Saturday, November 29, 2014

----- Is a Helluva Drug

It is commonly known that addiction to crack-cocaine can lead to kill, however new-old evidence regarding the dangers of Whiteness the Drug is presently being re-examined in effort to explain the drug's chemical structure and long term effects upon the addict as well as his/her community at large.

When abused as a drug Whiteness addiction has side effects that include euphoria, delusion,and significant feelings of power enhancement that can lead to violence and fatalities in case of overdose.

If you or a loved one have suspicions that someone is abusing Whiteness (the drug) in an unhealthy manner please seek help immediately.

*paid for by the Whiteness Corrections & Rehabilitation Committee for the Global Welfare and Safety of Everyone Else

Tuesday, November 25, 2014


#Ferguson #BlackLivesMatter #ThingsMoreHurtThan DarrenWilson

Afraid of Home/Home is Where the Hatred, Fear, Terror & Injustice Live

A junkie walking through the twilightI'm on my way homeI left three days ago,
but no one seems to know I'm gone Home is where the hatred is Home is filled with pain and it might not be such a bad idea iIf I never, never went home again

Stand as far away from me as you can and ask me why Hang on to your rosary beads Close your eyes to watch me die You keep saying, kick it, quit it, kick it, quit it God, but did you ever try To turn your sick soul inside out So that the world, so that the world Can watch you die
           -Home is Where the Hatred Is
                   by Gil Scott Heron

Gil Scott Heron's masterpiece Home is Where the Hatred Is is actually an ode about the nightmare of drug addiction. However like every truly brilliant piece of art one can listen  to it metaphorically, and in this case the lyrics form a commentary on race in America thereby adding a whole different meaning to the horrors Scott sings of. 

There is a long tradition that can be traced far back of black intellectuals and artists leaving American shores to escape the special horrors that haunt those of black and brown skin. Kicking and quitting America is a dream that many play with in their imaginations, god knows I do; but if I can't afford to live here at home how I'ma look curled up broke and hungry on the shores of the Thames in London? So common sense tells me to keep my black ass at home where at the very least I have my mama in the next room who is liberal with her hugs. 

 If you take the metaphor of black Americans as addicts unable to quit the habit of living under tyranny of the country that enslaved their ancestors and, then freed the slaves only to successfully restructure the slave complex into private prisons, broken public schools, a mandate for militarized police forces to cull young black men and women, then it becomes clear that the need to survive is entirely dependent upon kicking and quitting this place. You can hear the pain in Gil Scott Heron's moan as he says to the invisible questioner imploring him to straighten up and kick the habit "God but did you ever try/to turn your sick soul inside out/So that the world, so that the world/Can watch you die?"
Oh but here in America blacks have turned their souls inside and out again and again. We are the people who created the only true American art form, jazz. We created bebop, doowop, hip hop. Our prophetic intellectuals have traced their lineage through us: W.E.B DuBois, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King. Of those three black men, two died in violence, murdered, shot down as dogs, or perhaps merely shot down as worthless niggers, and the third - the beautiful mind - DuBois chose to die far, far from the shores that bred him: he went "home" to Africa and died in Ghana the day following Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream Speech.
America is a dream for many and nightmare for some. It is the home filled with hatred and pain for many, and we are not the first generation to wonder if it's simply too dangerous to continue returning to the place that gave you life and consistently tries to recapture every drop of blood in repayment. Home is where the fear and the madness dwell; it is the returning swell of the rage like the current which sends the tides twice twice a day. 

Shall we drown in the blood like sacrificial animals? Is there ever more than a chance of survival for those who wear black and brown skin? Because living is not the same as thriving, and dying is not the same as being murdered - which is the death that awaits so very many of us. Perhaps our prayers have indeed been answered and the clarity is now agonizingly displayed everywhere we turn. It might not be such a bad idea if we never went home again.

Home was once an empty vacuum
that's filled now with my silent screams
home is where the needle marks                                                                                              try to heal 
my broken heart
And it might not be such a bad idea
if I never, if I never went home again

Holidays at Halle's, or Get a Grip & Don't Fuck Racists


It's the Holidays So Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry Are Getting Their Fight on Again

This is so cuckoo-clock cray cray that I gotta take a moment from the Moment of Silence over Ferguson...

So this year in the annals of Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry's Race War, Halle is taking Gabriel to court because he wants to chemically relax 6-year old Nahla's hair. Of course this is quite tame compared to two Thanksgivings ago when Halle's current husband Olivier Martinez used Gabriel's face like he was trying to tenderize some meat. So, frankly this squabble rates rather lowly since it has not involved anyone going to the hospital or calling the police. 

However what interests me about this round of Jungle Fever is not really the whole natural hair versus relaxed hair angle. I just want to know one thing.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE who "accidentally" fall in love with and procreate with racists? How the EFF does that even HAPPEN? No, don't tell me you didn't know. Don't tell me no shit like "oh he got like that after we were together". Don't say any dumbass mess like that to me, I am not trying to hear it!! 

Because the fact is that either 1) you were cool riding the hate fuck for as far as you could and didn't bother to think thoughts beyond the sex or 2) you are just generally careless about the people you hook up with and it's a feature of ALL your relationships that you let the ugly peek its head out long past the Too Late timing marker.

Gabriel Aubry has been rumored for a long long ass time to be a racist. She's told that the he's beaten her up and called her the N-word...and she's claimed that she "didn't know til it was too late".but still had a baby with him!! 

 THEN after the baby came she supposedly finds out that he considers the child white and will do whatever it takes to brainwash her out of identifying with her black side.

But, you know, TALKING beforehand about that kind of thing would have been a big old clue that you should not procreate with such a person!!! For those who hate to ruin the moment by too much yakking I suggest even talking while fucking, it's a fantastic method for getting a lover to admit to shit that the otherwise might stay mute on for fear of angering you and endangering the sex part of the relationship. I'm not saying ask right when he's about to climax because then he might just say any-old thing and you will still have to bring it up later, but one way or another you need to sort of get a -hold of that Are You A Closet Racist thing early.

But again, that's gonna mean TALKING, not SCREWING.

Plenty of little girls get their hair straightened; my mother straightened my hair at 3 years old. Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry are not fighting over hair relaxer: they are locked in a battle of relationship bitterness so ugly and foul that it has brought out the deepest most negative traits in both of them, thereby causing them to take it to the Thunderdome  field of play called RACE.

If you love your kids don't make them have to watch that!! And there's this 100% full proof way to avoid it: DON'T FUCK RACISTS!!!


Thursday, November 20, 2014

November UnTitled

You must learn to walk
the hard road
 while feet are bare,
over hot rocks
and cobblestone stairs.
 to kneel upon sand
for years at a stretch;
and, still the clock,
for you
will never learn love nor respect;
 you may catch your reflection
now if you're swift,
and your shadow may dance
against the wall of what's done 
 just as we must learn 
to wish all our wishes
into the sun
because fire is catching 
in every way.
burn down the fear -
to absence-
a negative space-
filled by the lessons
and spare
of hunger's true strength 

Tuesday, November 18, 2014


White wise guy wants to empower rappers, unwisely believes that young black rappers want old white man's empowering wisdom. Because White wise guys are sad that the word their people created for purposes of white supremacy is being misused. Really old white wise dude? No. STFU.
Rainbow IV by Nigerian Artist Ndidi Emefiele

Friday, November 7, 2014

Skunks, Skunk Weed, Sesqui and Dealy: Memories of Smoky Idylls on Eddie's Parade

Fordham University Rose Hill Campus in dawn's light - Dealy Hall is visible at the left

For four years I walked this route to Dealy Hall, the building pictured in the dusky light, where I endured some of the most demanding courses at Fordham College taught by the historian and co-founder of the African-American Studies Department, Dr Mark Naison.

Of course this particular corner of campus is fondly familiar as well for the countless late 
evening strolls with my clique of friends. Eddie's Parade was barely populated with students at this hour now that classes were over (though entirely over-populated by skunks waddling about; we learned to approach their domain respectfully, warily, jangling our keys vigorously to alert them of our presence, lest they take fright and spray their malodorous, noxious wind which was always detectable here in this particular region of campus, especially late at night.)

We were engrossed in our regular routine, strolling about in a goodly sized group attempting to appear innocuous as suspicious smoke marked the direction and location of our aimless, unsteady trail. Our merry band was a motley crew of races, ethnicities, sexualities, genders and variable dedication to scholarship (and lack thereof). This was the mid to late-90s, New York City, Bronx borough and no one of us could ever be accused of not keeping it real in regard to the principle of multiculturalism, but what was more important was being true, being friends for  friendship's sake, bonding and watching out for each other, taking care of  each other like the little family we were here at home away from home.

Yet our unit was based in another shared identity: as stoners (read: potheads, smokers, tokers, weed wackers etc).

Laughter loudly echoing across deserted Eddie's Parade we strolled, occasionally issuing paranoid shush-ings which only triggered further waves of euphoric giggles or irritable demands, as we walked, to respect and observe with strict courtesy the Puff-Puff Pass Rule.

"Is that Security?" someone would say, looking over their shoulder every few minutes, trying to look cool, trying to look like the inoffensive, harmless middle class kids that we were, and trying not to look like the giggleweed stoners that we so obviously were were. 

Soon the discussion would turn to  love of music (Erykah Badu, Lauryn Hill, Wyclef, , the Pixies the new Beastie Boys, Portishead, any and all trip-hop, as well as all old-school rap De La Soul or my favorite , Al Green,). Then someone would lead our wandering conversation over to a piece of gossip, or homework complaints, to money woes and to the most important topic at the moment which invariably provoked petty squabbling about what to eat and where to order from since the school cafeteria was anathema and filled with the worst fare I've ever been subjected to on a college campus. 

We stumbled back toward our dorms as the night sky revealed a swath of starlight, and paranoia peaking once again at the prospect of passing dorm security, which could, indeed, be  monitoring  us this very moment (!) until this threat was forgotten in the mists hanging low at the tree trunks in the faded autumn light, and the smoky haze of Webster Avenue weed that was for true the nastiest  skunkiest dirt weed to be found in New York City in the late 1990s.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

The Political Mistress Manifesto: Declaration of Politrixie

Note:This piece is Under Construction and may change shape, form, and content over time...At first I thought it was complete but as time passes I find that I'm not entirely happy with it...It hasn't yet stumbled upon its paces but we'll get there eventually...12/30/14
~La Politrixie
I'm often asked what is the meaning of "Politrixie" as a term, what precisely defines a Political Mistress. And I have been waiting for the divine spirit of Inspiration to provide the very best, most illuminating form of expression. In short I've meant -from Day One- to provide my readers with a manifesto to proclaim who am I, Politrixie and what makes this blog different from any other. Finally I feel that I can present a statement that says it all...this one is quite special. However this is not the FINAL version; I sense that I may be working on and living with this piece for some time to come. But as it stands now on New Year's Eve Eve of 2014-2015 I can say this is the very first draft which is kinda special as well. Gotta start somewhere when you be easing on down that road. So it begins ;)

Artist: Adrienne

The Political Mistress Manifesto: Declaration of Politrixie

holla if ya heard me
if you were me
serving all the wrong masters
other than He
other than thee
mamon captured all your time
and its quality
you worshipped in the front row
at the alters of all the vanities
though in your dreams
you would have danced
nude and free and wild
would have been the phoenix and the fire
singing the song of your secret name
while the flames licked & whipped higher

Now there can be no more excuses
no shoulda coulda woulda
shall continue to fuel
any further of your delusions

yes, remove the whiteface --
(feel the heartbeat
 pumping through vein
--and again a little stronger)
falling away, the weakness
(cooning for cash ceases)
stop pretending to be free
(the whole ugly damned truth:
you was massa's puppet in entirety)

--and you can feel the silence. Can't you.
thicker than the air
Look at all the curious faces
as they stop to look and stare
What is behind this new face that we see??
Whence comes, of a sudden, this enigma?
Who is she of this feminine mystique?

Indeed, they have not witnessed thee
Never once in your true form
and prior to this day 
you never flew aloft before
not til the moment when you finally swore
to rock your true colors loudly
to live to serve your own truth proudly
because the way you were living
at least admit to yourself
that it wasn't successful but it was full cowardly
as a mere shadow, as just a shade 
you had bought all the way up into the game
(like, as if you was the oligarch, the most highly paid!)

did not comprehend nor contemplate
the con that you willingly gamed
by which you were grievously played
too busy sip-sipping from the sterling magnum
drunk and clutching that champagne glass
oh, that ill- ass kool aid!! 
had you tipsy & dipsy 
trip once and you fall
glass after glass, you drank and drank...

you poor soul
you lost girl
;(did he call you his sweet thang?):
chile, I saw you:
 a mess and a-whirl
the kool-aid had you booty-shake dancing 
sangin' Beyonce's Crazy in Love 

that was never me, said thee
upon witnessing the spectacle
an  out of body view of oneself
 --out of integrity 
 --entirely outside self-respectablity
and the fear calling the shots
when you smiled and declared
''yass suh it was tasty fo'real them scraps of meal
you was so good to share!"

Now I demand
to be seen in my essence
At long last the command and 
the alchemy to bring forth 
the  intrinsic and distinctive entity of Me
it has finally morphed,
utterly coalesced 
I had to walk through the fire
in order to pass the test
And I am now so much more
Just as,
I am also so much less

Declared manumission
boundaries commissioned
This  now is my space, this is my position
I am here for my ownself,
to champion my worthy Cause
if not me, who else would bother?

I am my own soul's mistress
For your distress,
I may grieve but I do not regret
evermore I must be my own truth
evermore I have gone rogue, cut loose
I am the creature of no other
my quest hath discovered the One Teacher
an astral romance that showed me who I am
my former blindness is my shame:
to love one's bondage is ignorance
so melancholy: a pride in so wretched a loss
of agency, 
and Cause
figuratively spayed 
to be made harmless with no choice yea or nay 
Pity upon those who imagine empowerment
devoid of individuality
by massa pathetically tamed

Dreams of a Wildflower by Rhonda Gray

the beauty of freedom
is like the depths of the sea
the expanse of the universe
vast extant constant 
ever incomplete
metmorphosis of my center
now I, too, am in sync
in this life, 
and this breath,
I know that I am blessed
I have abandoned
my past of slavery 
to material illusion and indecision
Now my desires & my ambitions
co- exist and intersect
with eternal intentions
written within the map of the dusty stars
crafted by Thee 
who consists of Spirit and Divinity

I, like space & time, am joyful to know

that my journey has been Your own plan
so I glory in my sorrows, 
as well my mistakes
for they have been the making of 
my super-powers and strength
as I meditate upon the journey
I see it all depended upon my falling down
in order to witness space & time overhead
the celestial suspension 
a summons of the sublime

with the purpose of tempting to the heavens

and teaching me  flight
though I did not know then 
of the wings that are mine
until I was cast upon the ground 
and forced to consider my plight
which became full of wonder 
extinguished my fear of dark and night

Here at the last let me mention

For the sake of myself and my mission
Do not speak. Only listen:
It was my choice  to break away
my fortune
by Grace
to leave, to escape
a material reality populated by petty
thoughts & desires & enmities
inside a prison self-made
if you hear me
if you be me
if you can appreciate the difference
between seeming and being
to realize your purpose 
to rise upward
to transition
to learn to take flight
to use the wings you are given
fear not
doubt not
your journey is promised
it is explicitly written
go now walk with the wise