i spend my days in empty bars, where piss has overtaken ash and cigarette smoke as the dominant odor. god forbid a bar
should smell of beer. people ask what i do for a living. favors, mostly. i’ve heard speculation that somebody switched the
envelope on warren beatty, just before he handed off responsibility to faye. the oscars have been white since cinema was
filmed in greyscale. what moonlight thru yonder ceiling breaks? twenty seventeen is the era of black love. i heard an OG
ask why an award matters- some comic called out subjectivity- chance got the grammy; i been bumping joey bad all day.
and, um, white folks have been kind of busy. this is what i hear. caucasians be doing the most- just real productive, lately.
i kind of figured on Four Years A Nap; but i guess i better get on some of this cracker energy. i best be making moves.
what do i think of cosby and nate parker & the kimmel jokes regarding diasporic nomenclature ? i’ll be 33 in two weeks:
same age as christ, when he died. i tell jokes in dead rooms: sammy davis, jimi hendrix and bob marley walk into a bar…
here’s why it matters – i want black film makers making as many films as possible. and i’m not talking about epic homages
to the historical plight of negroes. i ain’t asking for nigga tales and bio pics. gimme stories of black love, glowing like moon
light amid the alabaster day. and all that jazz. what do i think? i’ve been grinding on the fringes of show business for too
long to believe entirely in accidental PR opportunities. what do i think? james kimmel told the cast of La La Land to grab
the gold and run. we’re still living in the shadowlands of tinsel town. plucking strings and bussing tables at the cotton club.
i’ve been wandering my neighborhood on foot, peering down alleyways and into bars or galleries- encased in brick, mortar
and glass; considering new orleans, contemplating summer on stages, clubs & couches all around new york. i have nothing
better to do than support the revolutionary love of black artists. the other day, i met a man- who played with fela kuti- who
was looking for a venue, which i mentioned to my friend. i’ve read semi esoteric mormon science fiction which suggested
that the bonds of love are not just metaphorical but sub atomic. stephen hawking implied there could still be pockets in
our universe of magic from the origin of life. donald trump is president and we’re still here. i read an article comparing
jokes from this year’s oscars, as opposed to last year- without mentioning that Chris Rock hosted in 2016. people still keep
straining to stay color blind; meanwhile the streets are running red: 2017 to me has felt the fascist overtones so many spoke
on during Cheney’s second term, before he shot somebody in the face. and you know donald was jealous, cuz he brought it
up – although Donald may not be the hunting type. Trump prefers to shoot somebody in the middle of the street – preferably
in New York. Shit, he didn’t even want to leave new york to live in the most famous house in the world, possibly because
they wouldn’t let him put his name on it. Do I Believe In Accidents? how magical that La La Land’s dream sequence could
extend a little bit further into the spotlight: how long can you tell a story before it has become the truth? often, the arithmetic
of 3/5 person hood echoes to remind us we aren’t fully people – it’s rare i hear somebody mention what the tally was for; black
mark underscoring the opinion of a landowning white man. you may have heard of him – he sits on the electoral college, on
the board of directors writing memos to lobbyists; he chooses whose name goes in the envelope at the oscars- pens across maps, gerrymanders districts and decides which healthcare we can afford. here’s where y’all have it twisted – moonlight is
not important cuz it won an oscar. moonlight was too important not to win- they won before the venue was scheduled. here’s
something about art – you can burn a book or ban a film, but we remember. half the tuxes went back the next day; meanwhile
black love keeps on raging like the great Chicago fire, like devil’s night – like the blaze of los angeles in sixtyfive and 92, like
the fire of Prometheus who must have come from africa, like all of us, like the griots tending the ancient flames across pangea.