#NaPoWriMo - Dream Music | 6:30

You're a dream. 

A premonition of a future written in possibility.

I go to sleep and visit you every night

Just to experience you again

And again...

I see you as God intended. 

Naked. 

If only I could make the shape of these words

Match your curves...

Even your walk speaks to me in cursive

And truth be told?

I just wanna read the Diary 

Written by your footsteps. 

See...

Your stride teaches me words

That's haven't been invented yet. 

Your heart sings a song to me

That hasn't been written yet. 

And your voice is a melodic tone

That's off the scale. 

No note compares. 

And every night...

You stride your fine ass back into my dreams

Footsteps writing music that we haven't 

Even began to make. 

I take naps just to peek at

What we could have. 

See...

You're a dream. 

A premonition of a future written in possibility.

A song that hasn't been written yet

For me. 

The Transmogrification of Kanye West

I miss when Kanye West was unequivocally and unapologetically black. I fear that we will never again see the full form of the "College Dropout," "Late Registration," "Graduation," Kanye. His school days appear to be over, and that makes this writer and avid music listener sad.

It was during his "school days" that Kanye's verses spoke the feelings of many of his black listeners. When Kanye said, "Drug dealing just to get by, stack ya money til' it gets sky high. We wasn't 'sposed to make it past 25, joke's on you we're still alive. Throw your hands up in the sky and say 'We don't care what people say,'" he was narrating the thoughts and feelings of several in the black community. Black people everywhere rejoiced and sang at the top of their lungs when listening to "Spaceship" or "We Don't Care" because the lyrics reflected our experiences.

Songs like "Crack Music" chronicled the happenings of some of our childhoods. Kanye paid homage to our black spokespeople with verses like, "How we stop the Black Panthers? Ronald Reagan cooked up an answer. You hear that? What Gil Scott was hearin'. When our heroes and heroines got hooked on heroin." Again, unequivocally and unapologetically black.

Now? We live in a world where Kanye thinks verse two of "New Slaves" is the "best rap verse of all time (he repeats "we the new slaves" 6 times in the verse.)  Kanye raps about a fashion industry where none of the participants look like him ("What's that jacket, Margiela?") He flows about cars that we don't drive and clothes that we can't afford, let alone wear ("Like there go the god in his Murcielago.") His flow doesn't represent the black experience like it used to.


I believe two things were the catalyst for the change in Kanye's artistry. 1) His mom died. That messed him up. 2) Kanye became too self-aware of Kanye's genius. Seems to me that similar to Jay-Z, Kanye lost touch with identifying with his audience. He doesn't flow for us anymore. His artistry has lost that identity.

In his post-Grammy rant, Kanye complained about respecting the artistry and craft, which I definitely do. I respect anyone's artistry because it's something that I can not do. But we got a brief glimpse of the old Kanye when he jumped onstage at the Grammy's after Beck was announced winner of the album of the year. It was an action that harkened back to the Kanye that said on national television that "George Bush does not care about black people." And for a brief moment, I had hope. I had hope that the backpacking Louis Vuitton Don we came to love in his early career would reappear. Then I came to my senses.

Kanye once quipped, "I ask 'cause I'm not sure, do anybody make real shit anymore?" Oh, the irony.

Will the real Kanye please stand up?

Symphony #844

My body duets to yours, whispering from behind...

"I got you. Let me take you for this ride..."

as I pleasure what's mine. 

Pleasing you is what I crave. 

Your body convex, mine concave. 

Your hands reaching for nothing...

and everything with each heavy breath

Like a conductor guiding music. 

Your moans sing to me sweet simple lyrics....

"Yes..."

"Right there baby..."

"Shit..."

"I missed this..."

While my strokes sing along.

Your thighs join in on the chorus...

singing in a violent vibrato

As I conduct our orgasmic symphony. 

Sighs like the string section...

My strokes hitting hard like timpanis...

How did we get here? Your body called me to hear it's concerto. 

Moans on a rhythmic crescendo...

Falsettos in accelerando. 

A cappellas and accentato...

You'd rather go adagietto but baby this is my stroke show.

Strumming like a cello, rub it real slow

Strum the right notes leave your thighs like jello...

You say, "If you need an instrument you can play me"

I'll play you baby...making sure to get the right notes fingered carefully...

As our bodies create an orgasmic...

Symphony 844.

(With contributions from @NakedDiary and @BeutfulStranger)