FALLEN PEDDLES

A bouquet of roses, delicate and long stemmed,
smashed repeatedly upon the shoulder of her lover
in a giddy playfulness which rained peddles upon the floor.
a floor of urban grit and grime.
her screams of submission
went unheard
by her lover of dreadlocks passion
and half covered ass.
golden from ear to tooth
he was as sensual as he was boorish.
their affections
displayed a certain indiscretion
upon  the world
as we all witnessed it
cramped and annoyed.
like voyeurs
we all indirectly watched.
we all had no choice.
we,
the rail passengers,
the couple’s audience,
looked through their actions
and far beyond the woman's cries
-- because  we all had heard them before
and became tolerant.
their passions raised and continued just as we
rolled
along the tracks of
the Path.

there were others on the train.
some asleep, others chillin'
-- as they would call it.
all of them dressed in rag tagged grunge
and tattered plaid and grilled tweed,
a 40 in one hand,
and a middle finger
ever ready to be triggered.
flicked and shot up at those that would abject
to a generation called X.
cold and careless to the world
it was summer everyday and all the time
for this cogently lost age.
rappa tap tappin' a
tongue click clappin'
they beat a steady rip
to the roar of the underground train.
and bothered no one at all
in their world of choice.

the train continued
rickety tickety
rip roar and roll
through the urban veins of a city.
the sound of the Path
to Journal Square from 33rd
echoing the passing of a dying night of decadent delight,
crawling unrelentingly towards the possibility of a new day.
rail
dirtied and used
she moved abused
in a timely fashion.
much like all those that came and gone
as they went about their personal business.
like rejected monopoly pieces
set upon plastic and pseudo leather squared seats,
they all just sat
and stared.
each rider either passing go
and not collecting $200
or habitually crapping out,
waiting for that double
to get out of jail,
sentenced to a lifetime of monotony and mediocrity.

a brief stop here,
a brief stop there,
the world and beyond came along for the ride.
23rd Street, 14th Street, and 9th
i saw the tired, the hungry, and the morally troubled.
some chasing facsimiles of the Quest, Red Man, Gangstar
and the sister Queen.
still others just acted the part
and watched
the cracks of men and women,
eye to eye
contact for contact.
and through all
the rip rattle and roar
not one word was uttered.
but if you spoke in eyes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . too much was said.
 Christopher Street
-- the stop of P's and C's
stiffen some
and brought more conversation to others.
both spoken and unspoken.

befuddled men spoke in spit filled slurs
which spewed upon the residents of the cars,
going home,
it would seem that the street beggars are starting earlier.
or was it late?
at four in the morning
in a city that never sleeps
time was irrelevant.
sleep was futile.
and life,
the will to live
was all that was necessary
when alms for the poor became the only way to survive.
screeches and jerks
the countdown to finality
after Grove, Newport,and Exchange Place,
we ended in New Jersey,
its city and
Newark.
an assumed subtlety,
in its deception of safety.
for but one dollar of happiness,
one more dollar to step on the rose peddles on the floor
we end our exhibition
within the soul of the Path
and go home to our other selves
as the sun rises.

Fallen Peddles written by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © 1993 All Rights Reserved by Peace of Mind Publishings, Inc.

MADE IN AMERICA

i was made in america

conceived in a korean made bed

by an african american woman

and jamaican father.

birthed in a jewish hospital

and branded on the butt by an east indian doctor

i was held and fed by haitian and dominican nurses.

i was wheeled to my new family

by a german born woman

to grandma who cooed while father drove

in his japanese made car

passing greek and italian restaurants

and an irish own coffee shop.

my father's friend made us a portuguese feast

for good health and a full future

while Adel praised my coming in several of his prays.

with slavic cheers and gifts of wonderment

my cousins with latino excitement arrived

with my aunt from puerto rico

commanding order for my mother and me to rest.

in my prussian styled home

grandpa called from canada.

he'll be late coming for the visit.

and Elijah,

that's my brother,

arriving from catholic school

is uncertain where he now belongs

in his now expanding world.

the day moved on

as did all the enthusiasm around me.

the joy to a world,

touched by my presence,

i cried for food and soon slept

in my small world called

america.  

made in america written by Shazza Nakim (c) copyright 1994 Reserved to Peace of Mind Publishings, Inc.

Starlight Ball

Searching for that perfect wall flower before

midnight approaches.

The last dance on wooden floors cracked with memories.

Arms held high and silk draped over young naked shoulders,

locked together and spinning in small circles

then dipping,

filling the stale air with fancy perfume

-- straight from Paris.

The dance.

Men's suits,

uniformed, pressed sharp and tight

for sailing,

come morn,

the rallying call

for a spirit soon to be lost.

As said by every father

and their father's before.

Generations of stories told.

Only theirs with different players

equal with drama and tragedy.

The story of all the children of God

leaving the Choir of the Angles

to sing no more.

So they dance.

Starlight dust settling in young  eyes

floating from the floor, cracked and hollowed,

dust which reflect strobe lights and sparkle like moving points of light

illuminating a portion of this hall of happiness.

White on White

head to toe,

marionette dancers place ruby red kisses that blend

with rosy cheeks of innocence.

Baptizing the future of the Nation's dream,

their only consolation of hope.

For they all know

-- all too well,

it will fade come daybreak.

The dance.

Just as all dreams,

we soon forget them in time

and continue about our lives.

Somewhat changed,

somewhat older,

that much more further

into the dance

at the Starlight Ball. 


Starlight Ball  written by Shazza Nakim (c) copyright 1994 Reserved to Peace of Mind Publishings, Inc.

REVOLUTION

I’ve seen sparks flare and rocks fly

Crashing against brows that pulsate blood

feeding

Knowledge and pride

for a tribe.

my Home,

our family.

It’s a light,

like stars,

that dance

Smack

HARD

And wakes the senses

allowing you,

and everyone present know

that THIS is reality.

Be it live or recorded

you now stand at the front line of the Revolution.

I took a side and it is Hot, and Violent, Physical

Wonderful.

This will be the re-start of that circle in Mayan history

where everything repeats because as Man and Men

we keep forgetting the struggle

That life, liberty and the over pursuit of prosperity

eventually and ultimately

kills us.

Bible Quran Torah taught us,

this.

We have embraced humanity’s less exorcised

and re-swallowed pea-soup of bile and blades

served up on money green platters and platinum card dreams.

Swooned and swayed to diamond jingle bells

and shook bags of sugar ‘till it dropped like its Hot.

Cars like deadly caterpillars munching on black filled pipes,

sucking hard on the excremental breast milk of Mother Earth.

People followed and realized that the beat they heard was not of the heart

but of the cellular ringtones from bill collectors calling

cursing your ass out to pay your bills.

It was a beat that burped and belched that your stomach is tight and empty

It was a hollow treble that echoed from your foreclosed home

And the hammer knocking in your neighbor’s lawn

signs reading,

… AND YOU 2 GET THE FUQ OUT.

Here everyone in the land is looking to the sky for a Superman

while rocking back and forth counting beads and molesting crosses

with dirty fingers that once traced remotes that channeled every talk show created.

in this reality sits a people who

stopped singing Negro spirituals praising Jesus …

a long time ago,

and replaced him with Pink Floyd

The gospel:

“We don’t need no education
We don’t need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the class room
(yells) Hey, teachers! Leave those kids alone!”

Because the man got it right:

I and we were just another brick in the Wall.

Praying for simple solutions,

the devil in us turned GOD into DOG

And in return

got a nation that shit and pissed all over each other.

Funny thing about shit and piss,

it is the one true method that dogs communicate

and the World made sure we did not become pedigrees

living in our own American backyard.

Unlike thunder or like lightning, the rumble in the distance

is missing.

No more can we count on the people to carry pitch forks

German Sheppards and high pressure hoes,

or spit and slur words of hate.

This is a different time, a different place

This whole party goes beyond Race.

Mutts, junkyard and strays in our own diversity

where television sells us on the notion that Poor is Fashionable and Cheap is Cool

SPAM is caviar and Ramen Noodles is part of the 4 basic food groups.

Holy Men dancing with baby boys and Women becoming famous for their anger and pain,

who could ever image a bunch of dirty kids from New Jersey’s shore

would be the welcoming ambassadors for a generation.

We look around

 and become rabbit when what little is left is thrown in the middle

of a hungry pack,

and we draw blood.

Ethnic blood

 in a frenzy, and we still can’t see that it is all Red.

Because in truth, we are dead inside.

Hollow.

A cesspool of mediocrity and mendacity.

Dank and dark even in our most enlighten moments.

Complacent like meat fried up to give the next generation heartburn and diabetes

We medicate on the idea that we are great only because we are American.

And if we turn down the music, just enough

we just might hear the scant chuckle of Shaitan

and the quite tears of GOD,

opposite ends,

opposite sides of Ying and Yang.

Like the center of the circle in history,

 this is now cause,

 this the catalyst

for

The Revolution.

WHY U SCARED OF ME

Why you scared of me?

Is it something deep inside.

Deep deep inside?

Shadow guised?

Keeping check the pride

that you eyed?

Is my time in the limelight

too bright?

My pockets gorged green

to capacities out of common sight?

Is my fight before your coming

too hyped?

My work,

like a Hebrew slave

that stayed,

cracked base like cracked Cain

leaving your pyramid undone.

Why you scared of me?

Is my truth so real?

When I say I love you

you shake back

to the moment of your conception.

My need to be your Man,

dancing passion and kind,

washed your doubts smooth,

like skin,

feeling you freely

until you are mine.

 

END

As we grow older we begin to understand that the last part of things

can be just as beautiful as a beginning.

Then we can truly appreciate what has gone before.

That being said,

American the beautiful

American the brave.

American written in the  Fall

America’s winter in Gray.

Revolution.

Revolution is the sole property of Shazza Nakim, all Rights Reserved and is published with written permission by the artist. (c) Copyright 2014