar, Black Man Malcolm, Black Man Denzel, Black Man Barack, Black Man Spike, Black Man Richard Pryor, Black Man Jay-Z, Black Man Omari Hardwick, Black Man Jordan Peele, Black Man Lebron, Black Man from Chi-Town, Black Man from Tennessee, Black Man from Seattle, Black Man from Georgia, Black Man from New York, Black Man from Iowa, Black Man from Jamaica, Black Man from Benin, Black Man from Trinidad, Black Man from Haiti, Black Man from France, Black Man from England, Black Man from Australia….

Black man, Black man, Black MAN.

You are, you are.


Turn the music up

She just wanted to be loved to the sounds of Biggie and Biz Markie, tape rockin’ then poppin’ from side A to B. 

She wanted to show love not hate, gold rings and Radio Raheem tings, bamboo earrings, money made her sing, falsetto like, BK ghetto like, on Broadway, in the summers it was child’s play.

She wanted to be higher, on the stoop, orange soda in her cup, so she turned the music up.

Concrete Love

He stood there waiting for her downtown somewhere between Lafayette Street and Heartbreak. He stood there for close to an hour and 10 minutes of shame and sadness when he realized she wasn’t showing up. He stood and got stood up by a genuinely wholesome girl straight out of East Harlem. The pink roses her favorite he had bought them for her knowing she’d love them. In the distance of Lafayette Street and Heartbreak he saw someone that resembled her, walking hand in hand with a man that looked more than a close friend. It was her. Chante. 

Her ombré burgundy kinky/curly tresses he recognized from the night they first met. The man clenched her by the hip as she kissed his cheek. They strolled by him when they crossed the street, dumbfounded he just watched her walk by while she locked eyes with him and appeared to cringe at being caught. As the happy couple carried on down the starry Manhattan night, she looked back once and shied away as if in slow motion as she felt bad. 

Alone on Lafayette Street and Heartbreak he walked the few blocks to the Canal Street station, pink flowers still in hand, stricken by what he just saw. He swiped is MetroCard and headed down the stairs to his train. Standing on the platform the pink roses dropped to his side dangling towards the ground. His mind vacant and contemplating giving up on love. 

The train grumbled in the tunnel as it approached, air blowing announcing its arrival. He arose from his daydream of being loveless and chucked the pink roses into the nearest trash can. The doors opened to the train and he stepped on with the mob of New Yorkers boarding the train. 

​As the doors closed he noticed one of the roses and a single petal had fallen off and onto the ground before he threw away the bouquet. It was how he felt, torn, a rose that hit the concrete in the jungle of graffiti and street grace. The rose was beautiful, even though it soon would be swept away. He was hopeful his heart wouldn’t have the same fate.