magic

running rhymes against rhythms
in pointed percussion
dagger words digging dream graves —
a requiem discussion
wreckin’ through sonic concussion

ya hear the buzzin’?
that ain’t no hum
it’s the ricochet racket
of that electron gun
it’s commercial vomit
spilling across your screen
masqueradin’ as burgers ’n fries —
another pack of lies
suckin’ up your green

St. George funked truth in the line:
“Mind your wants
cuz somebody wants your mind…”
smugglin’ wisdom —
leather laced slick in the groove
and you wuz moved
but didn’t know why…

the hip hop drops
sound bites
hungry for the rush
rising
a wave
grinding
finding you’re still a slave
to ego
to what ya don’t know
to what they said you’re supposed to be —

don’t ya know,
it ain’t for you
it ain’t barrio
it’s “bar you”
no queremos mas Negros
                        la gente indigena
                        morena o roja —
                        la raza
from PR to Molokai
       Baja to Oglala
it’s rising,
up
uprising —
reservation, plantation
ghetto, barrio
islands stolen without a gun,
folks permanently on the run,
herds of shopping cart covered wagons
locked down
run around
plantin’ us in the ground,
prayin’ there ain’t no harvest…

so the search is on,
the future’s pawned for some magic now —
a spell to quell the fire
a charm to douse the flame,
they’re searching everywhere,
                       even across the sea
cuz they know
magic beats technology…
..and who owns the magic?
        where is it found?
it’s not under ice
it ain’t under ground
the magic is one,
found in the lands of the sun

they thought you forgot,
       thought they had won,
but you’ve got rhythms wrigglin’ in your bones,
                    dreams dancin’ to ancient tones
they know of your power
that’s why they study it so much
and now, when you need it most
you can feel your ancestors’ clutch
— this ain’t no ghost!
but the whispers of grandfathers
      the embrace of grandmothers
alive
in our DNA
today
they are the call
we, the response
     the calling
     the magic
rising within
and so it begins
rising in each of us,
            each of us
                           — magic
to heal the tragic

rising
a voice
strangled
still mangled
but undenied…

..and just when they thought we shoulda died
we heard a roar
echoing concrete canyons
and Jericho trembled
      Jericho shook
cuz even they remembered the book,
&                knew the revelation
was their exposure,
their glory
our treasure,
our resurrection
their demise…
..and the horror in their eyes
is their own reflection

the magic can’t be stolen
only forgotten
it’s not hidden,
but stored,
and presently ignored…

..learn you
learn us
dismissal of our true identity
remains our greatest travesty
& it ain’t never gonna be on tv

learn you
learn us
learn the magic
sing those lyrics
rap those rhymes
cuz it’s way past time
and you can’t use what you don’t understand

by

jamal
ali

© 4 february 2000

The Allure of Obama

foretold to the day by RFK,
emerging from turbulence,
born of a crucible of change,
he was reared on sights of gas lines
                                    industrial crumble,
                        the unraveling of a leadership of lies
&                     the arrogance of those who refused to be humble

instead of memories of depression
or                             endless profit
he knows frugal means more than money —
it’s about resources,
and citizenship is about more than neighborhood
or                                              nation,
he has a vision for the planet

Obama is a paragon of firsts —
                 our first post baby boom president
                 our first leading from the ground,
                             free of the WASP’s sting,
                             who recognizes collective is the thing,
is what the constitution really meant

Obama evokes
           conjures,
leveraging language
awakening comatose conscience
&            principles buried in history books
After giving life to hope,
he resurrects memories of ingenuity
                                  productivity
&                               prosperity,
newly defined

He understands our resurgence demands
we pull the best from our past
and wisely purge what no longer works
He prudently reminds us
such achievements require effort
                                    a new focus

He levels the field so all may till,
&                                      harvest, in measure with their effort,
                                         gain in measure with their contributions
rather than pandering to station

Once considered shiftless,
we now embody the paradigm shift
from belief to hope to is
This is about more than faith —
it is about doing
instead of waiting on salvation
No plan can be rendered,
no policy tendered
if the will of the people is not in full effect

If President Obama is to resurrect
the ideals of America,
so long empty and defiled
into living paradigms,
we must lead from the bottom up,
exerting experience
           genius
&        our infamous drive
harnessed to hearts which see you in me
accepting accountability for how we choose to be

by

jamal
ali

© 6 february 2009

emergence

he screamed truth at the walls
                                         raging
a Joshua of trumpet throat
cutting
carving
sculpting cold stone
into forms fluid
              curving
&           triumphant
bulging the box
with his sphere of power
                        influence

dwindling
to fierce whispers
sparking
igniting the dark
echoing the light
within his enforced night
beneath the dungeon
of his captor’s imagination

he
another dark sun
unbowed
unclouded
and now, by self-doubt
unshrouded

once fearful of peering into his own eyes
      made comfortable with the lies
but wisdom survives,
and in his solitude
from attitude
he forged resilience,
acknowledging flaws
& built upon experience

harnessing pressures crushing his soul
he compressed his black
and became diamond whole

his moon did not share his crypt
she faced her deadly destiny
pounded with predictions of her doom
and of those from her womb

yes, she cried
but a righteous rage built up inside,
and soon her captors found her fortified,
for even in darkness
           without books,
she learned from her dreams
     listened to ancestors’ whispers
     awakened comatose memories
of warriors and builders
                                 undefeated
                                 reborn within

his heart became a fist
he ceased his screaming
harnessing his surging passions
                    frustrations

the constant inundation —
                                      of brain beatings
                                         mind manglings
&                                      rapes of his sodomized heart
slowly shrank into unconscious white noise
                         surf feebly splashing his promontory will

he stared into the night
his gaze turned within
his rage focused,
he felt the ritual begin
his words of truth
                 outrage
                 rebellion
transformed
echoing chants of power
                    immune to ice
                    calling the knowing
his fight was not without
or                    without price
but within
      inside his skin

he embraced the night
    did not miss the light,
knowing the sun was not lost,
just resting beyond the horizon
and, like him, soon to rise

her heart felt his fire
her soul his embrace
bound by blood
             will
&          spirit
they knew distance could not divide them
              incantations of doom could not defeat them
only they could conquer themselves

lost in labyrinths of lies and deceit
drugged on powders white
&            powers vain
the once mighty had been broken again

finally,
his will breached the box
her heart reached through the wall
in union
they stood
              free
              bathed in midday sunlight
                        in the depths of midnight
              steeled in their knowing
              unabashed in their glowing
                                                   an embrace at once deeply Black
&                                                a brilliant beacon in the night

by

jamal
ali

© 23 january 2002

women speaking truth…

when women talk
they know they speak the truth
women say men don’t feel
                                    not really
& if you’re lucky enough
to find such rare male fruit
you better squeeze those apples —
              get all the juice
before the dream fades —
then make applesauce with the rest

all men feel

the myth is
lust is the fuel
ambition the engine
driving our dreams

all men feel
but the world teaches us
in repeated painful lessons
to keep the secret
to feel, but not show
to hunger, but not be hungry
to love without caring
to care without sharing

stray from this straight & narrow
& you invite your doom
                                  to be less than
                                  to be used
                                  to end up castrated & confused
crushing your dreams

even women wise & wanting
who may seek this mythical breed
often respond with mule mentality
once in the presence of the steed

caution, suspicion, bitter disbelief
their acid bath of test & trial,
                     a test to destruction,
determining authenticity
a living autopsy
                       “let’s see what makes him tick…”

trusting heart over mind
nearly every time
except when faced with her dream,
unable to accept things are as they seem
trusting her eyes over ears
distrusting belief instead of her fears…

“..but maybe…”

the heart cannot show what it contains
when inspected under glass
the heart is a muscle
whose strength isn’t measured in gyms,
whose size cannot be seen

for a man,
his heart must be the softest diamond
&                     a cloud made of stone

in the maze of contradictions,
in a sea of ache & ecstacy
simple drowning would be a gift

all men feel
their passion held in check

wise women,
when you speak,
discover new truths
cultivate rare fruits
that they may multiply
to sweeten others’ lives

by

jamal
ali

© 1991

maybe it’s just a dream…

pain
hurting
fear
sorrow
loads we’ve carried too long
so wrapped up in the shroud
we’ve come to believe it’s part of our identity
                                             our essence
                                             the nature of life
and any who would know us
must walk this gauntlet
to reach us

then the gauntlet —
       what must be passed —
                                         is not us
but our shield
     our persona
     our shroud
we clutch with death-like desperation
                     hands frozen in emotional arthritis
                     arms locked, clinging to what we don’t want

after all,
what would we be without our pain?
who would we be without our anger
                                   our outrage?

if, right now, today
you could start life fresh
                          without racism
                          without the rape
                                           abuse
                                           fear
or                                        pain,
if you could wake up tomorrow
and it was all behind you,
                no longer connected to you
who would you be?
what would you look like?
what would you feel like?

Hey, no one’s saying it’s easy
or                even saying now is your time to do it
but maybe
it’s time to dream it
            to imagine it
            to prepare for it
’cause it’s just something else to be slave to

think about it —
do you carry the pain of your burned fingers with you
to remind you to use a potholder?
no, ’cause you’ve learned the lesson
do you drag your textbooks with you
                                     every day
                                     for the rest of your life
or just the lessons,
    just the knowledge
as tools to conquer the next challenge?

what’s been done to us
the past
we cannot change,
but we can choose to lose it’s misery
for this is the actual victory
over the memories which hold us back

the guilty may never admit,
may never be caught
you may never even be believed

Does this mean we must forget
or                               give up the fight?

No, just take the bat out of your hand
             take the bullets out of the gun —
the bat you beat yourself with
the gun you shoot yourself with,
over the past

Biko said
“The most powerful weapon in the hands of the oppressor
                                       is the mind of the oppressed”

imagine for a minute,
you were still Black
but you came from a place
                          where racism wasn’t even an idea
                          where oppression wasn’t part of your reality
                          where you’d never heard of these things,
then you came to America
and were faced with all we’re faced with
today

you’d still have to deal,
you’d have to face the reality,
but you
      your mind
      your heart
would not be burdened
like ours

how different would your tactics be?
how different would your experiences be?
like being a New Yorker in apartheid South Africa,
it would be vastly different

we complain of stress,
                     the pressure of bills
                     racism, drugs, crime
but what is that to slavery?
did our ancestors have stress?
can you even begin to compare it,
much less share it?

then, if we have a choice,
do we choose to be slaves to our past?
do we drag the chains of childhood
                the scars of mistake and failure
                the ache of injustice
with us every step of our lives?

it’s volunteered slavery —
even the blind can see

we cannot begin to heal our hands
’til we release the fire which burns us
we cannot heal our hearts
’til we stop the pain where it starts,
in the now

sure, it’s just a dream
                   a possibility
                   a spark,
and that’s how the magic starts

within

by

jamal
ali

© 11 december 2001

bush-league bandits

pimp, instead of pope,
in New Vatican, DC,
the village idiot & his seven dwarves
                                joint chiefs cruise situation rec center,
chalk custom cue sticks in nuclear blue

on an HD TV used as pool table,
they shoot billiards with eyeballs —
                                                   no sockets,
                                                   not pockets empty
&                                                                threadbare,
playing for trophies —
                flocks of minds
&             cultural coins,
swapping reason for spare change

the digital felt is a shifting mirage
                        a soft veneer cloaking hard core —
                                                                        no cushions
                                                                        no english,
but spin doctors prescribing sound bites
&                                   geek speak,
                       splitting tongues
                       knotting ears —
                                              clever like a fox
                                              dressed as pooh bear,
                                              hanging by corner pockets
                                              hiding 8 balls
                                              eager to share their honey
in five gram vials

Dubya held an easter egg hunt for WMD
in the sands instead of the Bushes,
searching everywhere for his rabbit,
to make daddy proud

in crack back flashes,
or crack flashbacks —
in misremembered dream,
campus cop with flashlight
became voice of God
anointing his dementia

schooled to con & cut
but not connect,
prepared to reap harvests of wild oats
                        sown in besotted skull pots
                               in tiered fear-fertilized gardens —
grain already fermented to froth
        served in silvered media cups
                 for the yale & heartless

supremely courted, then dubbed,
Shrub is more menace than apprentice,
fiddlin’ with what he cannot comprehend,
puzzled by Dr. Seuss military instructions,
while goaded by Condeskeeza
                   with tweezered hand jobs Viagra cannot save,
and we are called to exalt our president knave,
                         to believe he’s brave,
                            accept he can lead
instead of just desert

 
so we are left
in millennium’s dark dawn
with a leader the sighted see as pawn,
                   who, blind in both eyes
                          would yet claim to be king
                   who cannot rule by thumb
with it locked in sphinctered prison
while running the new Capitol Hill production
as Lord of the Flies

by

jamal
ali

© 12 march 2004

B stands for Truth

crack pipe calliope
a blown glass chamber quartet
for White House family reunion
a Bush-bin Laden joint venture
trained navy SEALs in waiter’s camo
                              serving Texas tea in cups of china white —
reasons to wake glib ghosts
              shake skeletons like shékéré
while hillbilly hangin’
’round the country store
at the Pentagon
    the Fed
    the outhouse on Pennsylvania avenue
where we find the highest crime —
America’s most unwanted —
our genius commander-in-thief

the first politician
who by words
&        acts alone
elevated the incomparable Dan Quayle
to maximum Mensa status —
Geo. Washington Bush
who tried chopping down a cherry tree
with his favorite red guitar
named “Rosebud”

this boy be our first puppet president —
they still use CIA hand towels
for White House toilet paper
while greed bleeds across the land
switching stripes of red for green,
Wall Street frantically converting
Enron shreds into economic tampons —
band-aids on a hemorrhage

and dancing at the end of the string,
bobble-head Shrub puppets
stoned on DOD Viagra
struttin’ multiple missile erections
anxious to get his jack on

daddy got puppy on a short leash
teleprompter skull implants
scrambled by microwave ovens
&                cell phones
triggering time-delayed toothless sound-bites
gummed beyond recognition

his Cabinet is a corporate nest,
each chick straining for dangling dollars —
droppings from Baldy’s inflamed anal cysts

Uncle Sam’s middle finger fractured
now John and Jane Public
are catching special op’s splinters —
Keystone cops conducting Chinese fire drills
                    stoking the flaming Bush
                    bringing Billy Graham bullet
&                                                  bible benedictions,
with biscuits and gravy

“got flags?”

New Rome has it’s 21st century Nero
flailing air guitar
to news conference questions
and petitions for simple common sense,
trumpeting his plan —
harvesting old growth forests for lumber
                                        to save them from forest fire
playing 3 card marly
with fraud
       ignorance
&    oil

“we don’t need no stinkin’ violins!”

Pinnochio’s nose is now so long
it’s nearly mid-colonic,
puppet strings are fuses
                         burning back,
                         singing Gepetto’s fingers
                         igniting insights denied,
explosively unblocking throats
choked by dried cakes of patriotic vomit
unleashing a nation of rainbows
in red, white & blue confetti
collected in body bags
to be shipped to Arlington

the next word you hear
will not be
“war”

by

jamal
ali

© 16 october 2002