1090Re: [illpoets] Vanity
- May 2, 2006Extremely well written. Bravo to the Langston of our future
Oakland, California's Finest
“Purveying Poetic Powers From the Divine, Times Three”
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless handheld.
From: "krisjamel" <krisjamel@...>
Date: Tue, 02 May 2006 22:01:14
Subject: [illpoets] Vanity
I am always intrigued by the Vanity of people who think that race is
the clear cut division between ignorance and knowledge. I find myself
curious as to what drives this thought process because it certainly is
not history, nor tolerance or understanding, by process of elimination
I've found it to be a lack of knowledge. How can he speak of
something he has no understanding of, something as deep, complex and
layered as the black psyche. How can he propose to right off an
entire race's competency based on his limited knowledge of that race.
What I propose is that we ignore him, but bring attention to the
people who support him. You can not support a racist and not be a
racist, there's a conflict of interest. Besides most closet racist
don't want to be associated with an openly racist person, not good for
business and public image. He seems like he needs an audience to
thrive, so take that away. Anyway, here's my contribution to the
poetry pot luck of black power and black pride. Rock on Mr. Verses,
thanks for fighting these battles.
I received a letter today, delivered by a mailman whose hand bore the
same complexion as this crisp Blanca envelope. Enclosed are pages
saturated with the words of an oppressor.
Dear Ms. Guided One
*(His letters all ways begin this way)
Yes, I am still alive. I know you don't hear from me as much as you
use to, but I've just been hanging around. I would bet that you don't
believe me. How many examples do you need? How about that young
African boy in New York City or the incident with Eddie Bauer. What
about the destruction of the twin towers? What about the targeting of
Arab-Americans that followed? Can you imagine what it will be like
tomorrow? I hate to bring up the past, but have those people come up
with a messiah in the wake of Martin's passing? Why am I asking, I
know the answer. I guess I shouldn't ask of Huey P. of the panthers.
I'm not trying to rub it in, but you should realize that you can't
win. You are dying through the insouciance of men. Rest assured my
friend I am alive and well.
Racism a.k.a. Ignorance
As I placed my letter in the drawer where I keep all of his letters, I
pull out a tablet and my favorite gel pen. I then begin to return the
ball, so to speak.
I am saddened to hear of your worsening condition. It seems that in
your old age you believe that you are still thriving. Your days are
negatively numbered; all living things must die. You may think you're
as elusive as a chameleon, but you're much easier to view these days.
Just because people do not speak your language in public doesn't mean
they don't revert to their familiar lingo in private quarters.
Therefore you have an infrared beam aimed at your heart, a chrome 45'
is it's horse. But my guns aren't loaded with death; they're loaded
with life. My ammo is more extensive than any army's for my bullets
are books, righteous teachers, homegrown preachers, weathered
political leaders, and an inspired youth. The perfect sedative for a
sickness called ignorance, which you suffer from. I also suffer from
this disease because I keep my friends close and my enemies even
closer. With that being said, I will place my high caliber pistol
back in its holster, and bid you a hollowed goodbye missing the
sentiment of departure.
P.S. Next time you would like to write me, e-mail me at
I addressed this letter to everywhere and nowhere, which is generally
his location depending on who you ask. The postage for this package
was $6.66, expensive for just a letter but it carried thoughts that
weighed heavy on my heart. As I relinquished the letter in to the
world it hit the bottom of the mailbox with a thud. I turned into the
icy wind of this want to be winter season night and head homeward. I
notice a middle-aged woman, face reflective of the above crescent
moon. making her merry way toward me. I offer a hardy "Good evening."
She suddenly stops fast enough for her loafers to leave skid marks.
She reaches into her purse, hands me a letter, and then scurries
across the street. She moved like grade school kids told to stop
running. She moved as if she suspected she was being followed, chased
by monsters in her closet. Her imagination. I felt the deepest
sympathy for her, although I couldn't help smiling. Isn't it funny
how stupid racism makes people look?
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