Black Skin, White Masks: My Song with Lord Jamar

If any moment validated what I do as a poet and artist, it was speaking with Lord Jamar of Brand Nubian over the phone about the track I’d just sent him and my concept for it.   Anyone who knows me, knows that Brand Nubian, and in particular Lord J, with his lyrical content, voice, and spirituality had a profound influence on me as an artist and as a Muslim.  I remember playing Claimin’ I’m a Criminal on repeat, over and over again as a college student—Lord J’s and also Sadat X’s lyrics spoke to me on both an experiential and existential level.  Here were two black men, who embraced their identity and did not wear masks.

From time to time I’ll ‘check’ for Lord J, and I always appreciated how sincerely he ‘repped’ his faith and identity in all the forms of artistic expression.  It’s something I sought to do in my artistry as well, and found in Lord J a model to emulate.  So for all these reasons, talking to Lord J was a bit surreal for me.  However the conversation surprisingly flowed naturally between the Hip-Hop legend and me, the upcoming poet.  I showed him the respect he deserved which I think he appreciated.  We live in a time where many a young artists neglect the forefathers and forbearers of Hip-Hop, i.e. those who laid down the path that these young artists themselves now walk freely.  Many of these artists are oblivious to who the legends are, and the years these figures spent in the game, at a time where Hip-Hop was given no ethos in popular culture.  I guess I must’ve stood apart from them to Lord J in some way because he also showed me love and agreed to participate in a song which was ironically aimed at the very concept of identity which he’d been speaking up for, for years.

It was almost as if the song was meant to be.

We began and ended the conversation with the word “Peace”, and a week later I had lyrical gold sent to me as an e-mail attachment.  I called up my boy, fellow Brand Nubian fan, Hakim, who always plays the role of the laidback cool kid in the back of the room… but even he was noticeably ‘juiced’ as I leaked the news.  “I just got a feature from Lord J,” I said.

Now I’ve been in the booth with E-40; and on my first solo I worked with Raekwon, Canibus, Sadat X, Hussein Fatal and Killah Priest, and since then other legends, as well as contemporary heavyweights.  However this song and its message along with the person featured on it, held special weight.  It meant and still means something special.

This ‘feature’ meant an almost perfect marriage or Lord J’s appearance to the lyrical content to the custom beat made by Arun Trax which used a vocal sample from the late Khalid Abdul Muhammad; in addition to top it all off, the song itself was titled after the seminal work of Frantz Fanon, White Skin, Black Masks.  The song was meant to be both a history lesson regarding people of dark skin or African descent in the West as well as a wake-up call to many of what Hip-Hop had been and could still be: message driven music.

So for the backdrop for this song, my team shoes an appropriate video, the infamous ‘Black Sambo’ by Warner Brothers; a ‘banned cartoon’ because it depicts in the most heinous of ways a child of black descent in such a negative light.  It spoke to the essence of the song and seemed almost tailor made to convey the  lyrical message which ironically speaking to issues that sadly still exist in society today.  Another layer of irony is that it was images like ‘Back Sambo’ which reinforced in the minds of many black and other children of color growing up a sense of inferiority.  These children then grew up to wear ‘white’ masks to move forward in society.

Hip-Hop is a way of communication positive messages and it gives voice to the voiceless.  However those that say Hip-Hop is dead say so because it has become a co-opted art form in becoming an almost self-deprecating form of expression especially as it is packaged in its erudite now popular form—I would argue that in this sense while Hip-Hop seams ‘dead’ to its message driven roots, the message does live on.  Hip-Hop is alive overseas; it lives in basements, in backpacks, in taped up headphones worn by street urchins, in cyphers comprised of orphans, and in vocal booth microphones that embrace the spit of authentic stories which are often ignored by popular media.  Hip-Hop lives in large part to the continued investment of those who have laid the path like Lord J.

Lord J, gains nothing from our collaboration—instead he builds and gives back, he allows the spotlight that has embraced his years of work to shine ever so briefly on an up and comer like myself.

PEACE, Lord Jamar, thanks for doing this young up and comer a solid on this joint.  I was honored that you would consider it in the first place.  While the song may not have a mass audience, it speaks to issues that continue to affect the masses. PEACE, Professor A.L.I.

***

Keep Hip-Hop Alive watch the video here and support the song and album Carbon Cycle Diaries on iTunes.

Blood of The World Tree

Blood of The World Tree

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am the earth
I am land you walk upon and creatures birthed…

Watch wrinkles on khakis like Nazca lines
Tell stories of journeys long past the brine
Whispers through vines, cause ripples in wine
The victims of swine, cripples your mind
Hear echoes of Zumbi, see shadows of Zumba
Quilombos were balance, now deforest the loggers
Burning wisdom of ages, preserved in our rings
When we fall to the ground, birds cannot sing
But some of “our kind” still make music
Our vengeance, though you choose to refuse it,
I am Pernambuco stroking Stradivarius as your dying
A violin that captures the violence of you vile things
When we’re gone, behind which tree will you be hiding
Truly blinded, stop lying, to yourself and start crying
The damage you’ve done, is to yourself, see mirror
We burn and reincarnate as Global Warming, your terror
Flash fires visible from satellites that you’ve sparked
Shine like sequins from the harlequin’s garb
These are in sequence of the harvest of heart
You soul fragmented, this dissolves the last part
Once you ate mangoes atop mangroves in marshes
If you’d let Moors return to Marrakesh with Marcus
Maybe this tragedy could’ve been averted
Instead you were the cannibals who committed murder
Corpses impaled atop forest canopies
Becomes a warning, a scarecrow menagerie
Like heads of martyrs anointed atop spears
You commemorate Yazeed, and cultivate fear
We remember Hussain, though the forest is bare
The fragrance of Kerbala is part of our air
Plural seems inappropriate for I am the last will
I stand as the lone tree firm like Ygdrassil
Yet upon my branches hang cadavers, not fruit
Those who would rise up to defend our roots
Like José Cláudio Ribeiro da Silva and his wife,
Maria de Espírito Santo, sacrificed lives
And predicted their demise, like Imam Hussain
On Kerbala’s plain; two shots and their slain
Like Abdullah al Kalbi and his young bride
Murdered and laid to rest side by side
Da Silva said he would protect the forest at all costs
A bullet in the head yet there’s no remorse…
From lost loggers and cold charcoal producers
Yet we still fight on like Montiel and Cabrera
I am Dorothy Stang and I stand up like Zainab
A scarf on my head, but to the point like an arrow
I faced the landowners, at the age of 73
Like the number of martyrs at Kerbala, plus me
Six shots sent me to my maker by hired assassins
Why these many bullets? ‘cause I stood up for peasants
Like my rosary beads, mother earth rotates
There will be others like me who meet the same fate
I am Ken Saro Wiwa hear my Nigerian poems
Their oil platforms destroy environmental totems
Short term gains by selling souls to Shelltan
A contract to kill, paid by my Yazeed, Sani Abacha
The bodies that hang upon my branches aren’t dead
They live on, as this form of activism spreads
Just like the sermon of Imam Hussain’s severed head
Millions beat their chests, until they also have bled
I am Chico Mendes, and I wasn’t saving rubber trees
Nor peasants, but I was fighting for base humanity
Lost in the leaves, and burned, into the atmosphere
The children of man’s inaction is what Adam feared
I stood up for justice and now my killer roams free
As they cut down these trees, they cut you and me
I was like Wazeh, who had a choice to go flee
Or stand firm like a tree, and refuse to bend knee, and be free
Songs of sweet souls say I’m an angel who died
Rather I am a man who lives on and multiplies
Activism, while the conflagration imprisons
Hope: creation, faced with extinction
Species endangered, with no future vision
This is the time for ‘you’ to make a decision
For as I am cut down, logged, raped and tortured
I live on as a challenge to oppressions’ source
I am the charcoal that causes your terminal cancer
I am the table at which sit the new Blank Panthers
I am the wood in the crutch of Tursun Gul
I am the pages of book that tells you “Qul”
I am the anti-war picket sign on Capitol Hill
I am the billboard you despise, saying guns do kill
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

–Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Project Windows

Project Windows

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Shavon Latrice Dean
Soon a freshman at Corliss, a decapitated dream
The wind in this windy city’s ghettoes blows bullets
The manufacturer of system, not trigger or who pulled it
Is to blame; single parent homes, CDC, and orphans
A simple list, sick statistic of sadistic proportions
It rains bullets, upon this concrete rain forest
Instead of birds singing its sirens and funeral chorus
Grandma Jones, end days, terrible things will happen
T-shirt says Boss, young Sandifer is packin’
Fatalism, innocent bystanders, blame the Shitstem
Incarcerate the fathers, young mothers crack victims
The crack incites souls, and instead of blasting idols
The pipe becomes a rifle, pointed at those suicidal
Basic Instruction Before Leaving Earth is the Bible
I float above as apparition and I become a Black Disciple

***

Project windows—shattered, often broken and boarded
Burnt toast crumbs, which sickly pigeons have hoarded
Devastated by life drama, scribbled signs, chalk outlines
Concrete pathways into ghetto, lay cracked open wide
Within the jungle, this is an antelope carcass, forbidden zone
Contained by confines of habitat; wild beasts, freely roam
Inside ones’ dome, creativity, no spark, like man tied to the dark
A Prometheus tied to the rock, liver eaten by Eagle, each day, restocked

***

‘Disciple of Death?’ I ponder, soul separated from vessel
I float above Sandifer, the murderer, liminal at threshold
I subsume his form, taking over the senses of my killer
I see through his eyes and search his form for the thrill
The ecstasy of holding the gun, pulling the trigger, spray
The adrenalin rush of predatory instincts upon prey
I search, every nerve, follow every impulse to brain
There is no excitement; instead I am overwhelmed by pain
Pain! More painful than the bullets that tore my shell
Excruciating, like deep in marrow, burnt by hell
More pain then I’ve ever known in my life–combined
A never ending pain that is a infused in his spine
I am he; I feel the hate of the world that dismisses me
I know with certainty that no one on this earth will miss me
The legacy of Mississippi in Windy City, Daddy’s missing
Two generations of single teenage mothers and penal system

***

From darkness into light, from oppression towards freedom
Why would you value intelligence when you are always called dumb?
Sisters stalk the streets, though daughters of old earths,
Within their wombs lay evidence of numerous unwanted births
The holy grail of the ghetto is finding the baby’s daddy
Since finding a father alive is nearly an impossibility
To earn respect in this climate, a rep requires a stretch
Manhood constructed after close encounters with death

***

I am Robert Sandifer, sweet tooth for cookies and snickers
Grew up in same streets that venerated ‘Huey in wicker’
I run, relax finger on trigger, and escape into shadow embrace
Fingered by onlookers, now Chicago PD on chase
Hidden by their preconceptions of my innocent face
As I run through alleyways, I remember my first case
Taken to hospital, department children family services
Cigarette burns, electric cord deep wounds, scratches
I was 22 months old. Hadn’t seen my second birthday
This wasn’t even close to what I consider my life’s worst day
Public school declared me illiterate, but I knew mathematics
6 brothers and sisters, teenage mother and no prophylactics
41 arrests on my Momma for Street Prostitution
4 year bid for my teenage father on felony gun violation
1 Tattoo on my right arm, BDN, Black Disciple Nation
49 scars upon my body for surviving life, no hesitation
1 copper coated .25 caliber lodged in cranium, hard arteries
8 years old arrested, at 9 tried for multiple robberies
2 cases of theft and arson, adding inches to rap sheet
How far can one travel in this world with two black feet?
2 years’ probation at 10, Youth Services, abused, neglected
Probation violation, for attempted auto theft; alleged,
Living live upon the ledge outside a project window
Looking down like a gargoyle on shattered asphalt below

***

The distance to ones’ demise is only 9 millimeters
Genocide, putting shops upon corners that sell heaters
Next to shops that sell fevers, in bottles that hold ether
40 ounces of liquor, helps translates Iblis’s whispers
Cultural homicide the pet project of City Planners
Chatter, overwhelming din on local police scanners
Long gone is the opacity of white cloaks and hoods
Instead of crosses, earths burn crack pipes in the hood
History orbits seeds upon the third planet, they hunting men
Slavery seems illegal except when it’s a form of punishment
See constitution, Evidence certain, $40k per state, per person
That’s money earned, instead of $40 a day, to pay for education
Where is the cheddar produced that laces these politricks–
That keeps bullets in guns of pigs, and ship funds to Zionists?
Where do all street signs come from, and all the school desks?
Who works behind bars, for no pay, like slaves without rest?
Delicious, delectable desserts of ignorance, born of damnation
Consumed by innocents, “is it Yummy”; this damned nation

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Yummy
Wander streets, duck in homes, empty tummy
I want to cry out for mom, the one who doesn’t exist
No protection from a father, while I’m on a hitlist
Street level misfit, a student of when the shit hits
Basic sustenance & love, top Christmas wishlist
At least Shavon’s soul experienced past Sakina’s level
Innocence in Damascus tortured by Yazid the devil
A father’s severed head placed on pillow, beaten
His daughter forced to watch, a child of Eden
Yet we are now raised within this Yazidi system,
Our father’s minds severed by the drugs they’re given
We’re raised by shitstem, while their bodies are imprisoned
The same streets they fell victim, now teach us lessons
To survive we become disciples to the unholy message
That’s why I picked up the gun, for the rep-utation
Amidst poverty, it’s the diploma at a street graduation
That’s why I squeezed, I didn’t see individual targets
Blind to innocence playin’ hoop, or on way to market
I didn’t see the half eaten Doritos, Shavon left on stoop
I couldn’t smell the lighter fluid, of her grandma’s cue
Constant sirens, gun blasts, became deaf and obtuse
To common family utterance, the phrase, “I love you”
I love too, see posters of MJ that hang in bed’s view
Gang insignias carved in wood, scream I need rescue
Yummy symbol of loss of both potential and value
Lungs burn, I pass neighborhood, where do I run to?
4 foot 6, a shorty who loved Disney movies
77 hour manhunt, Crooked Jakes trying to do me
Snipers on rooftops, sending children to caskets
Tragic like Magic, or learn shoot guns, not baskets
Continue to run, abandoned shelters, helter-skelter
No blame, grandma played cards that were dealt her
Hang up phone, exhausted, finally relent to Ms. Cooper
Into shadows she disappears, I await upon the stoop for
Suddenly I’m taken into stolen car’s backseat, panicked
Face down; I inhale horrors absorbed by its fabric,
Driven to my execution, but told it’s towards freedom
Fear possessed gang network, and gave them reason
When my lifeless vessel is found, who’d grieve then?
Not the students I bullied, or store owners I robbed
Would I be sent to the hellfire for an inside job?
Innocence on trial, I did not possess the faculty
To think of consequences, I just jacked for the streets
Rather than be attacked and then meet, my maker
Earlier than on a date this week, my soul’s taken
Lifted as two shots enter my skulls brain cavity
Fall face down on broken glass, earth in tune with gravity
Continues to carry me, beyond the tunnel they find me
I see Shavon now, and watch as the autopsy rewinds me
Judgment is binding, I long for the book in my right
The white light is blinding, brighter than the lights
At the funeral upon my casket, the cameras, the mugshot
On display; Songs like ‘Shorty Wanna Be a Thug,” Pac
Inspired; I see Miss Jones; the cancer’s finally defeated
She bakes fresh cookies, for Shavon and me; so sweet
We float away, the veil is lifted… I am finally free
Like the children of Kerbala or like Hurr ibn Riyahi…

***

Hidden plans emerge, analysis of this nation’s demography
Yummy, powered by their gentrification laced geography
Whites commit more crimes than blacks in this country
Yet the black and brown outnumber in every prison, past century
Whites can afford good lawyers, we’re given public pretenders
Whites can kill hundreds of blacks, and call themselves self-defenders
Cocaine is the white poison, crack reserved for blacks
Cocaine costs more, the punishment for its possession lacks…
3 strikes laws, you can go to prison for stealing a pack of gum
Dirty work done on the hood corners by Arabs and Asians
Asians battle Black, Black v. Latino, Divide and Conquer
Gangs complete the equation, with a gavel and your honor
Low intensity warfare borrowed from former British colonies
Dishonored Mothers, rapes, births, and forgotten seeds,
So for the child who stares, through sleepless eyes and smoke?
Beyond confines of cell, dirty glass, smog: a project window
Where is hope? Hopeless soul, where’s my inspiration?
The worst horror stories lurk, alive in my imagination.

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Eric Morse
An elementary age, diverted from course
Pushed from Ida Wells Project window
To the haunted streets of the earth below
Possessed by the spirit of Yummy still
Chicago thirsts for young sacrifices, the kills
Why was I–pushed through the glass?
‘Cuz I refused gangsters & stayed in class?
Refused to play games of the Yazid system
Asked to steal candy, I would not listen
How could I when I heard footsteps on horizon
Of two small boys besieged by devil’s trident
Muhammad and Ibrahim the sons of Muslim
Father murdered in Kufa, when he’s pushed from
A building, towards dusty oppression below…
A dust storm, dry soil from Kerbala now blows
The earth collected to make clay tablets to pray upon
For those who remembered souls who were preyed upon
The sons of Muslim take my hands and lift me
Off the ground my shell remains on earth, wilting
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

I Am A Protester

I Am A Protester

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Fadhel al-Matrook
I am the essence of the lesson inside the holy book
I am the voice of verses; I am the chorus and the hook
I am shivers in your spine, shook, for now I am spook
Cold spirit ripped out of an outer casing, I spit fire
Chased by pigs with rubber in gun chambers, open fired
I am truth spoken clearly that his hidden by liars
I am funeral pall bearer; I am Indian funeral pyre
My soul lifts higher, I see the funeral processions
I am friend of Ali Mushaima, first martyr of insurrection
Insurrection: an organized opposition to authority;
Or a faction trying to wrest control from the majority
Neither, I am a protector of truth that is hidden
I am the Shia Muslims trapped in Bahraini prisons
I am a protestor; I stand before tanks in Tiananmen
I hold aloft a banner, tear gassed, free speech movement
Berkeley in sixties, I am Panther, I am Sioux
I am the children of Egypt who are born anew
I am Hussain at Kerbala, who refused to submit to Yazeed
I am incorruptible by buyouts, my enemy is greed
I am the saddle that is upon the back of the white steed
Of the one who wields the green flag: Imam Mahdi
I am faith; I am brother, a father of a son and daughter
I am a son of Salman, and I am Bahrain’s second Martyr
Shotgun shell separates, skin covering spine, suffering
Severed sinews and cell synapses slowly stop shuffling
Messages to cerebral cortex, cerebellum collapses
Limp body falls back to clay amidst additional flashes
I came to mourn my brother, now others mourn me
No cease and desist orders, no swine warned me
No good byes conveyed to my five and two year old seeds
No final moment given so I can scream, “Peace!!!”
I am the son of Salman; I am the son of Bahrain
I am the son of a nation that mourns for Hussain
I am the son of Egypt, of Tunisia, I am a Libyan
Liberated from this illusionary constructed dungeon
I am a Haitian quake survivor; I am a boy from Qatif
I am average resident of Baghdad, I am an Indian chief
My blood should not be wasted, I hear my father say
Salawaat upon the Prophet, I hear my father pray
Shotgun to the back, to send me back to my Lord
I envision Abbas, giving Hussain back his own sword
I am every martyr since, Bahrain, Egyptian lands
I am every Berber oppressed in the Sahara’s sands
I am a sand n****r, terrorist, an orientalist session
The west calls me Saracen, embargoes and tension
My blood should not be wasted, so learn the lesson
Those who die upon the path, only gain blessings
Of everlasting life, I never wanted strife
I only wanted to live free, not under proverbial knife
Or gunfire or spitfire from mouths of liars, please
I only wanted to live this life in justice and peace
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Middle Passage

Middle Passage

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Jennie Steers
Creaking voice, broken voice box, old fears
Pass away, as I hang like fruit from the old tree
Elizabeth Dolan never took lemonade from me
Poisoned they claimed, lemons are strange fruit
Like our bodies that hung low, deep roots
Deeper than the trees, Jesus deeper than the cross
Can a mother understand the deepness of our loss?

***

A man used to stand upon the shores and test the wind
Before the dark days of the plague, a pale pestilence
Began with one ship, becoming a vessel epidemic when,
The pale men, finally made homes in permanent settlements
Then plucked our men, like farmers do with eggs of hens
Took women as belly warmers, and brutally raped them
Influenced by the subtle whispers of a conniving Satan
Under images of a white Jesus, who died for their sins–

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Laura Nelson
As my soul pierced veil, had they learnt a lesson?
Lynched, accusation: murder of a deputy
Devils dragged me with my son, no dignity
I’m penetrated by lustful, lecherous white ghosts
Dragged for six miles, brutalized, a tight rope
Placed over my head and my innocent child
Hung on the bridge over troubled water, no trial

***

Would they have taken prisoners from the holy Bethlehem?
And chain flesh upon flesh, in vessels filled with lost lambs
Waves sliced by shark fins, troubled water, from lost lands
Corpse fragments, putrid stench, cast overboard or hot brands
From trip captain to whip cracker, invasion of body snatchers
Trade on coastal rivalries, yet not enough, so we’re captured
Fifty million dead in the process, can we arrest the men?
Who follow the footsteps set by Muawiyya’s precedent

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Marie Scott
Innocence on trial, guilty the knock
Of status quo’s gavel, I told them to stop
In my home dressing, they barged in breath hot
From swill inebriation, pale faces so white
Body violated by these ghosts out of the night
“My fault,” claimed the mob, a dozen white males
Hung before a trial, for I was stolen from jail

***

Our children imprisoned in America, as penal residents
Economics was the motive, no one quotes the Testaments
Fifty million died in the process, can we arrest the men?
Those responsible for the crime, look in the chests of men
To see who benefits from not giving kids reparations
Fifty million in shark bait, a holocaust of black men
Middle passage survivors don’t receive monthly payments
Why no memorial for the so called “beasts of burden”?

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Mary Turner
Abused by Farmer Smith, a hellfire burner
Eight virgin souls punished for crime justified
Committed by another, who smartly chose to hide
Any black skin sufficient, even a pregnant dame
Hung by my feet, gasoline dowsed, set aflame
Belly sliced open, out falls child with no name
A fetus cries, stomped to death, the bullets rain

***

Middle passage deniers; claim the fire, as guests of sin
Coarse rope intertwines, like old tree vines, hesitant
Bruised naked bodies like strange fruit penitent
The vilest forms of violence inspired by Willie Lynch,
Skin melts, licked by flames, our nudity is drenched
In Molotov concoctions burning, filthy the stench
From the volatile auctions, not given a cubic inch
To bodies piled, burnt flesh on flesh filling the trench

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum, I am Cordella Stevenson
Taken from my husband’s side, then stripped to skin
They came for me at night, I’m raped and further
Husband watches the horror, then I watch him murdered
My soul passes, as my body is lifted aloft, so black
Against the sky, hung from tree limb, railroad tracks
And thousands pass by, and peer upon the scene
A crime unanswered, verdict: “The killers unseen”

***

Oh my, thirst burns in my throat, so unquenched
Like the women at Kerbala trapped in burnt tents
Behind dark halls of lost libraries lays evidence
In between lines of ancient books, a magnifying lens
Find stories of stolen lands from Imams, dark children
Tobacco and rice the cash from crops, used at auction
Beads of sweat fall from whipped backs to water lands
Barren earth, made fertile with blood, so it grows cotton

***

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am Alma
I represent my sister, and all mothers
I watched her tortured, her spleen rupture
I watched as she hung, a “strange fruit culture”
Four months pregnant was she, I was closer
Ready to give birth, when whites enclosed us
At burial, my nude form in casket inspected
“Movement of my unborn seed could be detected”

***

Bought a young buck, and his sister, for a hefty bargain
Sold illegitimate children from rape, no use for condoms
Black Codes, and Jim Crow, had black folk at base bottom
Strange fruit hung from trees, slowly fall, on ropes rotten
Lynched, misbegotten, perpetrators given pardons
Like Yazeed who stole heaven’s flowers from the garden
99 virtues reflected from the farmer
Inspired by Zainab our souls spit verses on her honor
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Kerbala, By Any Means

Kerbala, By Any Means

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, Malcolm X
Am I a shining black prince or “black magic” that came to hex?
The Satanic system with symptoms of savagery, spells and sorcery
Yet plain black on white logic was cast to be, something ornery
They honor me, with a stamp, yet Iran had made the first
Categorize me with those in Kerbala, barely alive, crying thirst
A man who stands for nothing will fall for anything
Soul immortal, I cry seeing black seeds seduced by bling
By any means, they misquote me, no follow through with actions
Tokenism is sufficient for the masses’ satisfaction
Islam is the religion of peace; no it is the religion of justice
When justice requires peace its peace, but when it’s just us
Verses the beast, on peace we cease, proceed with new lease
On life, time for war, when your culture and lives are besieged
Hussain fought in Kerbala, when the hope was exhausted
Yet we remain complacent, while our women are accosted
Our children are ousted; their passport to future is stolen
Education for privileged devils, their future looks golden
You call our self-defense, violence, I call it intelligence
Should we be non-violent, while you set precedence?
For mass murder, genocide on city streets and rape
Am I the hate cultivated that is produced by hate?
Is this how they package me, Malcolm X a demagogue?
Or is there truth hidden amidst their noise, X an ideologue?
You’ve been bamboozled, hoodwinked, led astray, runamuck
You rediscover Malcolm’s message and text, WTF!
I was always for justice no matter who it’s for or against
Justice, is equal treatment, and on basic its fairness
Unfair wages, unfair housing, unfair treatment in courts
Has anything changed since we died, have you reset your course?
A clean glass of water is what I chose to drink
While the other glasses were dirty, because I chose to think
Hussain was thirsty, but he did not drink from dirty water
Remain uncompromised and I martyred before my daughters
Just like he, black fatigues, white kaffan, in the sands
My face remained smiling; head resting, sister Yuri’s hands,
Freedom a part of my vocabulary, now I was free
Remain alive for all those seeds, who choose to see
The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.
A culture of strong young soldiers who pray
We declare our right on this earth…to be human beings,
Respected as human beings, with rights of human beings
In this society, on this earth, in this day, which we
Intend to bring into existence by any means necessary
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

I’d Rather Be A Slave

I’d Rather Be A Slave

Asalaamu’Alaykum, I am Medgar Evers
Held fast to the rope while my ties forever severed
Where is the measure of a man that faith treasured
Live forever, my spirit specter, while my soul drinks nectar
Who have you elected, am I still a mentor?
It seems now our children’s role models are invented
For me it was Frederick, I tried integrate the college
While ghosts in human cloaks, tried disintegrate knowledge
Of self, civil rights, how about the rights of man
Byron De La Beckwith was a member of the Klan
Organizations, trials, protests, and I am shot in the back
Like on plains of Kerbala how Ali Akbar was attacked
Pull the bullet out my body, forensics, my Khaibar
Reverend states, “Here lies Medgar Evers of Decatur”
“Who grew up, watching his young friends lynched”
I rather be the slave of God, than of the Willie Lynch
Mindset, who’s who, a colored man’s activist
An assassination of a man, divide and conquer tactics
It’s a sick methodology, psychology of wild terror
I rather be the slave of God, and free from reign of terror
Asalaamu’Alaykum, now I am Martin Luther King, Jr.
“Free At Last!?” Why doesn’t my soul hear them sing?
As it floats around the rings of heavens, over mountain tops
I’ve seen the Promised Land, with black eyes, billy clubbed by cops
I’ve been to the Promised Place and greeted the Master of Martyrs,
He sits at the feet of his mother, imbibing Euphrates water
Drinking for all those thirsty, and for the day his throat was parched
Now I hear echoes from footsteps made when we had marched
Now a black void, empty salad bowl, contents in Sam’s mouth
Fear realized, integration of my people into a burning house
Conflagration, then flood, complete destruction of a nation
An ark bound for new land, deluge washes away their prisons

***

Black folk, tribes, and brown skins travel in the same boat,
In the middle of a huge ocean, no land in site, yet afloat
Then another vessel comes along belonging to pirates most feared
Captained by the pale devil, Sam the whitebeard
He takes all their wealth, water, food, and supplies
Then he orders his band of men to go over and rape their wives
Adding insult to injury, he smashes a hole in their ship
He then sails off, watching their vessel slowly sink
He laughs as the wind carries their cries, turning his ship around
In spite of his men’s protests, his sense of generosity abounds
He tosses over cups, to empty the water from their vessel
Sam felt he did a good deed and also learned a lesson
The people on the other boat no longer wailed or complained
Some even thanked him for those cups and praised his name
Even those still angry used these to stop sea from choking them
So Sam chuckles to himself, and calls his deed “Affirmative Action”

***

I had a dream deferred; now I see little white children
Emulate blacks, to make profits for white businessmen
I had a dream deferred; now a third of black males
Not free at last, but seeking a pardon, in prison, or jail
I had a dream deferred; minds hypnotized by Obama
Now seem satisfied with the verdict passed by your honor
J. Edgar, listen to my voice now, on streets, its legacy
My dream deferred; but at least, I live in positive memory
Freedom of information, now you burn for the little boys
You raped and enjoyed, while you taped us with toys
Technology, the best our tax dollars could buy you
I await with my brethren, the day that God will try you
And all those who ever supported devils like you
I’ll quote my brother Malcolm now, just to spite you
Like any old snake, any old devil will do, especially you
‘Take my hand, precious lord,’ I memorize the tune
Bullet to the chin, a Gamemaster, from an old cracker
Snapped my vertebrae, shot by James Earl Ray, after
See what RFK say, spits intro to an oft repeated chapter
Stokely, stroked the masses, to grab the gats faster
I rather be a slave than live in this hypocrisy
I rather be a slave of the Most High and be truly free
From boycotts on buses in Montgomery, our wishes
Were never seditious, but black cats stroked the superstitious
Amongst the white cloaked, white folk, to be super vicious
Human lives didn’t matter, to them we’re just N______
Go figure, grab a gun, point and pull the trigger
At the picture of Sam who promised but didn’t deliver
So I say, I rather be a slave, so I became an iconoclast
There is only One God, and I scream “Free at Last!”

***

The technological maker, is certainly not a man
We just caretakers a minor part of the master’s plan
Tech is merely mechanical nature a realm within a realm
The matrices maintain vortices which subjugate the phlegm
Spitting obscenities while the master splits atoms
Sifting through genealogy only to discover who created Adam
Optimal olfactory senses still can’t comprehend
When the creator is everywhere why would he need to descend?
Choosing Born again, reincarnated or emancipated
I’d rather be the slave of the most infinite, immaculate
Given a little power by his leave has driven some men insane
Instead of uplifting brothers they prefer to dole out their pain
Working out their left hands because their book is getting heavy
Choosing a kernel in this life instead of an endless horn of plenty
Infrastructure built upon binary logarithms is flimsy
Slowly forgotten like the retired numerals of Grigsby
Walk away from an equation which ensnares like Oeste
Choose ihram or the tattered garments of Clayton Bigsby
Those devoted to the cypher lack the ultimate realization
Trigger safety unlocked and gun cocked without hesitation
Echoes in the skull, smell of burnt ozone and hot fluids
Suicidal thoughts amidst the sparks of electric fuses
Depravity since humanity ceased touching food with our fingers
Slowly manners created defining what it meant to be rude figures
Then, our connection to reality on every level was indirect
Prophylactics for every body part, for fear we’d reconnect
Wrapping our intestines around microwaved plastic remnants
Super hydrogenation, laced with germinated genetic segments
Technis imperative, the children who watched Transformers
Now till Silicon Valleys, like new age terra-formers
Lost art of conversation, new linguae text message
Losing our earthly position, barter every spiritual vestige
Technological pollution, dumbed senses, automatons
Like military intelligence, we become living oxymorons
The hypocrisy of living free, is that we cannot be just masters
Our justice, self-serving laws from antiquated pastures
No chains in divine servitude, just an aura of perfect justice
He considers his entire creation while we think about just us
Choosing a lifestyle between these choices I elect to become His slave
Joining the ranks of righteous teachers, and companions of the brave

***

There is only One God, and I scream “Free at Last!”
Like Hurr ibn Riyahi, an echo from oppression’s past
I want to be eternally free, with the master on the path
Not enslaved with worldly riches, while incurring God’s wrath
Like Yazeed, an Arab Pharoah, “Let our people go!”
And Sam as he plots to make dinero, “Let our people go!”
I’d rather be a slave, and dine with gifts of manna
Than dine with false riches, and call a silent Aqama
Through our deaths you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Prayer from the People

Prayer from the People

Asalaamu’Alaykum, I am Bobby Hutton
I was a lil’ Panther, lil’ Bobby, a lil’ accustomed
To self determination, instead of myself servin’ the Satan
They labeled me “most dangerous person in the nation”
Reason why? I was a young, educated, black man
With a compact to feed school kids and give back man
Not a part of their scheming plots, melting pot, bad plans
I armed myself, no arms against black folk, called a mad man
Gun barrel purview is upon the great beast system
Shotgun shells, explode in order to make the beast listen
My brethren imprisoned, a fifteen year old had risen
By sixteen their guns sights on my visage as a mission
I hid in the basement, bullets pierced the home above
Over an hour, the empty shells piercing mothers love
Canisters of tear gas break windows, explode the spray
Gas fills the chest, collapse to floor as if to pray
Eyes burning, throat choked, outside I clamber
Hands in the air, no gun, no weapon, no panther
No gun, no weapon… no guns, no weapons, unarmed
How more unarmed, to be like Abbas, no arms
Lungs burned by gas, collapse, breath I gasp
Took twelve shots to my body, before my soul passed
I was not resisting arrest, my empty hands in the air
I never fired on police, and all my pockets were bare
Hunched over, kicked, brutalized, and pushed, hit
All before my body riddled with 12 bullets
When the first shot penetrated my skin layers
I remembered Imam Ali, being killed in prayer
With the second bullet, my tissues were burning
I became aware of Imam Hassan being poisoned
The third bullet, aah, the intensity of pain
Brought aching memories of Imam Hussain
The fourth bullet scorched me, my soul screams
I cried as I thought of Imam Zainulabideen
The fifth bullet tore straight through my body
I saw Imam Muhammad Al-Baqir, slowly dying
The sixth bullet, made my essence sick
Like Imam Jafar As-Sadiq’s murdered by toxics
The seventh bullet; burned like touch of jinn
I stared at the corpse of Imam Musa Al-Kadhim
The eighth bullet, an agony everlasting
Remember Imam Ali Reza slowly passing
The ninth bullet twisted my spirit, and any hope for calm
Like demise of Muhammad Al-Jawad, the ninth Imam
The tenth bullet, paralyzed my spine, mind freed
I smell the scent of martyrdom of Imam Ali Naqi
The eleventh bullet, allow my inner thoughts to envision
Imam Hassan Al-Askari, murdered, whole life imprisoned
The twelfth bullet, separated body from soul, Peace!
And brought the return of the savior, Imam Mahdi
Power to the people, black fists in the air
Open our palms to the sky, power to the prayer
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Lex Talionis

Lex Talionis

Asalaamu’Alaykum I am John Brown
Usurpers squat, surround, once hallowed ground
Rape seeds of a mother, evidence buried
I will forever be linked with Harper’s Ferry
Like Hussain is linked with the Kerbala story
I live a man of action, a perpetual allegory
For Lex Talionis philosophy, yet my faith justice
Tried to stop persecution wherever I saw it
Didn’t justify it with economic theology
Phrenology or Darwinist evolutionary biology
Chose the brotherhood in being oppressed
Over the Big Brother whose goal was to suppress
Took souls, slaves to God, and claimed to possess
Made money off black skins, until their souls rest
So I prefer the brotherhood of souls oppressed
Over the Big Brother whose skin was my flesh?
On one side is Hussain, on which side should I rest?
I’d rather live forever with those blessed with death
Through my demise you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven

Rubber Bullets, Bounce Back

Rubber Bullets, Bounce Back

Asalaamu’Alaykum, I am Patrice Lumumba
Listen to the tale of the journey of a soldier
I went from prisoner to postman, turned prime minister
The circumstances behind my death, can be called sinister
I saw freedom for Congolese, while still imprisoned
Saw light sever shadows cast by imperialism
A dreamer, whose dream left him marked for death
Lump of flesh, fresh eloquence, versus U.S. interests
How much did they hate all us Africans?
Stole brethren from the breast of our mother’s land
Returned to sabotage plans for independent states
Preaching democracy, whilst promoting dictatorships
A black Patrick, “give me liberty or give me death”
So I am assassinated, crying out with my last breath
Freedom! I’m a black Wallace. “Death is sweeter
Than honey,” said Qasim; Fatima, I might meet her
She watched like Mama Africa, her children destroyed
My old earth exiled in Egypt, Kemet became Troy
Born son of Onalua, died full blooded African
Heru on Horizon, wings spread to the East Sudan
A student of Nkrumah, of Europeans I’m wary
Product of Protestant Primary, Catholic Missionary
Mathematical equation equals Pan Africanism
A prayer of a layman, that my people had risen
Against Belgium, Belgians break Leopold’s rubber mold
Congo Free State? We are no longer yours to hold
We never were, White monkeys disguised as men
Like Abul Qays, Caliph Yazeed’s pet simian
Belgians wished my demise, death orders in writing,
Like promise Ibn Ziyad to Ibn Saad, so he’d keep fighting
Eisenhower, poison and shooting plots initiated
A puppet for corporations, our rubber still needed
Firing squad assassination, globally sanctioned
We are not Communists or Catholics, but unified nation
Pop, Pop, Pop…. Last sounds I hear, bullets do damage
My corpse defiled, Belgian police, hacksawed fragments
Dissolved in Sulfuric Acid, souvenirs teeth and skull pieces
Like beating the lips of Hussain severed head, by the beast
In front of Abbas’s niece, No justice no peace
When will the story of this oppression cease?
Through my death you will learn of the family’s name
Insha’Allah my blood flows for the blood of Hussain

This is the sound made of many voices—
The downtrodden, oppressed and exploited
Left without choice, save the greatest resistance
Revolution, an ablution from the sweat of persistence

-Professor A.L.I. aka Black Steven