In the wake of the audio recording of Los Angeles Clippers’ owner Donald Sterling’s racist remarks about African-Americans and other racial minorities, it is incumbent upon not only NBA leadership, specifically, NBA commissioner Adam Silver, but also all NBA owners to move in solidarity by taking any and all possible legal actions to force Donald Sterling to relinquish his ownership of the L.A. Clippers.

The NBA is a league made up of mostly African-American players. Some of the NBA’s greatest stars, past and present, have also been African-American, and the league has marketed and promoted the names and images of stars like Michael Jordan, Isaiah Thomas, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Chris Paul, Blake Griffin, and Magic Johnson all over the world to increase the popularity of the game of basketball as well as the NBA’s own financial interests.

Donald Sterling’s remarks are reprehensible and repugnant, but most of all intolerable and a slap in the face to all NBA’s players and fans who wish to live in a world that is more tolerant, more respectful, and more loving then what Donald Sterling obviously envisions by his narrow-minded, bigoted, and paranoid views on race.

NBA players and employees should not have to tolerate working for nor contributing to the enrichment of a racist miscreant like Donald Sterling. Immediate action should be taken by the NBA to ensure that those who are a part of the NBA family are treated with dignity and respect; this means ousting Donald Sterling and any others who espouse his hateful views from NBA ownership.

(Donald Sterling’s racist remarks can be heard here:

http://www.tmz.com/2014/04/26/donald-sterling-clippers-owner-black-people-racist-audio-magic-johnson/ )

Please sign Change.org petition to have racist Clippers’ owner Donald Sterling removed.


This is what’s wrong with America…


And no, i’m not going to now give People Magazine a pass because they chose to “honor” Lupita Nyong’o with their “Most Beautiful” person designation.

Is Lupita Nyong’o a beautiful woman? Yes. Is she a source of pride for Black women in particular who’s unique beauty has historically been dismissed, degraded and debased by whites? Absolutely.

But would she have been selected if she had not taken home the Oscar this year for 12 Years a Slave? I highly doubt it.

So what’s the message here to young girls? Only three women of color have been chosen by People magazine as ‘Most beautiful’ in the last 24 years: Halle Berry, Beyonce Knowles and now Lupita Nyong’o.

Two of these women (Berry and Nyong’o) have won Oscars for movies in which they were depicted on screen either being raped or sodomized by white men.

So what’s the message here?

Of all the beautiful women of color who have been involved in the arena of entertainment throughout its long history it seems these “honors” are only bestowed upon Black women who were willing to depict themselves being sexually exploited in some fashion to the benefit of white men.

Or in Beyonce’s case, debasing oneself all over the world for corporate profit.

Lupita Nyong’o is beautiful without this racist magazine’s recognition and so are so many other women of color.

To celebrate when racist interests recognize you for who you’ve always been, absent their acknowledgment, is to stoop down and place worth in the opinions of those who hate you.

Baby (12-18 Months)

It’s late and my world is dark. I’m waiting on the sun so I can be reborn once more. It’s cold. My heart is searching for the feeling of warmth again. How long has it been? I’m trapped inside a ball of confusion, a delusion which has me wondering my up from down. I need it. Love that is, to save me from the heartless and the hurtful. There’s so many voices. I just want to live, but now I’m certain my captors want me dead.

Why can’t I live to see my reflection in a mirror or hear the sound of my own voice? I thought my life had meaning, but apparently I’m just a burden. I can feel the stress I cause as my heart rate quickens. I get dizzy spells often from the nicotine which invades my system. The marijuana trip makes me black out. I stop breathing intermittently for minutes, sometimes longer. Most days I hear nothing but shouting; cursing; cries for help.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to erase the pain, if I could, but I can’t. I’m helpless to the outside world, this complicated existence of highs and broken dreams I’ve never seen. A life I fear I will never experience. Maybe it’s for the best. I hear strangers often say, “Now your life is over.” I’ve heard those words so many times. What does it all mean?

I’ll just be safer where I am. It’s dark, but I’m protected by my surroundings, and the sometimes soothing quiet voice of someone, probably my captor, makes me forget the unexpected traumas. But I can tell things are getting worse. My whole world shook the other day. It was something I’d never felt before, like a roller-coaster, then nothing but screams for what felt like forever. I have bouts of hopelessness, not knowing what might come next. I tremble and kick. I’m frightened.

I think I’m going to die today. It’s silent. I don’t hear cursing. No screams, no cries. Just silence. I hear my captor’s voice whisper, “After today I’ll be free…” Were they talking about me? Free from what? Will I be free too?

Does death make you free…or does life?

This short story was inspired by the infamous 2011 anti-abortion billboard in New York City. In life we all have choices, all of which will either bring satisfaction or regret. No one has the right to tell another how to live their life, no one.

Copyright ©2014 ContraCritic News


I write prose,

To confront and expose,

My own thoughts and critics,

Call it my personal antidote

For the angst I feel,

Just trying to keep it real.

Day-to-day life stressors,

From those coming incorrectly,

News and media paint pictures

Of youths as useless derelicts.

Writing off our future,

Saying they lack respect,

Indifferent to the fact

All these youngsters feel is neglect.

These same people the last,

To lend a helping hand,

Only instant reprimands,

Outsiders who’ve never felt the pain,

Of…Pops leaving,

And…Momma grieving,

Cus…the light and gas bills late,

Her kids ain’t ate,

In three whole days.

While politicians remonstrate,

And spark debates,

Urban communities suffer gentrification.

Poor children endure ghetto enclaves of violence;

Detroit, Baltimore, Chicago,

Future genius’ suffering in silence,

Never getting opportunities to nurture their light

While their upper-middle class peers in suburbs petty fight,

Over seats in pristine computer labs,

As their parents bemoan how they got it bad.

They say affirmative action is the cause,


“Screw black fathers who need a job”

“Cus, you know brothers more inclined to steal and rob”

“Than, be educated and one day be a Bob”;

Johnson, Dole, or Kennedy,

And we’re supposed to accept this type prejudice,

As nothing less than insanity?

Let me cut through the poisonous weeds,

And, give you just what you need,

By, laying out the reasons:

Prejudice, discrimination, and lack of love,

Byproduct of covert and overt racism.

Call me a zealot,

Or…tell me to hell I’m headed,

I…say the hell with it,

I…refuse to sit in silence,

Digesting bologna from pariahs,

Devouring hopes of black and brown babies,

And they have the nerve to call me crazy?

Continuing a racist system that has black folks singing “Sadie”

I step back and look them right in the face:

Don’t you know I love you?

My views aren’t skewed by the pain I’ve suffered,

Unlike some, I know hate breeds hate,

All discrimination disgusts me.

No matter white, black, or brown face,

It’s all a disgrace.

White people aren’t devils,

Let’s stop the lunacy,

I’m just asking white people,

To really understand black history;

Understand the cultural politics,

That paint our present,

Realize black life is far from heaven

And see that maybe some of your views on race,

Have been shaped and molded,

By the last 300 years of hate.

I hold no one responsible,

For the sins of their fathers,

But I find it hard to swallow,

When people with power don’t bother.

Copyright ©2014 ContraCritic News

shh-by-diinytt-d3kvcv1 Image by Tiphareth Pla El http://diinytt.deviantart.com/art/Shh-216453853

What if I told you I was a homosexual? Would it change the nature of our relationship? Would my revelation cause you to reassess the past experiences we’ve shared together?

What if I informed you that I was felon, convicted for a violent crime? Would you think that I was no good and unworthy of understanding?

What if I revealed that I was raped as a teenager by another man, and that the experience caused me to question my sexuality for years following the incident? How would you view me then? Could I still be your friend?

Say I didn’t believe in God, Jesus or Allah; Buddha, Krishna or the Kabala, would you consider me a heathen or attempt to convert me? What if instead I prayed to myself and believed I was god; fully embracing the idea my destiny is within my control to manipulate? Would it cause you deep concern or none at all?

What if I told you I hated America for what she stood for, and that I’d never forgive the atrocities she’d inflicted on those with darker hues throughout its history as a republic? Would you consider me a despicable traitor, guilty of treason?

What if I proclaimed all drugs should be legal, and that human beings should be able to decide to what extent they wish to destroy themselves? Would you consider me a lunatic?

What if I told you I deplored all pastors and priest as insidious pawns of the state, put in place to manipulate the minds of the masses for the government’s own political and financial purposes? Would you think I was a conspiracy theorist or an historian?

What if I espoused the ideals of humanism and hedonism as the highest state-of-being one could attain? Would you pray for me or consider my philosophy?

What if I told you I believed God was a woman? And to prove it to you, I asked you to explain the notion of a human being with no navel. Would you be able?

What if I convinced you that all of these questions weren’t just hypotheticals, but facts to be taken seriously, and requested that you be just as transparent about the skeletons you hide? How difficult would it be for you to decide?

The skeletons decaying in our closets exist for the mere fact that society and its rules determine how human we should be. There are situations in life that transpire far beyond any of our abilities to change, and further, we are born into the world dumb of the obligation which will soon be imposed upon us; to become clones. Instead of conforming to society, why not transform it by simply being ourselves? By simply being willing to tell our own story, the good and the bad; the righteous as well as the wicked.

If we did do this, institutions would soon crumble beneath the tremendous weight of transparency, and would have to be rebuilt to accommodate the politics of personhood. I challenge you to take some time to consider life differently from what you’ve come to know, and think about whether the choices you make, which come at great expense to personal freedom, health, and wealth, are truly ideals worth dying for. We’ve all got skeletons, it was the liar who convinced us they belong in the closet.


Dear Dr. King,

It seems like forever since you went away. I could’ve sworn you’d been back by now, but I pray all is well wherever you are. I know you’re keeping that dream you spoke of way back in 1963 alive and well. A lot has changed since you left public life, but some things seem to never change. I wish you were around so we could talk, maybe discuss some plans about where we should go from here.

Our black leaders seemed to all run for cover when the smoke cleared from the assassination attempt on your life. Man, I thought the country would burn down after that, didn’t you? People rioted everywhere; Chicago, Detroit, L.A., I didn’t think it’d ever stop. Your on-again-off-again friend, Robert Kennedy, gave a speech the night you were shot down at the Lorraine Motel. He told a crowd in Indianapolis, Indiana to appeal to their better angels. They still burnt the motha’ down in Muncie though. But Kennedy must have been given misinformation before he took the make-shift stage that night, he started by announcing you were dead, not sure who told him that, maybe J. Edgar Hoover?

I got word you recovered quite well from the incident. There was much talk in the aftermath concerning who was responsible; maybe a lone racist gunman named James Earl Ray or a government hit ordered directly from Hoover himself. I won’t lie, I was sort of surprised you never chose to speak on the matter, just to keep pushing, keep dreaming and always pray. You’re quite a remarkable man Dr. King. Through all the hate, violence and racism inflicted upon you, you just keep marching. Your words and your demonstrations for liberty and freedom have given millions hope and caused millions more to see the error of their ways.

I see so many people discuss your legacy. Conservatives attempt to misshape and misappropriate your memory to fit their minimalist approach to race, inclusion and opportunity. Liberals aren’t much better though, but I suppose you figured this out long ago. We had such high hopes for President Obama didn’t we? I know you and Coretta were somewhere clapping and crying just like we all were the night he was elected. That had to feel like a huge burden was lifted for you. We all looked on with such hopefulness realizing the great opportunity Obama possessed to change many of the wrongs of the past. But my friend, honestly, it’s been tough to watch Obama’s presidency the last five years. How do you feel about it?

The most discouraging and frustrating aspect of Obama’s tenure is his failure to address the major concerns disproportionately affecting people of color in America, like poverty, joblessness, and violence. While at the same time, championing himself, through the assistance of his many surrogates, as your symbolic son. It feels like a slap to the face of all you stood for. Black supporters must take closer note of history Dr. King, Obama’s failure to address these life-and-death issues is not so dissimilar to the obstinacy displayed by intolerant and indifferent enemies in high places of the past. How can Obama be an heir to your life’s work, when black children are dying daily due to out-of-control-gun violence in the very city he was first elected? It comes a time when silence is betrayal. How can Obama be the fulfillment of your dream, when as we speak he’s killing innocent men, women, and children by military drone strikes in places like northern Africa and the Middle East? You once stated when courageously dissenting the Vietnam War, “America is the greatest purveyor of violence in the world.” Sadly, in these matters, little has changed in fifty years. I can almost see that mischievous grin on your face as I write these words, but I don’t think I’m going too hard on the man, I just love my people.

I pray you’re in good health, you’ve walked many miles, travelled to places others wouldn’t dream of going, and stared death in the eyes a thousand times. You’ve embraced heartache, shunned fear, shown love, and instructed fools and wise men to turn to God for peace, and to reach inside themselves to find the audacity to keep on hoping, fighting, and working for brighter days.

I realize you’re very busy so I’ll close this letter out, but I do have a few questions for you about some things which really bother me in this country. Can you tell me what I should do or maybe how I should respond? Trayvon Martin’s death polarized the nation, and in the aftermath of his killer’s acquittal, there’s been little to no changes made to ensure similar incidents don’t occur. In fact, similar deaths have already taken place, in Michigan, with the shooting of Renisha McBride, and with the murder of Jordan Davis in Florida. These tragedies, which many in our community consider racially motivated, has caused citizens, especially those of my generation, to question how much has truly changed in this country for people of color.

Trayvon Martin’s death and those that followed, seem to encapsulate the prejudice and injustice which still exist between whites and racial minorities. How do our young people keep hope Dr. King? How can they use their talents and gifts for positive in the face of oppression? How do they reject the easy path of turning inward and destroying themselves with pain, hatred and hostility? I don’t mean to complain or sound ungrateful for the changes that have been made, and I’m certainly not trying to dismiss the personal sacrifices by people like you to ensure these changes, but it’s still very difficult to deal with these circumstances, along with the institutional racism we endure daily.

I see so many black and brown youths killing one another because they’re filled with hopelessness. How do we take the next big leap forward? Everyone loves to scream, “Get an education,” but you know as well as I do that every brother or sister isn’t cut out for college. That’s why you were down there in Memphis to begin with. It’s why you put your life on the line to ensure jobs and livable wages for all people, even those without the desire or fortitude to earn a college degree. Many of my friends fall into this category, but they don’t see jobs available or livable wages. They have families that depend on them too.

As for myself, I know you’d be proud, I finished my degree last year. It hasn’t been easy, work and school, but when I look at your life, who am I to complain. I’m not sure if I’ll be a doctor like you, but I am still considering law school. I’ll keep you posted.

It’s been a long time since everyone has seen you Dr. King, a lot of people have given up hope and some have even forgotten you. I still hear people repeating that you’re dead, like Kennedy did in 1968, but just because you don’t see a person doesn’t make them dead. Their work, their words, and the seed they’ve sown by blood, prayers, and many tears live forever.

Dr. King your voice will never die, your work will never be erased, and your dream will one day be reality; a bill stamped: PAID IN FULL!

Forever indebted,
Timothy Dwight Smith


Copyright ©2014 ContraCritic News


Life consequential,
Breath preferential,
Time all relative,
Emotions demonstrative,
Death equals finality,
After life complete mystery,
Religion holds joy and misery,
In the same hand it holds conformity,

Children are the future,
Abortion breeds confusion,
Politics is like witchcraft,
Spinning evil deeds, making it sound good,


America thrives off hate,
In order to spark debate,


Fruitless demonstrations,
Well planned out organizations,
Whose main goal to increase disparity,
Between the haves and those who think they’re free,

What is the price of freedom?
Countless martyr’s blood congeals,
All stirred in one big pot,
Martyrs life spent fighting for those who have not.

Freedom never won,
Silenced with a gun,
Bullet wounds piercing main arteries,
Tearing through heart and lung,
A spiritual song sung,
As we attend another wake,
Of one who died too young,


Yet we continue marching on,
Because we pray a change gon’ come.
How blinded have we become?
How disillusioned are we now?
We’ve become a prong in the system,
We can’t dare win from within,

How do we start anew?
What must we do?
To see less crying and less tears,
Less murder, and less fears,
Sunshine despite rain,
No clouds and less pain,

Who are we?
Who are you?
Who am I?

It’s like I can still hear Gil Scott-Heron’s cries,



No it will not be televised.
You will not witness the revolution in between re-runs of Seinfeld and House of Payne,
The revolution will not be brought to you by Dove body wash,
Or jolting hair orgasms brought on by Herbal Essence,
It will not be endorsed by Budweiser, Bud Light, Michelob Ultra,
Or the Jigga man pitching another product of “The man’s”.
Street cred means nothing now,
Even the thug’s credentials have been revoked,

Who would have thought we’d see a day like today?
As I hearken back to the good ol’ days,
When street cred not only bought you a hood passport,
And large order of fried rice,
On the corner of Goodfellow Avenue and West Florissant Boulevard,
A.K.A. between hard knock existence and baby daddy non-existent,
When street cred might even guarantee you’d make it home that evening,
Alive; no momma stressed and grieving,

Now we got 16 year old babies,
Yes I said,
16 year old babies being murdered on their way home from school,


With college application in hand,
Blood filled fist clenching chemistry and biology exams,
With red A’s stamped across,
Red ink mixed in with the blood now,


I’m seeing things my momma never dared to ever see,

Cold heart of man getting cooler by the minute,
It’s been the harshest winter on record,
Yet they say the glaciers is melting,
Not in the heart of man,
No global warming here,
Just more hatred, more fears, more tears,

I swear we need Jesus, Allah, and RA all rolled in one,
To stop the climate of guns, rebels and priests touching our sons,


Or nannies, uncles, and preachers fondling our daughters,
Wrecking lives for life,


Then we wonder why they grow to be heartless,

You want to blame MJ, how about JJ?
Fathers are to blame for the missed revolution,
60′s and 70′s railing against the institution,
But failing to father their sons,


Now we have son’s sonning their father’s
A sad reality to father’s who never bothered,
Maybe too many days spent weedin’ and liquor,
Their loud words betrayed them,
Never speeding revolution any quicker.

Were left with killers and tyrants,
Crying tears in dark cages and silence,


If given freedom they’d do the same thing all over,
Murder makes a helpless soul feel life,
A sad state for too many living life trife.

Don’t shake your head,
Don’t look away,


Own our America and all it’s made us,

Capitalistic mother fuckers we are,


Cannibalistic blood suckers we are,
Incestuous bastards we are,
Homicidal maniacs we are,


Deep depression we are,
Suicidal thoughts we are,


Low self-esteem we are,


Suppressive, repressive, aggressive we are,
Motherless, fatherless for generations we are,


Pessimistic about tomorrow we are,
Optimistic for only a second we are,
Representing nothing but façade,


Is that why the word HOPE is comical to us?
Is that why believing we can be the difference we want to see is foreign to us?
Out of reach for us?

Maybe we need to re-think; we do,
Time to mature, and get a clue; we do,
Stop blaming and start restraining our mouths; we do,
Start parenting our son’s and daughter’s; we do,
Begin being REAL friends again; we do,
Neighbors who give a fuck about our neighbors; we do,
Realizing there’s something higher than self; we do,
Maybe then…the sun will start shining through.


Copyright ©2014 ContraCritic News


I’m that itch you can’t scratch,
I’m that scent that takes you back,
Down memory lane,
Helps you explain past regrets,

I’m that vision for your future,
Work hard that business suit suits you,

I’m that melody in your mind,
Replays again and again,
Can’t remember the words,

I’m that drip-drop from faucet at 3am,
Small puddles make you think of him,

I’m that fallen rose pedal in full bloom,
Mixed in with tears,
Staining the paper red,
Reminiscing on all those years,

I’m John Coltrane’s horn,
Rupturing deep,
Penetrating existentially,
Nurturing the soul tangibly,
With the last 16 bars of A Love Supreme,

I’m that black and white photo of an aging man,
His gnarled fingers clasped together,
Waiting on the subway tram,
East Harlem 1943,
Makes you wonder,
How so many good ol’ days passed me,

I’m the emotion of Che Guevara,
Liberation seems to scare us,
So comfortable in our chains…we are,

I’m that perfect puff of purp,
After a long days work,
When dawgs crave skirts,
And whores crave favors,

I’m that morsel of truth,
Finally spoken one lover to another,
Makes the other lover run for cover,
Realizing that it’s over,

I’m that breaking news blurb,
A.M. September 01,’
News destroyed us like a gun,
We lost so many loved ones,

But I’m still that rush of joy,
Filling full your heart,
The very second love starts,
And its culmination in life-long bonds,
No one can ever rip apart,

So what I’m saying is I’m you,
You are me and us are we…
So could we ever possibly,
Find a way to just be…
Everything we need?


The sparkle from the candle across the room flickered, dancing a shadow of Alex’s silhouette on the wall of his living room. Alex sat deep in thought. Remnants of his past replayed over and over again. His record player had been playing the same song on repeat, “If Only You Knew How Much I Love You” by Patti Labelle for most of the evening. It was his mother’s favorite song. Labelle’s powerful voice, surging and moaning every note about love’s power, seemed to encapsulate the difficulty of revealing your heart to someone who no longer could hear you. Whenever Alex played the song he felt like it purged him of all the built-up anger and resentment, and sometimes even provided, though short-lived, a brief moment of catharsis.

The large bottle of Jack Daniels was all but gone, only a shallow splash remained. Alex had lost track of time hours ago. He’d been sitting in the same spot on his couch since he arrived home from work seven hours prior. It was when he first realized what day it was. Ten years to the day since his mother Deborah’s premature death. Ironically, it was also the same day she was born.

“It would have been her birthday today,” Alex said to himself.

He’d been repeating that line again and again since his first glass of Jack.

Alex contemplated whether God got a sick thrill out of those who’d died on the same day they’d been born. The voice of the frail, aging preacher at the graveyard, meekly supplying him with what was supposed to be comforting words always stuck in his mind. The old man was probably dead now, but his words remained a reality: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away…” That line had always supplied everything but comfort the past ten years. Alex wondered if the next ten would be any different or just reruns of the pain and loneliness.

“Maybe I should call my sister,” Alex thought. “No, no,” his voice trailed off.

Alex reached for his glass, bringing the cup to his lips, before losing his bearings again. Tears dripped from his cheeks into the cup.

“It would have been her birthday today,” Alex screamed, as if tempting God to an argument.

He threw the glass at the door before collapsing back on the couch. He reclined his head back and immediately he was back on Riverview Blvd…

It was cold. Alex couldn’t feel his nose and his ears were ringing from the bitter wind whipping back and forth. He rubbed his hands together and noticed his initials his mother had stitched on his gloves. He began to walk up the block towards his childhood home. Everything looked the same as when he was a boy. All the houses remained intact, even old man Clarence was shoveling snow off his porch. He was the only person on the block who waited to night time to do so. Alex continued to walk, looking closely at the homes. The snow storm made it hard for him to see too far ahead. He was halfway to his house before he realized where he was again. He was reliving the night of his mother’s death. The gloves, the storm, old man Clarence waving through the falling snowflakes, all of it was the same. Alex began running. He could see the red and blue lights slicing through the darkness. Ten years ago when he first saw those lights he didn’t know what was happening, maybe a neighbor called the fire department; maybe a car wreck, but this time there was no doubt as to why those lights were there and what they meant.

By the time Alex made it to the three-story brownstone he could see the paramedics outside the door. He walked up the steps this time; no full-out sprint to investigate what the commotion taking place inside, no naïve thoughts that maybe all of it was a mistake. Once through the door, Alex’s eyes connected with the police officer, just as they had ten years ago. He didn’t even notice his mother on the floor. Just the sorrowful beat cop’s eyes, explaining all he needed to know without saying a word. That’s when he saw his mother for the first time, sprawled out, motionless, more still than any living thing would ever be, even when sleeping, even when feigning sleep.

This type of stillness is odd to those who’ve never experienced the dead, those who’ve been lucky not to have lived long enough to endure such a painful state. But there she laid, her head was back, mouth open. Alex scrambled to his mother’s side. The police officer tried to make things clear, but his voice was muttered in the realness of what was taking place. Alex never heard a word.

“Mom,” he shouted.
“Wake up, please, please wake up.”

Alex tried to shake her. He grabbed her hand, hoping to feel his mother’s response. But nothing happened. Nothing changed. The tall cop grabbed Alex away, wrenching him from a world of hope, placing reality before him.

“She’s gone,” the man said. “A neighbor called us about an hour ago. Said she’d been knocking on the door but no response, so she got worried. We found her here when we knocked in the door. I’m sorry.”

Pain pulsed through Alex’s chest. Looking around the room he finally noticed the crowd gathered. His mother’s best friend Margaret could hardly look at him. Her husband Bob was standing by her side, tears welling in his eyes. He walked over to a stunned Alex.

“I’m sorry son,” Bob said. “We tried everything before you got here.”

Alex backed himself into a corner in the living room and slid down the wall and wept. His jarring cries drove home the finality of a loving women’s life that was over.

“I could not say goodbye,” Alex said through the tears. “I could not even say goodbye.”

Alex woke up and he was in his living room again. The shattered glass from his cup littered the front doorway. Alex could feel the sticky tears dried on his cheeks. The candle was down to its last breath, the room was almost all dark. A small shadow still danced on the wall. Alex peered at it for a long time. He got lost in it. The dancing shadow appeared like his mother’s face.

The Patti Labelle record was still playing in the background, further now as a result of the liquor. The words of the song that had been repeating for hours seemed to synchronize with his mother’s shadowy resemblance. The words were never more real than at that moment.

“Son,” Alex’s mother said. “If only you knew, how much I do, do love you.”

Alex sat to the edge of the couch, looking even harder at the image speaking to his heart.

“Alex, if only you knew how much I do, still love you.”


What is this feeling?
This feeling I feel,
The need to have you in my world,
Could you be that one?
That woman I need to be by me,
That woman that causes my heart to play a symphony.

Just at the faint hint of your scent on my pillow,
Got me feeling Willow,
When you whip your hair baby,
Walk that walk baby,
Talk that talk lady,
Like a intricately composed chorus,
Arranged just right,
From head to toe.

Oh, you know how I’m diggin’ you,
Yes, yes….
Can I taste your mango, magnetic, mysterious mahogany?
As you sip my scintillating, succulent sensation,
Conversation has me mesmerized,
Fantasy conceptualized,
My future wife,
Is that right?
The Queen to my King?
Asset to Assaur?
Let us make Heru,

I respect that,
And you’re so that…
I didn’t look and there you appeared,
Just in time….
The mystery of life’s cycle,
Replenishing what is lifeless; dead,
With something far greater; instead,
You take over in pain’s stead,
Soothing the deepest parts of me,
Standing me back up-right,
Clearing my sight,
Like a fresh morning breeze on the Nile,

Everything new, everything righteous,
Everything blue, everything priceless,
Sweeter than the banks of the Catchetori River,
You are….

Let’s take a cruise down the block,
Let the sun regenerate our spirits,
Replenish our souls and imbue us with more love,
Deep, deep love,
It oozes from our pores every time our bodies connect,
Your wet, I set…you there, I stare…a goddess,
You are my blessing,
Every time you’re near.
Can I just hold your hand as we walk into eternity?

Peace to you, for us, we are…