haitianheromg

friends....come BACK!

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 10:53:21 GMT

I'm really trying to rebuild my lj account, so if you want to get a FRIENDS ONLY invite, drop me a line on comment...or backchannel.

Making friend cuts

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 05:22:25 GMT

hey everyone,

I've decided that i need to cut my f-list down. I added a lot of my friends due to poetry or art or something else. But I've decided to turn this journal into something more about my personal life degram was recently talking about sharing, and I guess I want to share some things too.

Since, I will be talking about daily stuff(relationships, failures &bullshit) I need to cut the list to essential personnel only. If you read this journal, i need you to comment, that you don't mind reading this stuff, otherwise, I'm going to cut you.

If you still want to keep up with the poetry stuff, that'll be happening at www.myspace.com/mozartpoetry

Be Well

Mozart

Instuctions to the Man Considering Abuse( A Poem in Progress)

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 22:53:54 GMT

I wrote this poem after watching Oprah, it was this woman that had been beaten for seven years and her son recorded it on video camera. The alleged man said that it was demon's in the house and that's why it happened.

Instructions to the Man Considering Abuse
a persona

Let the tongue be a sword.
Yield it with a "bitch", "slut", "you never do anything anyway",
and a "fuck you" once a while.
Soften the flesh with full
blown verbal attacks and make it better with sex.
Fuck her mad and say sorry,
i was just angry.
smile and say, I can do better,
but don't.

It's the day that dishes aren't washed,
the night that the pussy at work said your work is slacking off.
When the Raiders lose the conference game,
smack her.
Make it sting. Let her arms raise in defense
and bark in her ear she wasn't worth nothing,
no way.
Tell the kids, your mother is bad sometimes and needs some discipline,
like all children.
Tell your boys that this is how a man loves
Tell your girls that this is how a woman recieves.
Kiss them on the forehead and say daddy loves them.

Kiss them on the forehead and say only daddy loves them.

Keep her needy.

real needy.

No your relatives can't come over, this is my family.
No, you can't go to church, what god?
You speak when spoken to.
No music, we don't dance.
Break her spirits and fuck her mad.

Fuck her dry.

She is your sacrifice, you are her deity.
Break her bones and let her body bend to your will .

You are man, you were made in God's image. Act accordingly.

Free Book

Sun, 30 Dec 2007 01:41:43 GMT

Hey Lj,

I podcast that i really enjoy performancepoetry.indiefeed.com is having a little contest to recieve a free book "Words in Your Face by Cristin O'keefe Aptowicz. It seems real cool so I decided to enter, basically, all i had to do is post their links in my on-line profiles and send proof to mongo the host.

Regardless of if i get the book, this is a site with diverse high quality poets, including

martyoutloud

PerformancePoetry.indiefeed.com

Aptowicz.com

CHECK THEM OUT

UPDATE

Sun, 30 Dec 2007 00:11:34 GMT

Hey everyone,

happy holidays. been spending it with meg's family in rochester, ny. It's been a good time. very relaxing. new christmas traditions i've never seen that i really enjoyed.

I've read Octavia Butler's PARABLE OF THE SOWER ,

mellodyus, I LOVED IT . good story, interesting ideas, good showing, can't wait to get the sequel in January.

Midnight's Children, has great ideas, it's extremely confusing and a slow read. I'm reading it anyway because i think it'll pay off but definitely not one of my favorites.

Temple of My Familiar: This book is like the ALICE WALKER harry potter, SO LONG, but the myths she creates, the knowlegde she drops all worth the 4-7 days of constant reading. Definitely something i have to revisit.

Hey martyoutloud I've been reading Stephen Dunn's between angels and I must say that man has skills. His meditations, his line breaks, the way you feel when it's all said and done. GLORIOUS.

I've reread Li-Young Lee's , The City in Which I Love. I don't like it. I respect the poetry, but i'm not a fan, it's not even close to between angels, i can say that much. One thing i can say is the way Lee uses memory to remember and forget things is something i want to use in my own writing.

Tackling Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael Bugeja, it's solid, it's given me a lot of tips. any other recommendations for poetry reference books?

o yea, Martin Luther King's "The Strength to Love", a book of sermons and essays, which is great bed time reading.

that's about it for me.

what are you guys reading and what do you recommend?

PEACE!

A Day In New York EDITED

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 00:13:58 GMT

You capture Canal street in low roofs and sly deals in squeezed
space. they peddle cheap time and burnt dvds.
A band of men are fighting Bush with picket signs blaring
jazz on a East Village corner.( Making Activism Cool).

A mexican man sells ripe mangoes coconuts and peaches in
between mid-november and concrete.

F train to Astoria Boulevard.

6 Train to Brooklyn.
Eating from the bodega on flatbush.

You absorbing the touch of cold steel rails and hard plastic
seats on subways.
taste sweet imported pastries from the french boutique in soho.
                                                           I see New
York being blessed.
As your bright energy goes beyond
taxies
overbearing buildings
     too many t-shirts in thrift stores.
Your presence makes
   clocks stopslow downdrag as we depart.
Just to get another glimpse.
            The only one the big city doesn't have.

Who's JOb is it?

Sun, 02 Dec 2007 06:34:17 GMT

Amiri Baraka said that the way we speak is a political statement, whether we are concious of it or not. Audre Lorde, Adrienne Rich, June Jordan, both emphasize the necessity in using our voices and claiming our position. There's a story about how Thoreau was in prison because he wasn't paying his taxes(to display his lack of support for slavery or the Mexican-American War) and his literary friend Ralph Waldo Emerson came to visit him,He said, " why are you in prison?", and Thoreau asked "Why aren't you".

Who's job is it to be the concerned minority?

With those who are poor are disenfranchised not empowered with enough information to dissent or if they are possible of dissenting, maintaining self-governance, who's responsibility is it to stand and say, NO. I think it's up to the middle class in America. The ones that work long hours,but still go to movies. The ones who are underpayed, but still have a significant amount of food on Thanksgiving, a assortment of gifts in Christmas. Basically, those whose bellies are full, but know what it's like when you have to chose between work and watching your teenagers. Within this lifestyle/dichotomy of tax-paying citizens the american middle class is the catalyst for social change. The nurses, doctors, clerks, who climb above poverty but hover below the affluent. In my opinion, until middle class america decides to help it's brothers and sisters( poor,homeless, social deviants), there can never be any true change in America regardless of President, Policy, or "revolution". This mediator amongst opposites(poor and rich) must be tireless and shoulder the burden. If they do not polarization of power and oppressed will continue to grow and feast on the middle class's neglect.

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 16:20:21 GMT

what happens when men push buttons behind strong buildings
and Ana can't find her three brothers in eastern Serbia can't

find clean water in the blood rivering the Sudan. Suddenly you only find
arms to bear, never arms to hold in Philadelphia.

how do bullets cost more than heart beats

why is there too much ammunition and never enough band aids

How do we chose between when a bat is slidding into someone's skull,

brain matter meets Loiusville slugger and
drive bys crash into family night

windows your mothers bloody body falling unto the
Monopoly board .

when does the decision for
a handshake turn to a fist turn to a choke hold at the neck of enough.

how can healing take place when hollow point bullets whistle through
the strongest bone. watching CNN is not enough. car bombs bury groceries

and unfulfiled
promises under rubble.

we will wait.
watch. speak in hush tones about peace

and sanctify killings for our comfort, soon the cries and closed caskets will come
home and we will all drink the tears.

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 00:30:10 GMT

Hello Lj,

been messing around with a couple books recently.

Unsettling America Anthology of Multicultural Poetry

It's got Patricia Smith Joy Harjo Ntozake Shange Amiri Baraka Li-Young Lee

It's a really cheap book with alot of great poems about ethnicity and culture in America. I really loved the variety. It didn't only focus on latina or African diaspora but Eastern Europeans and Asia.

Middle Passage by Charles Johnson

Great Book. Interesting storyline. Kept me gripped the entire ride on the ship. Brought about some interesting topics: slaves owning slaves, the Allmuseri, the perfect "negro", yet in a entertaining fashion.

I'm currently reading Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie, recently ordered Ben Okri's the Famised road and flirtying with Jeal Paul Satre.

Any comments on what I'm currently reading (personal experiences with the books)

What are you reading?

What should I read next?

I'm definitely looking for engaging ficition,poetry, or non-fiction(basically anything). I love books that challenge and discuss new ideas without being text-booky or preachy or redundant.

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 12:56:55 GMT

If you have myspace add me at

Myspace.com/mozartpoetry

and myspace.com/haitianhero

peace

Another Haiti Poem... BoYa (Draft 3)

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 07:57:56 GMT

How did you get here?

Your two lips protruding bubbles,
the wood contorting,
and giving shape to unhuman definitions of
feminity,

You one foot mahogany brown caricature

of a woman

How did you get here?

Laying on the carpet from colonial
Massachusetts, underneath the dented table
with scribbling and scratches on the leg that’s going for $50,
at the shop in quiet Mansfield, PA

I know you.
Carved w/ un kouto,
then lightly touched by a pit fire
In Port Au Prince

How did you reach this far norther tier of America

It’s cold out. Your breast exposed and innermost
thigh covered by a small cloth.
Your feet are bare. Plastered to the base of decadent

scrap wood.
You didn’t run.
Did You Cross the Atlantic Ocean,
your hands raised high above your head
holding a basket filled with mangoes and plantain for

The wood that rises on your belly
a child stuck between dead tree.
I pull you from underneath the table
brushing away dust from brown eyes.
No tag in sight.

She gives me you for 10,
I give her all the bills crumpled in my back pocket.
“Keep the change”
The door slams behind us
wind chimes rattle,
I wrap you in between my scarf.
“We’re going home”

A poetry series???...oo maybe

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 07:33:37 GMT

Hello lj friends. So I've decided at 1:35 pm to write a series of poems about the senses in Haiti. I'm Haitian and i was currently writing a poem about common language like "Kenbe La"-Stay Here and Kenbe Fort-Stay Strong, now i've decided i want to write five poems about the senses actions to eat,speak,hear,touch,smell, see, taste. In creole they would be
tande=listen/hear
mayen=touch
santi=smell
gada= see
goo=taste
manje= eat
parle= speak

well here's a little unedited freewrite at 1:38pm (why am i putting the time on everything like i'm in a meeting. lol)

Manje reminds me of sounds like mandibles.The strongest bone in
the mouth. Yielding the jaw to open and
close. The conductor of tongue teeth saliva
coaxing the rice and beans to

mush. My father let's the greasy sauce of chicken onions
scallions slide down the bed of lettuce and Mela and
i slurp sauce pwa with Yum, hard balls of rolled dough.

Sabba, the lords day is accented with a table full of macaroni
au gratin, cabrit, diri kole flaky patties stuffed with beef
The tablecloth white blessed. we dress formal. We
at the lord's table.

"mayi moulen" is what your grandfather eats before he toils
the stubborn land of tom gateau," my mother says. A native
food of power endurance letting mere mortals push their tired
vessels past the wee hours of morning and the cold chill of night.
I scoop the spoon along the borders circling circling towards such strength the center
too hot for my boyish tongue.

Manje is all we can give. A gift. His body is broken the doctors say
The taxi he drove slides against black ice entering 4-way 6p.m traffic
on 5th street.My uncle. His body has become bandages. His lips
barely part when he speaks. eyelids have become
shells of puss and scars. After a kiss on the cheek we had the plate to his wife.
She gently places a mouthful of diri a janmou on the tip of his tongue.

Manje. A calling to the mandible to commence the procession of resuscitation. Take and Eat.

*** first draft completed at 2:28pm. unsure about the ending. :). I can say

fooling around with acrostic poetry

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 07:30:43 GMT

Just fooling around with acrostic poetry and language and grammar, punctuation and everything. bored at 3am. enjoy.

God is in the details

God is letTting out scCreams         From the voiiiiicebox the universe neVer had and the Devil
is wh isper ING "hell hath             no fury..." to mothers pregnant with                       bastard PRESENCE
in a world that lets thieves dance to mu   sic   as
the daddies drink blood from Mother Natures's THROAT. Wagging
de-tails in between legs watch them danceSING in circles of yesterday.

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 04:01:17 GMT

What is the genesis of it all....

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 01:26:40 GMT

No. seriously. I've been thinking in terms of others ability to critically think. I remember Taylor Mali's poem about conviction and the lack thereof in albeit American Culture whether it be higher ed or the street corner. People take these positions and make these conclusions without totally valuing either side of the argument whether it be the Death Penalty or Abortion.

Not to negate people's personal opinion. But I've heard arguments " that's just how i feel" or "i don't care what these author's say or researcher's" , which is well and good that is in effect "your" opinion. But you would think in a world with access to the internet. great libraries free and accessible in most areas that people would take the time to evaluate and think about their position.

Now I know that no, people don't have time to read cultural theory/criticism but where do we as "Americans" reach a happy medium of understanding. As humans we operate on schemas/assumptions to adjust to the world. But it seems like knowing (critically) is STUPID.

take for example how philosophy isn't really a highly regarded major in many circles. the common
"what are you going to do with that". There is no place for intellectuals beyond academia and even then due to interest groups and think tanks your not allowed to say "This is my opinion but i do feel that the other side makes some sense" it has to be " The Democrats/ Republicans or Left/Right is stupid they make no sense" pushing agendas. And do to the profit motive most research is based off of money instead of the claiming of new ideas and creating dialogue look at creationist researchers or the RAND corporation.

While i do identify with "leftist" politics, i understand that Noam Chomsky or Bell Hooks are not perfect or w/o flaws. Everything they say is not "Thus saith" but nonetheless their points make the most sense too many after looking at "conservative" thinkers.

Part 3

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 02:04:06 GMT

    “What the f---- is …” I stammer, halfway whimper, as the words that stumble out my mouth come back as a hard gulp of air. My eyes bulging, I begin to scream, and try to kick my legs from the burning rope across feet, I thought were free, my lungs burning, brain light, body heavy. My toes wiggling restrictively, as I realize, there are no clothes on my disgustingly thin body. My blue suit I put on this morning is gone; all that’s left, a blue bra and some satin orange panties ,but this is no time to be self-conscious about matching. After adding more tape, he sits in a recliner five feet away from my face.

    He moves as if I wasn’t there, first going into the kitchen to get some food off the stove and then sitting down, holding a beer. My screams, muffled gasps, not to much longer... I began taking short breaths as my mind begins to wander around the room. I sit next to this old Technicolor T.V, the carpet is gray and drab, all the blinds closed, it seemed to be an apartment in the sketchy side of south town.

    I will become a form of entertainment in between commercials, a side act before I die. At the first commercial, in between a Hungry Man's meal, he rises and comes to my side. Chewing loud and mechanically, He begins softly pressing his hands against my back putting those small hairs on edge. Each heartbeat gets more shallow. Then he kissed me!
     Directly on my neck, his lips. It sends an almost erotic pulse down my spine as my eyes grow heavy. My body begins to slump in the rickety wooden chair. What is left of reusable air in the bag has disappeared and I can’t decide whether I’m staying alive to see how far this sick son-of-a-bitch will go or if I was truly living for something worth living for before this whole situation.

***

“What are you willing to do” The sergeant asked head cocked to the side as his belly burst out the sides of a striped white shirt damp with sweat stains under his arms.
“If you really want to catch a freak of nature like this guy, you have to be prepared to get into his head”, he says, as we sit on the bench outside of the Police Department.

“This guy has already killed two people and the only thing that we have to link them together is four strands of hair, and his profile didn’t come up in the system” he says, the captain has been giving the whole department pressure over the bat and asphyxiation case that is making the media crazy. “No one likes the idea of a murderer without patterns, that lawyer and the agent, Mr. Betways and Mrs.Conner, were totally different people. The only thing they had in common was white collar jobs and hair.” I nodded affirmatively, as if, I know how to put these four follicles together and find the killer before dinner like Sherlock Holmes “Yes, captain, I understand” I say.

Nightmares have haunted me ever since the body of Betways laid there limp in that room. It was as if I could see the bat slamming into the right side of his brain over and over again ,but it was never from a distance always less than a foot from his groveling face, watching sweat drip down his face as he begged for his life and then it would switch back to my haunting face, fierce, unforgiving.

“Well, honestly, all we can do is wait and watch and hope he strikes again and that last body, final clue, will be his last”, I stare straight into his eye hoping my cool assurance will pass the test.

“That’s if he lets us find the body this time”, Mrs. Conner, Sandra, was found on Route 18, , bras and panties, bugs over her skin, her body in fetal position. Her face was a distasteful cream ,but she was so beautiful when she was alive. She did tax work for my parents every year, I had never gotten the courage to ask her out. It was so sad, for both of us.

Post a comment for more. Thanks for reading.

Wed, 24 Oct 2007 16:51:50 GMT

This is second section from my last post

“Thank you for your analysis, I’m sure the bloody bat was the clue that broke the case”, I say, smiling sardonically at the kid. The bat look as though it’s been dipped in a pot of chunky tomato soup as it lies isolated on the kitchen floor.
“Robbery?” he asks, eyes ready for action behind his wire-rimmed glasses, poking around the body with his ball point pen. “Look at this”, he says, as his pen goes too deep into victims chest as if bone didn’t exist anymore. “The scapula is destroyed” as the four-inch BIC pen plunges into soggy skin. Everything is in order, the furniture matching the curtain; kitchen floor swept and mopped, the only oddity, the body laying dead center in the living room.
“No robbery. Too messy, he knew him,” I say.
***
The plastic bag is cold intrusive over my head. I blink twice and then try to imagine this into a dream state. I flex my hands towards my face, no action. They seem to be bound with duct tape behind my back. It’s a well lit dining room/living room. His eyes are greenish blue as he began rapping duct tape across my neck, sealing the bag.
“What the f---- is …” I stammer, halfway whimper, as the words that stumble out my mouth come back as a hard gulp of air. My eyes bulging, I begin to scream, and try to kick my legs from the burning rope across feet, I thought were free, my lungs burning, brain light, body heavy. My toes wiggling restrictively, as I realize, there are no clothes on my disgustingly thin body. My blue suit I put on this morning is gone; all that’s left a blue bra and some satin orange panties but, this is no time to be self-conscious about matching. After adding more tape, this man calmly sits in a recliner five feet away from my face. He moves as if I wasn’t there, first going into the kitchen to get some food off the stove and then sitting down, holding a beer. My screams, muffled gasps, not to much longer. I began taking short breaths as my mind begins to wander around the room. I sit next to this old Technicolor T.V, the carpet is gray and drab, all the blinds closed, it seemed to be an apartment in the sketchy side of south town.

As soon as someone said they read a bit, i'll put up the other parts.

Some of Us Did Not Die

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 04:50:37 GMT

I just got finished "What is Found There" by Adrienne Rich. it was really good. her ideas on privilege and activism and poetry made me look within myself alot throughout the book. Towards the essays the pieces began to get less engaging and I lose interest. I think it's one of those books that should be owned so you can revisit specific passages over and over again.

Fifth week of school. Really haven't been in the "work hard mood". I work from 8pm-3am all this weekend as a resident assistant on campus. I get caught up watching youtube,gotpoetry, and poking around facebook. The internet is EVIL. btw, Lupe Fiasco "Dumb it Down" is really good, take a look if you get a chance.

Men for Progress went so well this last Friday. The most difficult thing is seeing if men will follow-through with their plans and being proactive. Critical thinking in patriarchy and masculinity is heavy so we're trying to ease it on in...

Reading June Jordan, Some of US Did Not Die, book of essays, "Hunting for Jews", talks about how oppressed groups (race,gender,religious) always think it's a individual struggle and never think about banding together. She uses the example that you'll never see the orthodox jew will never stand vigil outside gay and lesbian center, or a black student org. rallying for immigration rights. It's like we all have our personal issues and if we decided to come together those that oppress us will crumble under our will.

Patricia Smith Poetry

Sat, 15 Sep 2007 17:41:34 GMT

I recently wrote this poem about Katrina, in a forum someone said that it was alarmingly derivative of Patricia Smith, I have read Smith's work extensively, but i didn't steal any of her lines or change the words of one of her pieces does that mean I hijacked her style?

Katrina,
5th cousin removed from lineage,
back of the job-line,
em-barass-ment at the family
reunion,
lost religion,
saved by hoodoo trapstars,
bitch of a woman.

Changed your name, but
can't stomach the bastard
baby you now got,
you swallowed your kids whole,
spat back,soggy flesh
tattered
leather shoes
vomited into the pissy city
soup

Nights like this remind me of
bourbon
street liqour begging your attention,
as memory is pissed out after
drink number two.

Their bodies stink from terror,
clay-faced kids parade swampy
playgrounds waiting to be rescued from
the jungle gym, skin begins to
prune.

Watch as time meets watches
of tardy FEMA men
touching your
body sold,
enter the chorus of
screams through
the night!

you better close them eyes tight
gasp-
wait for air.
breaching barricades for coins

those lone survivors
clench tight
around metal
for life
to the sign that says stop.

Katrina,
child from nothin'
think you can call death that
won't come full circle.

What Do You Have To Say? - Music: My First Favorite Band

Sat, 15 Sep 2007 06:44:07 GMT

What was the first band you became a fan of?

Brought to you by HP | Contest | Vote for Winners!

View 500 Answers

tHE lEGENDARY ROOTS. Black Thought is one of the best lyricist and ?uestlove's arrangements are superb

Hey

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 20:55:57 GMT

Hey Guys,

sorry I haven't been updating. I was at Meg's house(hadn't seen her 4 like a MONTH) and there was no internet so there that goes. Now, I'm at Camp Adirondack in the Adirondack Mountains in New York!

It's so beautiful out here, people are mad nice. Just a great time on the first day.

Recently on the poetry tip, I did a open mic at Art Noir Gallery, in philly. Talaam Acey was featuring there and he just ripped it. He's really a great poet. His stuff is poignant and he uses regular everyday langauge to tackle serious topics.

I will update in more depth. But , I'm on a community computer and don't want to be a jerk!!

PEACE!!

How are things?

Words define Reality?

Tue, 29 May 2007 17:41:43 GMT

This is in response to my friend emmjay's blog about do words helps us create our reality or does it detract from creating our reality?

POets do abuse words/manipulate them. Fashion them to hide things and/or expose them. It's our job.

Language further establishes reality. Actually, words are the key to changing the conciousness. What has caused more issues and problems than words, bible, koran, all these 'sacred' texts that have caused so much war. The word comes before the action not the other way around. Therefore, WORDS create realitites.

Think about how do people oppress people?
They call them nigga, faggot, bitch, it's not getting punched in the face . But that word that makes these oppressed classes seem 'less human', making them easier to mistreat.

My girlfriend and I were talkin about how we often call women, girls, and how society makes it so that we do this.When if a women is 18+ she deserves to be called women.
When someone is addressed with a particular word, we mold them into what they can or won't become.

What are your thoughts?

Hey

Wed, 16 May 2007 09:04:43 GMT

Whats goin on?

My name is Mozart. I'm a soon to be junior at a state university in Pa. The main resason on here is to do some writing exercises when i get a chance and to vent about what i'm not feelin at any particular moment.

My main interest are my girlfriend and poetry,family , and community service.

I do spoken word poetry but also write strictly for the page.

I'm looking for writers that I can conversate with about poetics and different writing styles and techniques.