Free

      

August 13, 2011

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be free. At times I take for granted my ability to go out on a date, or buy ice cream, or go see my daughter play soccer. The other day I crossed the San Rafael Bridge and saw the huge ominous structure that is San Quentin State Penitentiary clinging to the otherwise beautiful California coast. It was a bit of a mood kill to say the least. I thought about all of my loved ones that have languished in that institution for years at a time. Then I thought about my cousin who I wish was still in San Quentin but who, unfortunately, was bused 400 miles south to Chino.

You know everyone has got a story and some of them are sadder than others—his is very sad, but then what can I do? It seems kind of shallow to be grateful that I’m not in there. Even though that’s exactly how I feel it almost seems like I’m pointing my finger at him saying; “I’m glad it’s you and not me.” It’s an indescribable feeling when you literally grow up with a person and he winds up trapped in a cage while you’re free to roam the Earth.

It’s hard for me to be grateful for my freedom because I would rather share it with him like we used to share brushes, doo-rags, bicycles, and candy bars. I want to somehow, maybe magically, liberate him but that is something I can’t do. Even when he is free he won’t be free.  And I mean that in the same way that my mind is not truly free right now.

YB

Leaving the Plantation

August 11, 2011

               I woke up this morning with the strong urge to flee. A few hours later I was in the small coastal town of Cotati, CA watching cows graze in peoples’ backyards while admiring bodacious redwoods that grew in a perfect row along the center divider of a main thoroughfare. The air was clean, the atmosphere was chill, and the town was welcoming. No one there knew that I was running from something, and if they figured it out they weren’t bold enough to ask—which was perfectly fine by me.

                My hometown of Oakland and I have an extremely ambivalent relationship. While I love the town (as we natives affectionately call it) for inspiring me to be a great person, forcing me to persevere through some very hardcore circumstances, and teaching me to be proud of my cultural heritage, sometimes I hate it for being so ugly. It really worries my nerves when Oakland puts all of its weight on me and makes me feel trapped. As much I have tried over the years I haven’t yet forgiven the town for taking the lives of so many young people who could have turned it around if they had a fair chance. Oakland is merciless.

                It’s definitely not a place for the weak. One must be very strong to make it out of the town in one piece and absolutely no one makes it out unscathed. For these reasons I reserve a great deal of respect for my city. Oakland gave me heart and I will never forget that but every now and then I need to get off of this plantation. This time it was Cotati, maybe next time it will be Madrid.

Yeah Madrid sounds nice.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8Ik_9MHVig]

-YB

A Dreary Summer Day

August 9, 2011

                Today is one of those days when all the problems of the world appear to be catching up with me. Lately everything seems to be in complete ruin. Locally, a 3-year-old boy Carlos Fernandez Nava was shot dead while walking to the store with his family. The two men who were the intended targets of this brazen broad daylight attack suffered non life threatening wounds. The suspect has yet to be found.

                On the national level the economy is getting worse and everyone is pointing fingers at one another instead of working toward a proper solution. And globally the riots in London serve as a reminder that the murder of innocent black men by the police is not something merely relegated to the United States.

                I’ve been really irritable the past few days. I haven’t felt nearly as motivated as I usually am. I’ve been in somewhat of a stupor I suppose. I realized this when I was driving down the street today and one of my favorite songs The Sweetest Taboo by Sade came on the radio. She sang; “Every day is Christmas/ and every night is a New Year’s Eve.” Those lines have never ceased to put my soul at ease but today they sounded like mockery. As if she was completely oblivious to the current human condition. And that’s when I knew things were worse than I thought; when I could actually bring it upon myself to express animosity toward Sade.

                I don’t know what’s happening in the world today I only hope that I can find a little bit of joy tomorrow.

-The Asiatic Prince

When the Fight is Over....

August 7, 2011

The very thought of success terrifies me but failure is not an option.

I’ve been fighting with my back against the ropes for so long now I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be in control. Everyday is a fight. I have to fight for absurd things that others take for granted. I have to fight to keep what little I have and I have to continue to fight to get everything that I deserve in this world. So the thought of me actually attaining what it is that I dream of every night is a bit unsettling.

What does a fighter do when he has achieved all of his goals? Does he find something else to fight for or does he just quit? I’m not sure I know myself outside of constant struggle. But then again I’m not sure I know myself at all. Take all the rage out of a man, take all the venom out of a poisonous snake, take the horns off of a bull and what have you?

Certain creatures are defined by their ability to strike. I have come to define myself by my ability to strike back. Therefore if I had no one out there antagonizing me then my self-image would disintegrate. It is very troubling to know that I have allowed my view of self to be dictated by those who seek to destroy me. If I could isolate myself from all the hate and distance myself from all the pain then what would I become? I would be transformed into the unknown and the unknown is what I fear more than anything else. For I know in which direction I should be headed yet I intentionally march toward a slow ignorant death.

But before I die I am left here to ponder the question of whether or not I could ever honestly find contentment in peace.

-The Asiatic Prince

The Starving Artist

August 5, 2011

What will you do when no one else cares to watch you anymore? How will you express yourself then? Or will you even bother to try?

As a young man I read a story called The Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka that seemed to pose this very question. The story is about this dude whose only gift to the world is his ability to starve himself. At first people are very responsive to his talent and they gather around him by the dozens to watch him fast. But eventually they become indifferent. They don’t stop to look at him nor do they acknowledge his existence. In the end the hunger artist decides to keep doing what he does best and ultimately he dies from starvation.

I wonder what sacrifices the actors of today would be willing to make if no one came to the theater. Would the singers still sing if no one listened? Can the pastor still preach the gospel without a congregation? How far would you be willing to go for your craft? Do you do it for yourself or do you do it for the crowd? And are you really sharing a gift if there is no one there to receive it?

Art can be so stimulating when the artist puts his soul into his work. Thank you Franz Kafka for your literary genius.

-Roger Porter

Am I a Bad Parent?

August 5, 2011

I’m such a bad parent. No wait, I think that’s a little too harsh. It’s not so much that I’m a bad parent as much as I’m a stereotypical one. Yeah that sounds better. I’m a stereotypical black father who is actually present.

That’s the perfect way to describe how I feel after my daughter's first day of soccer practice. I mean I was excited—perhaps a little too excited. As a former athlete and avid sports fan I was proud almost to the point of tears when I saw my baby kick the ball between the cones then come in second place in her first team sprint. Words can’t describe how elated I was to witness her first day competing on the field. I can honestly say that was probably my happiest moment as a parent which, when I think about it, is absolutely terrible.

It’s terrible because so far in her academic career my daughter has been an excellent student. She was honored during an assembly for being scholar of the month in Kindergarten, and she was given the top award in her class this past year in first grade. So what can I say? I mean those things are definitely cool and I’m glad I have an intelligent, articulate child but I’m sorry— it’s just not the same for me.

I didn’t jump up and scream when she accepted her award in front of a few hundred people I only applauded mildly. Similarly, when she showed me the award she got from her teacher I said good job and kissed her on the cheek but when I found out she would be wearing a number 7 jersey like Michael Vick I almost lost my mind. I took pictures of her wearing it with my camera phone, I called relatives long distance, and I gave her high fives all over the place. I realize now that I put much more of an emphasis on athletics as opposed to education where it should be, but it’s so hard to do otherwise.

It’s not that I want my child to barely pass her classes and work toward getting an athletic scholarship it’s just that seeing her out there doing her thing evoked a more effusive response from me; and while I would like to say that’s only natural I’m more inclined to say, once again, that’s terrible. And the worst part about it is I never even played soccer.

Alright maybe I can even things out a little bit. The next time she gets an academic award I will force myself to go nuts. I will scream, I will shout, I will holler, and I will jump for joy as if I caught the Holy Ghost. The only problem with that is my little one will see right through the act. After all she is very sharp. My goodness, I only wish my mother and father would have told me how difficult this parenting gig truly is.

-Roger Porter

A blog about nothing

August 4, 2011

It’s always interesting to wait and see how the writing process will work. Sometimes it flows so well and then other times…there’s nothing. What can I blame this on? I’d like to say its Facebook’s fault for putting a little 1 on the panel every time someone interacts with my page. Since I’ve been on Fb my ADD has regressed into ADHD. (Speaking of Facebook; isn’t it bizarre when people actually like Facebook on Facebook? I just thought I’d ask).

I also want to blame my blog sometimes. After all, I hardly ever just write for me anymore. Every thought that I transform into writing I share with anyone out there in cyber space who is willing to read it. I’m thinking that’s a problem. Perhaps one day all of this openness will come back to haunt me. Maybe but that day ain’t today so I’ll keep moving right along.

It’s really a trip when you have so many wild thoughts running through your head but you can’t manage to pin one down and expound. Then you find yourself running full speed away from an empty page. Now can you think of anything scarier than that for a writer?

-The Asiatic Prince 

Phases

Roger Porter

August 1, 2011

Even as an adult I continue to go through phases

A few years back I thought it would be pretty cool to learn how to play the guitar. So I stacked up a little money and bought the baddest acoustic guitar in the store thinking that the amount of cash I spent on it would motivate me to learn how to play. In the beginning my theory worked as I began to learn how to play basic little rhythms by ear. I even paid for a few lessons; but then life started happening. Various events began to require my time and pull me away from my new hobby until eventually I just gave it up. Now what was once my pride and joy is just a dusty, out of tune thing that sits in the corner of my room.

Dreams unfulfilled

For a brief moment in my life I wanted to play like Mississippi Fred McDowell, B.B. King, and Robert Johnson. Somehow I had managed to romanticize the arduous lives of southern sharecroppers who learned how to perform the blues in order to finally move off of the plantation. In my mind I wanted to hop on a train and just ride. With my guitar in my hand and a little bit of money in my pocket I would just go out one night and not come back until I had at least two dozen wild stories to tell my grandchildren.

How naïve can a grown man be?

Learning how to play the guitar is hard. Leaving your family is harder, and hopping on a freight train in the 21^st century is extremely ill-advised. Responsibility is the rusty blade that kills your childhood stroke by stroke. To live ones life in denial of what is real is tantamount to failure. At some point a person has got to settle down within himself, no matter how outrageous his dreams are.

There is still joy

There is nothing better than looking down from the top of the mountain at the people who tried in vein to destroy you. There is nothing better than being able to look inside yourself and loving what you see. I was foolish enough to think that money alone would motivate me to do something. I made the mistake of taking passion, dedication, and love out of the equation.

Now I am wiser

One Lyric

            Roger Porter

July 30, 2011

            In the hit record I’m On One by DJ Khaled Miami based rapper Rick Ross drops the lyric “Have you ever made love to the woman of your dreams/ in a room full of money out in London and she screams?” Every time I hear that part of the song it instantly causes me to become engaged with the music. It’s kind of baffling because it’s not like that’s the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. Although the imagery is rather astounding, for the most part it’s a pretty straight forward line. On the surface it has all the familiar elements of cultural decay that are present in every other radio friendly hip-hop anthem, but below the surface it gets deeper.

                Rick Ross actually used the euphemism make love on a rap song—who else would do that. I would like to see some data on when was the last time a “gangster rapper” passed up a perfectly good opportunity to say the word FUCK on a record. And then to take it to another level Rick uses the word WOMAN. The word woman has been forbidden in hip-hop since Arrested Development broke up. Just think of all the perfectly acceptable derogatory terms that he could have used besides woman. I mean what will become of our music if this man continues to refer to women as women? This one lyric may come to symbolize the end of an era.

                The audacity of this fat man who wears a long beard like an Afghani and who has an obsession for gangster cinema is absolutely unbelievable. How dare he try to change the game and be less obscene. How dare he be poetic and try to give us something to visualize. Doesn’t he know that we are struggling through an artistic recession right now?

                Rick Ross needs to learn that gangster rap is strictly for gangsters— not poets, and he needs to understand that he cannot be both. I think his label representative needs to tell him to raise the vulgarity and tone down this whole respect for the feelings of females’ thing before this gets out of hand. For if this mentality was to catch on then it could be an absolute disaster. It’s scary to think about it but trust me when I say this dude has the potential to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to maintain and all it takes is one lyric.

Forgiveness

Roger Porter

July 28, 2011

The more I learn about myself the more I discover that I am a liar. People hurt me and I tell them that I forgive them but most of the time I really don’t. I can look people in the eye and shake their hand. I can talk to them for hours and laugh with them all night knowing that all of my emotional attachments have been completely severed. I guess that makes me a cold person. Add another flaw to the gigantic pile of things I need to work on.

But then again some people are better kept on the outside. I have been told that human beings are creatures of habit. Which makes me afraid of letting someone who has betrayed me back into my inner-circle for fear that they will bleed me once again. And all of this causes me to ponder the question, what is true forgiveness?

I can genuinely say that I don’t actively hate anyone. I can also say that I don’t harbor any resentment toward anyone for pain that they may have caused me or anybody in my family. However I will confess that with some former loved ones I am just done. The truth is that my relationships with some individuals will never be the same and as I write these words I am becoming increasingly concerned that in the end this may not constitute as forgiveness. Perhaps this will cause me to be judged harshly whenever I pass on into the afterlife. Perhaps I will suffer immeasurable pain due to my personal inadequacies. Or maybe, just maybe, God will find a way to forgive me.

More Notes On Her....

Roger Porter

July 26, 2011

I can’t imagine what life must be like for an artist who isn’t struggling; those two words seem to be almost completely synonymous to me. From a personal standpoint writing is my release, it is my passion and it is the purest thing in the world. Even though I dream of making it big on the literary scene, if I began to get paid thousands of dollars for these blogs I’m not sure that I would welcome the change.

For my poverty has come to characterize my writing style and I question that if I were to stumble upon wealth would my prose simply fall apart. And would I be able to maintain my humility if all of a sudden I was recognized around the world for doing something that I would do anyway? If I had to write to pay all of my bills then would I still cherish my ability? Perhaps I would feel forced to find another way to relieve my stress.

We all have that sacred place that we run to when the world becomes unbearable; whether it be within ourselves or out there in space. But what if the next time you went there you found it full of unfamiliar people just staring at you as if you owed them something? Then where would you go? Chances are you would turn around and run in the opposite direction. Chances are you would become lost.

Notes on the Death of Amy Winehouse

Roger Porter

July 24, 2011

She wasn’t supposed to actually die. She was just supposed to amuse us with her self-destructive antics until we got bored with her, until we ceased to enjoy listening to her music, reading about her in the tabloids, and watching her theatrical melt downs on YouTube. Until we found someone younger, more reckless, and prettier— even then she wasn’t supposed to die.

Who would have thought that the lady who took a snort of cocaine on stage in front of thousands of people, and made her refusal to seek professional help for her addictions a smash hit, would ever actually overdose on drugs? It’s hard to imagine that the charismatic woman with the soulful voice but who seemingly had self-esteem lower than both Janis Joplin and Billie Holiday would torture herself to death with a syringe. Assuming that is what actually happened, for at the moment the public doesn’t  know for sure. All we know is that the awesome light from one of the most extraordinary supernovas ever has faded out of sight.

She gave her life in front of us and for that we should be proud. How sad it is to know that no matter how long we applaud there will be no more encores.This time the show is really over. This time we must leave the concert hall. This time we must spill out into the frigid streets and find our lonely homes.

Cruise Control

 Roger Porter

July 20, 2011

The sunlight looks spectacular on a day like this but it’s hard to enjoy it when you’re overwhelmed with work. There is always work that needs to be done but is that any real reason to be cooped up in the house. On the other hand the sun will always be in the sky so is that any excuse for me to completely disregard my responsibilities. And thus I have just illustrated my current affliction in microcosm. Damn this cursed confusion! On days like this I swear I wish I could take a vacation from myself.

In my youthful cockiness I just knew I’d have it all figured out by this age, now I find myself pondering the questions; “Does anyone really have things all figured out? Is that even possible?” I can recall a few summers ago when I had a job as the token black man at a Jewish summer camp (very enlightening experience by the way) and I came across this guy while taking the campers to a local beach for a dip. He was hanging out with this dude who lives on my block and I noticed he was with his daughter who was around the same age as my little girl. So we started to chat a little bit. 

The guy was really chill both in appearance and in his mannerisms. He had a white tank top on, his dreads flowed well past his shoulders and he was barefoot of course (as we were at a beach). He said to me, “Oh so you work at a camp I work at a camp too.” And I was like right on, you know just kind of nodding my head. Then he paused for a while and was like, “Yeah that’s my wife over there” as he pointed to a blonde haired woman in a black bathing suit. Once again I just nodded my head as I scanned the water to make sure the kids weren’t trying to drown each other.

Then he paused for another good while as if he was taking a long drag from an invisible blunt.  Suddenly he came back with “Yeah me  my wife and my daughter just chilling you know.  Everything is gravy. My life is on straight up cruise control.” With that he took his tank top off and held his little girls hand as she waded slowly into the water.

Cruise Control? I thought. This fool works at a summer camp and he’s talking about his life is on cruise control. Then I looked a little deeper into what he said. Perhaps the cruise control that he was referring to had nothing to do with occupation or even education for that matter. Perhaps it’s all about finding that ever-elusive inner peace. But I’m like damn can I truly be at peace if I’m broke as hell and struggling to pay the rent. According to the man with the dread locks the answer is yes.

Honestly it all makes a lot of sense. It took me a few years to understand but I really respect where that guy was coming from.  When you take the time to break it down you’ll find that even people who say they don’t care about the money really care about the money. Like me for example, LOL. It’s not that I want to be ballin out of control with a $10,000 pinky ring but I would like to earn enough to prevent my brain from automatically going into panic mode at the end of every month.

 It was wild because there I was presented with this mystery dude in the exact same situation as me and he seemed to be completely happy. This dude was actually on cruise control while I was in the middle of accruing an obscene amount of debt in graduate school. What did he know about life that I didn’t? What had he discovered? What spiritual code had he cracked?

But alas I have come to accept that I am not the man with the dreadlocks. The speed at which he presses the cruise control button is completely different from the speed that I feel comfortable doing so. And at that point in time I was nowhere close. To make matters worse I’m not sure if I’m any closer right now.

Maybe it’s like love and when I’m ready to go into cruise control mode I’ll just know, or maybe I’m just eternally restless and that moment will never come, or maybe that guy was lying. For all I know he committed himself into a mental institution that very night. Really I have no idea what happened to him but it doesn’t matter because my life is not about him. It’s about me and what I’m going to do.

 I would like to find a little inner peace though. I guess all I can do right now, however, is to keep searching.    

So stay tuned.

The Dead

Roger Porter

July 18, 2011

I wonder about the dead sometimes. At an indecent hour like this I am up wondering if all those whom we have lost ever think about us. For example; when a memory of them runs through our mind did they place it there, or are they capable of conjuring up memories of us simultaneously.

I just saw a video of a 20-year-old Tupac Shakur. He was a defiant, articulate, and dangerous young black man. He was not unlike a few of my good friends who I lost in my early 20’s. It would really be amazing if they were in a place where they could bump into one another and have a real exchange. Assuming autographs are of no value in the afterlife they would be inclined to talk about something really profound like how to look after all of us on Earth, or where they went wrong in life. Better yet, maybe they are completely at peace.

Peace would be something that may take them half of eternity to adjust to. For while they were here all they knew was rage and unrest. It’s sad that they left this world so young but I hope they know that they had an enormous impact on my life. I write for them, I fight for them, and I live for them.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQ4FvfM9Ftk&feature=share]

Dream of Life

Roger Porter

July 17, 2011

It’s a crazy feeling when you’re dead tired but can’t manage to go to sleep. It feels like you’re suspended in life. As if you are walking on a tightrope between consciousness and fantasy. Sometimes it takes an extreme amount of focus just to get there. Just to block everything out for long enough to slip away.

I imagine if we could actually see the Promised Land— after all those speeches, sermons, and biblical verses that have made us believe in its existence— then we would be too afraid to actually set foot on it. I fear that we have fallen in the love with purchasing the dream being sold to us rather than loving the dream itself.

We like the big man with the big voice who attracts the large crowds. We like to be moved by fancy words, by eloquent rhetoric, and a glowing smile. We can’t resist the charm of that charismatic person. We can’t help but to visualize what he tells us and we can’t help but to be swept up in fantasy when we hear him preach. So of course we pay the man for his troubles. We pay for the show. We pay handsomely for the dream yet our sleepy eyes are still open and we are still very much awake.

We still trust those people who seem to be omnipresent. Those people who worship the cameras. Those people who have been slowly raping the movement since our most brilliant luminary was slain. We still follow these individuals; however, if they were actually a threat to injustice then they would have been murdered a long time ago. The last time I saw one of these men on television I was with my daughter. She pointed to the screen and asked; “Who is that daddy?”  To which I responded; “That’s a clown with no make-up.”

In our hearts we are pure but in practice we are shallow. There is more to life than merely leading or following. Individuality still exists. There can still be honesty and oh yes there is love. If we learned to love ourselves then there is no way we would be conned by these wretched people. We would create our own dream and we would live in it forever right here on Earth.

Amen.

Dusk

Roger Porter

July 15, 2011

I love how the sky looks at dusk. When it’s orange, red, magenta, crimson, yellow; ill-defined. It forces me to look up even when I’m feeling down. When the world appears to be so drab and hopeless it’s always good to be taken aback by the beauty of something natural. Like naturally kinky hair, and naturally full lips, it all has the same effect on me. It’s wild how I never know I need inspiration until I’m inspired.  Then I become aware of the haze I was in before some pretty thing made my vision clear.

It makes me wonder if people in the dark ages knew they were living in darkness or were they just happy to be alive. I am happy to be alive but I do spend a considerable amount of time thinking about how this current era will be classified in the decades to come.

 It would be nice to hear an outside opinion sometime. I would appreciate having the opportunity to hear a dissenting voice without being told to fear it, or to sit idly by while others are ordered to kill it.

There are millions of gorgeous things in this world. There are even a lot of righteous people wandering about the earth who go unrecognized and taken for granted. It’s sad that I can become so engrossed in negativity that I can’t receive the most splendid gift that has ever been given.

The Sufferers

Roger Porter

July 13, 2011

 

It’s kind of sick how we view our artists. Sometimes it seems like the more troubled they are the harder we fall in love with them. I’m no exception. There is something inside of me that disallows me to truly feel an artist unless I can hear some pain in his or her voice. This is the same thing that prevents me from appreciating the music of Luther Vandross because every time I hear one of his songs I can visualize him smiling. It’s sad I know but I think it’s the Christianity in me. After all don’t we love Jesus so much because he suffered on the cross for us?

At any rate there is a poet whose literary voice I passionately adore. I have been enraptured by the works of Etheridge Knight for nearly all of my adult life. I would like to think that it has nothing to do with the fact that he served several years in prison or had a very serious heroin addiction but I know it does. Just like when I first found out how many times 50 cent had been shot it made me want to buy his record. It’s a shame that I can get caught up in something so petty, however, I suppose it’s similar to the Blues. I mean don’t you have to have the Blues to be a real Blues singer?

Either way Etheridge Knight was an exceptional poet who wasn't afraid to cry and bleed in front of his audience. Here is one of his many masterpieces:

The Idea of Ancestry

By Etheridge Knight1931–1991 Etheridge Knight

      1

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black

faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-

fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,

cousins (1st & 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare

across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know

their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,

they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;

they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.

I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,

1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),

and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece

(she sends me letters written in large block print, and

her picture is the only one that smiles at me).

I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,

and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took

off and caught a freight (they say). He’s discussed each year

when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in

the clan, he is an empty space. My father’s mother, who is 93

and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody’s birth dates

(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no

place in her Bible for “whereabouts unknown.”

      2

Each fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown

hills and red gullies of mississippi send out their electric

messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr / like a salmon quitting

the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birthstream / I

hitchhiked my way from LA with 16 caps in my packet and a

monkey on my back. And I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.

I walked barefooted in my grandmother’s backyard / I smelled the old

land and the woods / I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men /

I flirted with the women / I had a ball till the caps ran out

and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother

and split / my guts were screaming for junk / but I was almost

contented / I had almost caught up with me.

(The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker’s crib for a fix.)

This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when

the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk

and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,

they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no children

to float in the space between.

The Art Recession

Roger Porter

July 11, 2011

            A very good friend of mine once told me “We’re not only in an economic downturn but we’re in a recession of the arts as well.” Indeed we are living in a very peculiar time. I say this because normally times of economic woe bring out the very best in terms of music, film, and literature. A prime example of this would be American Slave Narratives and Jazz, but today it’s not happening.

             In this era of complete corporate control over the music that is sold and the books that are published we never hear of a new artist breaking the mold to say something different. As a matter of fact if one were to have to depend on contemporary art as a means for determining what is going on in the world then one wouldn’t even know there was a recession going on at all.

            Even a respected publication such as USA Today has published articles about living in “Post Recession America.” I understand the need for the government to prevent people from panicking as they did the day the stock market crashed in 1929; however, I think it would do some good to allow people to express the truth in some capacity.

            It would be foolish to think that you could miraculously “cure” a drug addict by publicly declaring that his addiction is over. It would be equally absurd for someone to try to bring a person out of a deep depression by acting like they don’t notice it and never speaking about it.

            So let’s be real America. Families are still losing their homes, masses of people are unemployed, and there aren’t nearly enough jobs being created to noticeably improve the economic situation. In short the recession is still very much alive. But it’s OK, don’t do anything rash. Instead write a poem, sing a song, or paint a picture about it. For although ignoring an issue will never make it go away the healing powers of art have been proven time and time again.

Masquerade

Roger Porter

July 8, 2011

What do we call those people who aren’t afraid to embrace their own solitude? How do we refer to those of us who don’t care to run with a click? I do believe we consider these people to be quite strange for the most part. However I always loved the individual who is truly an individual so I guess that makes me weird as well but so what.

 I think that the woman who can stand alone is far more beautiful than the woman who stands out in a crowd. I lust for she who loves herself with an overwhelming passion and only needs me there to help. Or at least that’s what I fantasize about. In reality I don’t know if I could handle her because in reality I am a man and thus cursed with certain oppressive characteristics.

I wonder how much of an individual can any woman be in a committed relationship? As a child I remember watching the strongest women I knew yield to their boyfriends; and not because they were forced to or because they were abused but rather because that’s how they were programmed to behave. I watched them give up the last word and held in my laugh as they acted like they couldn’t do things that I had seen them do a thousand times before—things like mow the lawn or pump the gas—so they could get their boyfriends to do it.

Even as a child I figured out that it was all an act but the men they dated never caught on. They thought these women were naturally submissive and dumb so they treated them as such. I suppose that’s all courtship is, it’s like an erotic masquerade.

What will happen when the masks come off and it is revealed that he is weak and she is a masterful thinker? What will become of the relationship then?

That’s why I like the ones who stand alone because they refuse to hide their strength. When she is by herself she is effectively placing all of her righteous attributes on display.

Betrayal

Roger Porter

July 7, 2011

                We all have our things I guess. No matter how strong we are we all have those things that make us weak. I get caught up sometimes. I get caught up in things that are no good for me. I find myself lost in the company of negative people who have never learned to love themselves, so how could they possibly love me. Each time I have received multiple warnings that these people were shady but I never paid attention. For some reason I always want to give human-beings the benefit of the doubt and I’m always the one who pays for it. It’s a very wretched feeling to continue to have faith in something that can only let you down. Pretty soon you realize that the only sure-fire way to avoid betrayal is to not believe in anything at all.

             Now I wonder is it worth it?