Archives for : Feed Your Mind

Burn Baltimore Burn!

Special Report: Baltimore is burning…again?

Now that you have some starter music, let’s do this.


So outside of the people who only associate the city with The Wire, most folks act as though it is just another place on the east coast. But this city has a long history of being a powderkeg. So first up we had the 1968 riots. Now obviously this was one of many riots following the assassination of Dr. Martin Luthor King Jr. Across the country these riots were not only responses to the assassination, they were also the boiling over of animous between the black community and the city which like now seems to be unable to care about the people who comprise the city. But let’s take the wayback machine even farther back. Because rioting in Baltimore isn’t just a black thing.

Your Media Coverage May Vary

Your Media Coverage May Vary

In 1812 America once again goes to war. During it Baltimore is a major flashpoint. Many members of the Democratic-Republican Party viewed opposition as treasonous or near-treasonous once war was declared. The Washington National Intelligencer wrote that, “WAR IS DECLARED, and every patriot heart must unite in its support… or die without due cause.” The Augusta Chronicle wrote that, “he who is not for us is against us.”[3]

This sentiment was especially strong in Baltimore, at the time a boomtown with a large population of recent French, Irish, and German immigrants who especially hated Britain. In early 1812, several riots took place, centering around the anti-war Federalist newspaper the Federal Republican. Its offices were destroyed by a mob. Local and city officials, all war hawks, expressed disapproval of the violence, but did little to stop it.[4] When the editors of Federal Republican tried to return, they were removed from protective custody in a jail by a mob, on the night of July 27, and tortured; one Revolutionary War veteran, James Lingan, died of his injuries. Opponents of the war then largely ceased to openly express their opposition in Baltimore.[5]

The Baltimore riots were the height of violent backlash during the war, whose popularity dropped through 1813 and 1814. However, after the war, when the Hartford Convention’s proceedings became public just after a peace treaty was signed with Britain, there was a longer-term backlash against the Federalist Party, which became associated with secession and treason. The party never regained national predominance, fielding its last Presidential candidate in 1816 and fading away entirely by the end of the 1820s.(source: Wikipedia)

Reality being what it is, Baltimore has more parts to play in history. That dangerous, disgusting, dark, they don’t like to see me bring it up history. Because in 1861 Baltimore is once again the setting for a riot, this time because the slavery loving, southern supporter, TRAITORS, who’s offspring would later take up there flag like the cowardly, yellow bellied, traitorious worthless piles of pig excrement they are, got mad about being drug into the war and rioted. It produced the first deaths by hostile action in the American Civil War. Check out the Baltimore Riot of 1861.

But we can move far ahead to just the last 3 years. Why? Because Baltimore, like Kansas City, St. Louis, Cleveland, Miami, NYC, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Seattle, Denver, Memphis, Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Chicago, and tons of small towns around the nation, is full of people having to sue the police department because they or a now dead relative was severely injuried or murdered at the hands of police officers. Baltimore itself came into 2014 with 5.7 million dollars in police brutality settlements and judgments to the very citizens that the police are supposed to serve and protect. You can read more HERE!


Music Break:

So this piece has done the history bit, and some more music to help me transition to the next part of today’s special appearance. Let’s get into it. There is something to be said for the song above’s point. Same with the riots lately. Similar to when I previously spoke on the situation in Ferguson, Missouri this is beyond an issue of what, and about why? Why is this the only way to get society at large to pay attention to issues in various communities? Why is this the face most commonly shown? Why is the coverage of riots different depending on what they are for? Why is that difference so counter-intuitive? Why aren’t these so called pro black leaders out there giving actual solutions and helping make it less and less necessary for the violent outbursts that accompany these issues?

picvI know you caught that last bit. It was a shot on purpose. One thing I do on a semi-daily schedule is check out the people who claim to be super pro black, super pro working class, and of course defenders of all those considered minority and/or downtrodden. I also mean those sitting in ivory towers and penthouse suites. Because all of the social and political leadership is woefully deficient. You might notice your major hotep spouting pro black friends saying these are the best ways to get things done. I assure you as I always have, these people are stupid. They don’t see that perception is something to be countered at the same time as these more, insurrection like methods are used. For every time they shout to go ahead and burn it down, they just add one more person who might otherwise have reasonably agreed with the need for change to the camp of people calling folks animals and thugs on television.

You might also notice the more famous your friends, or all of the celebrities you talk to telling folks to calm down, and that these riots mean nothing positive. One of those people of course being Ray Lewis for some reason.

Am I the kind of person would doesn’t see the point Ray is trying to make? No. But I am the guy who sees the parts of his point that are wrong. What have I said over and over again? That you can’t just riot, you can’t just protest, that you have to do more than the people who came before you did. Why do I keep saying that? Because, and let’s get real for a moment I’m just talking about Black people, time has not been invested in taking the approach to things the other communities of color, and causes in America have.

The reason the Jewish community can send lawyers and community leaders at anti-semetic issues is because they put the equity in using those voices to speak for their community. The reason gays are able to get companies smeared by media outlets is because they put the equity into taking aim through courts and wallets speaking for them after they infiltrated all parts of corporate culture. The reason women have an easier time taking out sexists than black people do racists is the exact same thing. So now that we are in this place you have to be twice as smart about things. A line which I’m sure you heard from your parents and other older family and friends as a child. What do I mean? I mean we need celebrities who can talk like this.

Now most folks when they listen to this audio, attach to the end of the Tupac’s metaphorical discussion of Black America using a room with food in front of hungry people. What the deeper student should catch is that Tupac doesn’t say actually do the violence being said in the lyrics he comes up with contemporaneously. Why? Certainly the man who made yelling “Thuglife” popular had no problem being controversial. But he takes a moment and stop short of saying go break into everyone’s houses in order to say something profound. “What do you think someone is going to do? Ask?” puts a warning into the heart of the listener. What you should be fearing is not us coming to the door, but what ideas we’ve come up with for dealing with you. After all, you either are going to come out, or we are going to come in.

And you need that voice. You need a person striking fear intellectually into the those who are sitting in power. But one thing you never see footage of Tupac doing, is taking shots at the black leaders who are alive at the time. He is almost reverent about them and the sacrifices they have made. Why? Because he recognizes that you need those leaders who are still alive and available to be fighting the same war on a different front. One thing that often annoys me about those who have post-humously sainted Tupac is that they see him as who should have been leading all of Black America in the 90’s.

But what they miss is he realized he wasn’t built for it. So what did he do instead? He focused on the lane he could handle. Same here. Protestors, rioters, politicians, celebrities, and the average everyday person have their part to play. But it does no one, NO ONE, any good if all the voices out there don’t have a plan, and are focused on shouting down the other ones. Now I’ve gone very long today, but not odd at all I could gone on longer. This issue is just that complex. It is just…well…WORDS DON’T DO IT JUSTICE! Be safe out there in Baltimore and everywhere else.

– THE Ruthless Wonder

National Poetry Month

Today is a rather stark break from tradition. As you know I tend to keep my life writing fiction, poetry, and other things separate from my law career, and even more separate from my life here as your favorite Super Villain. Today though, I’ll be breaking with that in honor of National Poetry Month. Below I’m reprinting 1 of my own pieces, as well as a few of my personal favorites from the authors who often influenced me. I include my own as an odd, self depricating failure to keep up with the masters of the art form. But also because poets write poems folks, sometimes we gotta share them too. So for once(Are you happy now superfan who keeps asking about my writing?) here’s one from me and then here’s a few by the Masters who’s writing taught me. And if you want anything related to this stuff check out my artist page, because I will not be bringing it up here again. Maxus on Facebook<- click to go down the rabbit hole. I have a bunch of writer and former writer friends, as well as active, semi, and inactive poet friends(Shout out to Raffeal Sears, I am still hungry for food. Not food food, but food for thought.) who I would be glad to pub their work as well, I just haven’t been getting submissions from them(HINT HINT).

The poem I’m going to share from my own collection is one that is set to be part of a small book called Stories I told myself. And it is unique in that it is one of few with a direct introduction to just the poem. It is also unique in that it is one of few times I am actually talking about myself when the poem uses me, or I. While I have tons of poem protagonists and narrators for that matter. I don’t often make my real self them. People of course, assume stuff, but meh. Anyway, here it is complete with the actual introduction used in the book.

Prayer to the Pantheon

Not a lot of the poems have a bit of a story or introduction, but this poem in particular I felt needed a bit of one. At one point I was in a poetry workshop and someone who was a atheist crafted a poem that sort of explained the she had the same kind of devotion to poetry and poets that some people had to their various religious beliefs. I think possibly she thought I might be offended by the idea of a poem that praised and often spoke of praying and worshipping the heavyweights of poetry. I wasn’t offended in the slightest. One of the many things I had learned in previous years when I went through what some call a crisis of faith, was that the nature of belief by itself is a product of our humanity. Only the subject of belief changes from person to person.

A few years later when I was reawakening this desire to write I found myself making a few too many poems on the particular subject of love. Love’s great and all, but I knew that I had yearned for and hungered after poetry for much more than to just be some hacky love poet trying to pick up girls with honeyed words. It was at that moment I thought back to her poem and the idea that all of these teachers and the lessons that their writing had taught me were being tossed aside. And as someone who strives to not forget things like that I wanted a creative way of expressing my frustration. I’ve long since forgotten that classmate’s name, but it was her poem, and a lot of ego that crafted this into what it is. Myself, I’ve found that it is very interesting when my friends and family who are deeply traditionally religious read it. I’ll only say that it is a poem, not a personal statement.

Prayer to the Pantheon

I’m guilty as sin,
Cause I do it too,
Let my poetic license take me into
The whining and perverse conclusions of hacks.
Dear sweet merciful Jesus forgive me,
For perverting my lessons at Langston’s Feet.
For tossing away the philosophy of Frost.
I got wrapped up in my own ego,
Got twisted in the perfection of linguistic erections.
See I’m doing it again.
Nikki G and Maya forgive me for turning phrases,
Into little more than come on lines and lewd advances.
I don’t know where this started,
Well maybe I do,
See I saw myself on stage filled with indigo blues,
Saw rappers attempt to take over the art,
Tried to show them that poems were Shakespearean love
Torn apart,
Seams broken like dreams unspoken,
Nightmares of rejections, and chances never taken.
But then I saw H.E.R. image,
And then the next and the next,
And my grin that hides the sly machinations of a
Mad poet filled with verbal gymnastics and
Vocabulary flexing of my biggest muscle,
Damnit I can’t escape it Ginsberg,
I want to howl about those angel headed hipsters
Who left the starry dynamo for hedge funds and oil slicks.
But all I can find is my old stage name’s ravings
About rejection and desperation for love,
About the figure of a future dalliance,
I know I know Silvia,
I pray I don’t offend,
But these sexual thoughts that bleed into my pen
I simply don’t know how to end.
Even Whitman had a heart sometimes,
Even Poe could love in a stanza.
William taught us Love could be blind and
Let Benedick die in his lover’s lap,
But if I use their linguistics I’m in a bind
Or this crowd will call me a sap.
I want to twist verbs around
And show them this legal genius is a verbal Dom,
But when I look down at these sweat drenched palms,
It just seems easier to draw up that odd emotion,
Call on late night heroics instead of a measure of devotion,
To this art you all taught me through the pain of my circumstance,
Helped me raise up my lowered head in the face of my depression,
Showed me the beauty of trumpet players and ravens,
Made me question if a waltz was a beating,
And force men to lightly tread on the dreams I had laid under their feet.
But I can’t shake this self-satisfying smugness,
My down and out dreams to drops of dank dreariness,
My acid trip of psychedelic sexual splendor,
Bleeding brash bangs of busty beauties into black ball point pens,
And I feel I’ve failed your faultless pantheon,
Let my corruption coat and crush completely the countless conclusions
The sum total of the sonnetary summations a student calls success.
I’m sorry I stopped fighting for your art,
For the Warrior Poet I was supposed to be.
Forgive me and show me that light again,
But allow me a random digression if nothing more than a chance to vent,
And sometimes express my hidden emotions, so someone out there might get the hint.

And for the audio inclined.

This post could literally have been 20 Langston Hughes poems. Langston Hughes was read to me as a child. He was fed to me by every English teacher, and church elder, and most of my relatives whenever I talked about poetry. I knew Langston Hughes was from Joplin, Missouri before I knew George Brett was playing for the Royals(And my first baseball game was during the world series in 1985) I could do The Negro Speaks of Rivers from Memory before I could do multiplication tables from memory. The Trumpet Player though, is the culmination of my love of Langston’s work. evocative, direct, but full of hidden complexity which never really hits every reader the same their first time. I love it. And I think, you’ll love it too.

Trumpet Player

Written by Langston Hughes

James Langston Hughes [1902-1967]

Trumpet Player

The Negro
With the trumpet at his lips
Has dark moons of weariness
Beneath his eyes
where the smoldering memory
of slave ships
Blazed to the crack of whips
about thighsThe negro
with the trumpet at his lips
has a head of vibrant hair
tamed down,
patent-leathered now
until it gleams
like jet—
were jet a crown

the music
from the trumpet at his lips
is honey
mixed with liquid fire
the rhythm
from the trumpet at his lips
is ecstasy
distilled from old desire—

that is longing for the moon
where the moonlight’s but a spotlight
in his eyes,
that is longing for the sea
where the sea’s a bar-glass
sucker size

The Negro
with the trumpet at his lips
whose jacket
Has a fine one-button roll,
does not know
upon what riff the music slips

It’s hypodermic needle
to his soul
but softly
as the tune comes from his throat
mellows to a golden note.

This is not the shortest poem I consider influential. I read a lot of Haiku, both original Japanese Haiku, and modern artist’s attempts. This poem though is one I’d say does everything you want in a few lines. You don’t need more. So while this intro to W.B. Yeats is just about as long as the poem itself, I’m done. Read the poem people.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

By William Butler Yeats

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.


I include Howl as the last piece because I remember it first confusing me. It was a reference in the film Hackers, and I immediately had to look it up based on a brief piecemeal usage during a classroom scene. Something made me attach to it. And so I read it. I found myself partially scrawling it places, losing myself in the seediness of the scene. And my ability to talk about the sleaze scapes of some of my settings are often birthed from Howl and way too many hardboiled and noir films.



For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
   where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
   where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
   where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
   where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
   in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
San Francisco, 1955—1956

Allen Ginsberg, “Howl” from Collected Poems, 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers. Source: Selected Poems 1947-1995 (HarperPerennial, 2001)

Who are some of your favorite Poets and what are some of your favorite poems? I do hope you enjoyed my contribution and be sure to check out the other poets in your circle of friends, and elsewhere in the world. Because for once Words Do Them Justice!

– The Ruthless Wonder

Words Don’t Do It Justice: YOU are Forty Thousand Strong on our 2nd Anniversary

Just a reminder where we started.

Just a reminder where we started.

Words Don’t Do It Justice

“It was all a dream.

I used read word up magazine.”

I could keep going with that, but really I don’t feel like quoting too much of anyone else today. So let me address this with the style most comforting.

When this all began it was an idea.

The thought that we could give the world something in this blog that would be read by our friends, maybe a few co-workers and classmates. And every once in a while I’d get to deal with the issues I have to face on a daily basis by just ranting into a text window for 30 minutes to an hour and let the world read. Certainly if we accomplished that I would have called this a successful idea and when the view dwindled I’d close it up and say I had a good time.

But that isn’t what you did. And I say that isn’t what YOU did, because it is true. You are the reason this fun time didn’t turn into just another thing I used to do. YOU made it worth it to find Rufus, Ronin, Roddo, Rebellionista, Realistic Royalty, Princess Devy, Reign, The Revanchist, The Radical Ref, Carl McPhail, Xion, Driving Misty, Rhapsodic, Reason, Kudo, Rhythmic Journey, Revolution In A Jar, causeandeffect88, Bami O, Render Verdicts, Ruminated Thoughts, Keith Labell, Smooth Phuzion, Bree the V, TEH Bobbo, and all the people who wanted to commit but just didn’t have the time to write, be on the podcast, contribute music, or be interviewed.

That wasn’t just me plodding through on my own. That was you reading. That was you sharing. That was YOU telling the world our little corner of the internet was worth checking out. in the first year we did 3500 views. In 2 years we have done 40,000! Because of all of you. And now things are possible that weren’t not long ago. YOU made this happen. People asked me when I started what I expected. They asked me what I wanted. I just wanted people to listen to my thoughts sometimes. It was so simple back then. Now? Now I want the sky and everything beyond. lol just kidding.

Now I want to give you more of what you come here for. So covering Gaming, and other topics, We’re proud to announce that Nine To Five Gamer will be joining us run by Bami O. Look for the official page as well as forums soon. You’re going to read pieces from many of our alumni writers. And that long-awaited revamp/update to the site. I can’t promise you we’ll turn into a Super Villain run Huffington Post by tomorrow. Heck I can’t even promise that by next year. But I can promise we will keep hitting these hot topics with our cold analysis. I can promise we are committed to giving you what you came here for. And I can promise you I WILL NEVER FORGET what drives Words Don’t Do It Justice. Because what drives us is YOU!

My humanity wants to cry by my Super Villainy is smiling too hard and is too excited. Thank you all. THANK YOU. Every super fan. Every random reader Every casual person who checked us out a few times or just once. THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THIS FROM ALL OF US! We couldn’t have done all this without you. Words Do Not Do YOU Justice!

– THE Ruthless Wonder

Words Don’t Do It Justice: Breaking News

Just a reminder where we started.

Just a reminder where we started.

Over the weekend we were very close to an amazing achievement.

On Monday it was so tantalizingly close I was thinking of dropping a post just to help push it over after the Holidays Don’t Do It Justice post.

But Tuesday Night after Posts from Ruminated Thoughts and of course from THE Ruthless Wonder reacting to the decision by the Darren Wilson Grand Jury, we hit a milestone that if I’m honest I didn’t expect until 2015.


On Behalf of the Weekends Don’t Do It Justice Writers Reason, Kudo, Xion, and Lucremo.

On Behalf of the Words Don’t Do It Justice Guest Bloggers, The Justice League.

On Behalf of the Words Don’t Do It Justice Alumni writers

On Behalf of the Keith Labell and Smooth Phuzion who provide music for The WDDIJcast and The WRATH of Ruthless.

On Behalf of Reign, The Revanchist, Ruminated thoughts, and Ronin

And on Behalf of 314 Publishing, Imperial Dreams Productions, and WORDS DON’T DO IT JUSTICE

THE Ruthless Wonder is proud to announce that as of November 25th, 2014 Words Don’t Do It Justice has reached 9,200 views!

ALL Because of YOU!

ALL Because of YOU! Photo edit credit: JohnHenry Balsa

And we have you to thank.

Every one of you who shares us with you friends on facebook and your followers on twitter.

Every one of you who comes back even on days when no one has posted just to see if something is dropping.

Every one of you who has stuck by us since my very first post to this very day.

Thank you for being our superfans.

Thank you for believing in us.

Words do no do you justice.


I could say it a thousand times and it wouldn’t be enough. But I’ll say it one more time.

We love you all.

Thank you!


THANK YOU! Photo Edit Credit: Steven Cockrell

– YOUR Ruthless Wonder

The Scary Black Man Defense Still Works

I have a black son who is near the age of Michael Brown.

The loss of any life is horrendous and unimaginable for anyone to fully comprehend. I’ve seen and lived through Rodney King. Trayvon Martin. My family before me lived through Medgar Evers. The date on my calendar changes but the story remains the same. A black American is cut down before he is called home by his Creator. It happens time and time again. And I, for one, am more than exhausted and numbed and generally hurt by seeing this. But most of all – I am afraid. I fear that all the hard work that I have done with my greatest partner, my wife, in trying to raise a young black boy towards manhood will be done in by a law enforcers bullet. When I see white laws applied to blacks, I am at least made to pause and wonder if our best efforts are ever going to be enough.

The decision not to indict the policeman on any single charge is more than upsetting. Not because the grand jury found that decision was the only one they could make. But because the law left them no other apparent choice except to release the man back onto the streets with real impunity. Free of any immediate guilt, at least from the law. I am angry that the black brothers and sisters of my nation must once again swallow the bitter pill spilled from a bottle labeled injustice.

As long as any man finds comfort and solace in the law to use the ‘Scary Black Man Defense’, we will never progress as a nation. More will die and none will sleep easy at night

I worry so much that even with the loss of yet another life, we are going to have to hope that the sometimes dysfunctional and often mysterious Federal investigation will bear some fruit that is at least somewhat palatable. It is incomprehensible that a nation built ostensibly on laws would allow any law to put a dead person on trial and allow the killers voice to win the day.

What I’ve Just witnessed is laws born of fear brought to action. I have seen what happens when a police officer is well trained in the culture of fear and he is sent out with fear and loathing in his heart rather than a sense of community policing. Y’know, a fellow I listened to this weekend said said something interesting. He said that he recalls a time when the cop walking his beat was trained to know his community. That the kids in that community knew him and wanted to be like him . That his community that he policed was his own because he lives in it and wanted the best for it. But now, what we see is the police leaving the streets and instead racing by in cars. And after that, they saw fit to place officers in armored vehicles. Then tanks.

Ruby Ridge, anyone?

What I have learned in my short life, is that the farther back you stand from anything, the easier it is to pretend like you are responding appropriately and in an engaged manner. President Bush thought he was doing enough after Katrina in a helicopter fly-over. President Clinton thought the SKUD [sic] missiles were sufficient. That if you stand back far enough from Ferguson MO, close one eye, and squint out of the other, maybe you will talk your way through this and see real change.

Real change never happened except through bloodshed and usually it happens after the victim is bloodied.

Any time you have a world where the law says it is ok for a human being to lay in any street anywhere for any amount of time, there is more than talk that is needed. This dark night is not just wrong, or a tragedy. It is a very real gun shot in the heart of Black America–

and the whole world saw it.

The television has shown me images of what the law will call violence. Violence against police vehicles. Violence against public property. Violence against upturned riot shields. But I know that the real violence was not on display tonight. The real violence was on that terrible day several months ago in a community of Black Americans. The real violence was when the police were taught to use deadly force when an unarmed aggressor is faced.

It truly is time for a change. My President understands why many are angry. How could he not? I certainly do too.

Now what are we going to do about it?

In Defense of Charles Barkley


Sometimes you need some comedy to put perspective on comments. You know who you are. Let’s get into the topic.

In Defense of Charles Barkley

I'm not the only one who has to put the black hat on from time to time.

I’m not the only one who has to put the black hat on from time to time.

As I tell my white friends, we as black people, we’re never going to be successful, not because of you white people, but because of other black people. When you’re black, you have to deal with so much crap in your life from other black people. It’s a—It’s a dirty, dark secret; I’m glad it’s coming out. It comes out every few years. I wrote a big chapter in my book about it, to be honest with you.

I said, you know, when young black kids, you know, when they do well in school, the loser kids tell them, ‘Oh, you’re acting white.’ The kids who speak intelligently. They tell them, ‘You’re acting white.’ So it’s a dirty, dark secret in the black community.

One of the reasons we’re never going to be successful as a whole, because of other black people. And for some reason we are brainwashed to think, if you’re not a thug or an idiot, you’re not black enough. If you go to school, make good grades, speak intelligent, and don’t break the law, you’re not a good black person. And it’s a dirty, dark secret, Anthony.

Most, I—I heard Stephen A. [Smith] talkin about it. And listen, I hate to bring white people into our crap, but as a black person, we all go through it when you’re successful. Uh, you know it’s like one of the reasons, you know. One of the reasons a lot of black players go broke is because when you’re successful your friends say to you, ‘Oh, you ain’t cool. You ain’t down with us anymore.’ And you end up giving up all your money to these damn losers, and you end up broke again.

But it’s a dirty, dark secret in the black community. There are a lot of black people who are unintelligent, who don’t have, uh, success. It’s best to knock a successful black person down because they’re intelligent, they speak well, they do well in school, and they’re successful. And they don’t..if you think about it—It’s crabs in a barrel. The thing that’s happening we’re the only race that tell people if you don’t have street cred, with like, that means you been arrested, like, like that’s a compliment. We’re the only ethnic group who say, ‘Hey, if you go to jail, it gives you street cred.’ It’s just typical BS that goes on when you’re black, man.

– Charles Barkley on 94 WIP’s online Podcast from October 23rd titled: Charles Barkley Talks About Anything & Everything (here). Starting at 14minutes 52 seconds.

For some rather strange reason these comments have been met with criticism and controversy instead of being taken for exactly what they are. Direct and blunt truth. But in order to properly cover this I’m going to break it into parts so you can better understand what is going on. First up is the idea of the comments being incorrect, then we’ll talk about the attacks on them being said, and finally a little bit of perspective. I’m feeling hopeful.

Charles Barkley isn’t wrong

The idea that Barkey is incorrect is in fact laughable. And it has nothing to do with his hilarious version of a southern accent. When you look at the external pressures on Black America it is easy to miss the internal pressures that we place on ourselves. Looking at pure numbers, despite the clear uptick in college enrollment by black males; the disparity between those choosing post secondary education without sports involvement and those immediately entering the workforce is still far higher than at any point for their female counterparts.

Now you may say but that isn’t bad everyone doesn’t need to go to college, or maybe they cannot afford higher education. I would listen to these arguments but given the cost difference and enrollment figures at HBCUs that point is moot. The reality is you can still get a quality education as a black student in many places in the country but for some reason that is not being taken advantage of. I didn’t go to an HBCU for a lot of reasons, some of which I think differently about now, but ultimately would not have changed my position on it. But I had a lot more opportunity that most. These are not bad schools. The fact they are closing like blockbuster videos is a sad fact when there are enough kids to have gone there just not using college as an option.

The Lantern posted a piece about a poll from Gallup about the financial aid crisis in communities of color versus their white counterparts. It includes this graph which is extremely telling when you think about the cost to attend them as well as average starting salary for their graduates.

And don’t worry Here’s a link to the top ten and their average salary for grads versus tuition per year. On average as of 2009 there was a six thousand dollar ($6,000USD) difference in cost to attend HBCUs. And who’s not up for saving money? But, as you think back to what this section is about, why does this help prove Charles isn’t wrong? Because it shows there is clearly something peculiar going on that is keeping black kids from going to these schools. Many HBCUs have been forced to cut back on programs offered as well as many closing altogether. Why? Because it isn’t a priority to take advantage of this resource. Why? Because we aren’t opening the doors for the generation after us anymore.

Look at how we value young black boys who have gotten into every Ivy league school and have to choose which ones to turn down. We let our kids get on social media to call them oreos, say that’s for white folks, and decry them as nerds. Well to all of that particular group of idiots, You may now exit the country. Your services are no longer required. But less go deeper. What about all the people who under the guise of being pro black have said these boys should not go to learn things from the white man, and that they are somehow in a slave mentality. What this hotep hoes and pro-black pimps want you to you believe is that academic achievement under a system that has historically been filled with white faces is something to stay away from. Now here’s the dirty secret of that mentality. It relies on you not noticing how little value they place on the education from black schools.

I don’t hear Tariq Nasheed trying to get every black boy into Morehouse. In fact more than once he’s implied all men who went there are gay. But bigger than that where’s his school he’s supporting? And before you idiots come back with “Higher education is just the creation of euro-centric mentalities and furthers a euro-centric viewpoint on all important studies.” Put the bean pie down beloved, you’re idiocy is showing. Every society that can be considered objectively civilized has made a point to create a system of schools devoted to academics, the Kemetian dynasties, the Greeks the Romans, the Persians, the Chinese, the Japanese, Mali and Songhai, Carthage, Sicily, and yes every modern nation currently on the planet.

But lets get into the high schools. How much money did your high school debate team have available for national tournaments? How about for high school mock trial? How many announcements did you hear about school plays? How many people did interpretations for talents instead of sing, rap, or dance? Who was you StuCo President? Chess Champion?  Now some of you readers can answer that. Most folks can’t. But you and the community remember the cheerleading captain, dance team members, the sports folks, who made that one song that everybody knew, who made it in every industry but academics. Now that isn’t to say some of you know more of the first groups and less of the second, but that isn’t the balance of this ethnic classification we call a community. And that’s why Charles isn’t wrong. Because even you have trouble remembering those things. Now imagine how it felt for those kids. Now imagine how it felt for the ones who didn’t want to be seen as one of them, but had the intellect.


Your attacks show how stupid you are

One of the first things I heard as a criticism of Barkley was the notion that he shouldn’t say this publicly. And to those idiots I have a wonderful new energy drink call Ricin “SOO much energy you’ll be dying for more.” This idea that anyone making public comments on an issue is somehow uncouth harkens back to something apparently still ingrained in this community. But really needs to be gotten rid of along with that stupid Light skinned, Dark skinned, mixed bullshit. There are problems in modern society and there is a dearth of access to important information. To say someone shouldn’t speak up on these problems because people not of our ethnic classification might hear is stupid. When there is a problem you talk about it. You aren’t fixing it by acting like there is nothing wrong.

The other major attack I hear is that he doesn’t deserve to talk about it because he made it. ANd if that isn’t just obviously stupid I don’t really know what is. Barkley made it doing something that less than 2% of human beings do. The reality is even in the black community in America where the sport is that is closer to 1%. Who better to tell you that the focus should be on making it in ways that don’t require genetics you have no control over? The idea of focusing on making it through science, technology, engineering, and math may seem boring, but it will save your life. And it will make it possible to do something about the conditions we hear over and over about and how tired you are of them.


A bit of hope in the form of Perspective

In America today there is a growing trend of people overpaying for conveniences that let them be lazy. And from comedians to politicians everyone has something to say about it. We have a country where Bill Cosby hides possible sexual assault cases, and the comedian who calls him out on it is the story. We have terrorist groups trying to found their own countries. We have TLC reality stars dating men with child molestation convictions when their daughter’s are in little girl beauty pageants. The whole planet knows about this and wants to correct these things because people speak up. The world is safer when you speak up. The world evolves when you put more focus on things that can make everyone’s life better. Charles Barkley isn’t the enemy. blissful ignorance, stupidity, and idiocy are. I could say more but…WORDS DON’T DO IT JUSTICE!


– THE Ruthless Wonder


Feed Your Mind: 1st Month update

We wanted to take a moment and say thank you to everyone reading along with us on Feed your Mind. A reminder that the book is the 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene. Ruthless wanted to be sure to give you an audio update as well, and has informed that the forum will be set up soon for everyone to discuss things as well as make suggestions.

Feed Your Mind

The 48 Laws Of Power by Robert Green is the first book in the Feed Your Mind intiative

We also want to make sure everyone reading along is enjoying the book and gets to chance to submit their personal works for an offshoot of Feed Your Mind, Words Don’t Do Them Justice: A Fanthology which will ask for poetry and short story submission for a book, but will also keep a list in the Feed Your Mind section of ths website. So if you are an author please submit your information to

And remember you can find the premise of the Feed Your Mind Initiative in our Original Post

Words Don’t Do It Justice: Feed Your Mind

And what lead to this decision by Ruthless

Weekend with Ruthless: Read a book! or “How I kept on reading, and learned to love intellegence.”



Feed your mind “The 48 Laws Of Power” update <- Right click and select “save as” or “save link as” to download