Corporate B-Boyism is a philosophy of liminality. It is the direct result of my growing up Hip-Hop in a middle-class home. It is the point where expensive private schooling and a lifetime of listening to Wu-Tang, Nas, Jay-Z, and Rakim records converge. As a performer, I am as likely to show up in a suit as I am in freshly unique casual gear. Corporate B-Boyism means accessorizing large DJ grade headphones with a cashmere suit. It means cufflinks & French cuff shirts with jeans and a blazer. It means my fedora is flyer than your Nike’s. It is eloquence punctuated with a middle finger and a crotch grab. Word to Michael. Welcome to my world.
Monday, July 19, 2010 at 06:17PM #MusicMonday
Ramadan is right around the corner.
Hip-hop, Lupe Fiasco, MusicMonday in Hip-Hop Monday, July 19, 2010 at 05:52PM This song singlehandely made me a Lupe fan.
Monday, July 19, 2010 at 05:30PM 
The year is 2005. Kanye West's 1st single for his upcoming album, Late Registration, is exploding over airwaves, and over my home stereo system (my dad's old analog receiver he bought when he was 17 coupled with my black ipod classic). It was during this time of Kanye-dom that I was up late one night on Okayplayer.com, and I found a link to a re-dux of Kanye's new single, "Diamonds are Forever", called "Conflict Diamonds" by a young Chicago MC named Lupe Fiasco. Lupe spoke eloquently on the topic of blood diamonds in West Africa, and elaborated on the civil wars and murder that loom behind the image of "bling" in hip-hop culture.
Food & Liquor, Hip-hop, Lupe Fiasco, album review in Hip-Hop, Music Monday, July 19, 2010 at 08:00AM Happy #MusicMonday y'all. Shout out to the Twitterati, and the Black Bloggerati. Whaddup! Bong. Bang. Wu-Tang.
Just when you thought it couldn't get any better.... Emperor Lu & Bobby Ray got on a track with the brilliant & delectable Janelle Monae. The head nods come hard with this one!
When I was at the Lupe Fiasco & B.o.B concert at the Fillemore in NYC with Seraph Treadwell, I spied Janelle Monae (as well as Diggy Simmons) in the VIP section above us. I think it's great that three brilliant, young, talented artists share such an organic and natural camradarie.
B.o.B., Hip-hop, Janelle Monae, Lupe Fiasco, music video, rock in Music Monday, July 12, 2010 at 07:40AM 
We Are All Oscar GrantI’m not a journalist. These days, I can barely still call myself an activist. I’m not a politician. What I can say that I am, is the same thing I have been since birth. A black man, and a proud one at that. I have held my silence on several issues long enough, in the interest of unboxing myself from being “angry”, “overly political”, “revolutionary”, or “militant”. I’m going to be me. The gloves are off.
Where is my President? The one I voted for, not this shell of a Manchurian Candidate that does his best to appease both sides. I’m referring to the candid, fiery, anti-status-quo Washington Candidate Obama who said he would stand up. I see him sitting a lot these days.
I’m sorry Rosa Clemente. I’ve met you. We’ve been at the same organizing events. I didn’t vote for you because you and Cynthia McKinney didn’t have a chance, even though you stand for everything I believe in.
This shit is all my fault.
And by my fault, I mean our fault.
All of us.
We failed Oscar Grant.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010 at 01:18PM 
She may as well have stepped out of one of my poems.
Thanks to my mother, I am attracted most to strong, intellectual, determined, visionary, motivated black women. All that I ask for in addition is for her to be community minded, artistic or appreciative/respectful of my craft(s), and to be a formidable conversational adversary. These listed attributes describe the charming petite whirlwind from the Dirty South. Aries is a writer, aspiring journalist, and current Mid-West dweller with her sights set on the Big Apple.
And she couldn't have arrived fast enough.
My best friend & I walked into a packed Freedom Party at Le Poisson Rouge. A barrage of text messages lead me to find Aries near the bar. Fingertips grazed the elbow of this caramel dipped sensation, her name tumbled across my lips in a ripe exhale. She barely recognized me beneath my fedora. A warm smile sparked first embrace. We danced the entire night away, never once parting company. This encounter was straight out of Heiroglyphic Irises, a poem I penned last year. My mind raced diamond needle across wax verses written what feels like millenia ago, similarities drawn Kemetic off of energy kinetic. This, more than chemistry, more than ecstatic trance, not something I can rationalize as manufactured circumstance.
Block the music and the people out to admire the love, The nerve of us, impervious to the entire club - Pharoahe Monch, "The Light"
Some say that life imitates art, or vice versa. I say that as creative beings, we manifest the things we call into the world. Not sure of the power of suggestion, word, or thought? Look at Biggie. Ready to Die. Dead. Same with Pac. Somehow, over the course of two days of spectacular dates, I have managed to live lines from my upcoming book of poetry, Musaic. Place her on a porcelain pedestal? Never that. This weekend has been a reminder that sometimes, life has an ironic way of manifesting our desires.
What are you manifesting?
Sunday, July 4, 2010 at 08:05AM She may as well have stepped out of one of my poems, caramel dipped goddess with double edged intellect. Conversation is supernova, kisses seismic. The thought of touching her rattles my very foundation, heartbeat races richtor, walls and highways are moved miles from their origin. I may have to re-map my emotions. The feel of her skin is like melted butter, soft, supple. She is a tornado in a peach dress with black stilettos, a hurricane with reddish-brown hair, a bronze lipped Ochun. Her river is sweet water, mind Meroitic script, a joyful challenge to decode, a subject worthy of study, a brown eyed pyramid whose smile is the most elegant golden capstone. Let no one steal that beauty to build a Cairo, let no hand strip her of limestone. She is Giza before looters, a Sphinx before desert, a cosmic wonder cast in earthen clay, walking on two legs, a riddle to common men.
And I want her.
She fits in my grasp like a saxophone, like a bass, like a keyboard, my fingers play, her lips leak music, her voice trembles melody, her thoughts derail manicured cool, one glance melts me into lake. She Nile. She feeds me, I fall into Kenya, into Ethiopia, into antiquity, into history, past empires, past stars. I spin, quasar through singularity. Our touch births stars, every kiss electric cloud nebula, every slide of tongue a moment of cold fusion, we combustible liquid, smooth explosion, hand up skirt, fingertips on chest meteor impact, this memory is a crater, an indelible mark, an esoteric secret whispered in bliss. She is Sophia, divine wisdom personified imperfect, she possesses beautiful blemishes.
She is all woman, regal, all queen.
I feel like a king holding her.
;)
