Dear BLACK MAN:
MAESTRO SPEAKS
It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to sit down and have a conversation. I won’t patronize you with excuses or long drawn out interpretations on how the plantations affected us as a race. The truth is, I’ve been busy entertaining myself. Life is a perpetual event with certain drop offs, which sometimes leaves us alone drifting in a stream. I for one, need to come clean and stand on my own two feet and stop blaming someone else to keep my mind at peace.
I’m almost 50 years old, I don’t have anything left and what makes matter worst, I have absolutely nothing to show for it. Everything I’ve done in my life up to this point, has been predicated solely on a views. So many lies to mend, have left me wondering in loss. I’ve been so concern with complying with everyone else’s perceptions rather than living within the confines of my dreams. Having the attention span of a climax, I’ve wasted more time than I care to remember.
Subliminal thoughts have the tendency of occupying most leisure time and making a living is more than a state of mine when the bottom line continue to fall directly at my feet. The constant badgering of relationship coupled with the need to survive have all but taken its toll and the slim possibility of success wears on my subconscious from the distance. Is the rudiment principle I’ve used to ascertain so obvious? Trying so desperately to understand things I recorded from dreams I create. Only to end up dying to make cents in fact. Rigamortis is the metaphor I’ll rely on for that.
Everybody seems to have an opinion of how the story has been told, now sit back for a second to hear how the shit really unfolds. There are so many internal voices constantly haunting me, so I created high expectations of how my life is suppose to be. So if you feel Adam and Even were part of God’s magnificent plan, then what you see here standing before you is the image of the original man. My mind typically wonder at night but I’m focused today. Therefore I’ll keep using these metaphors and popping pills until the pain goes away.
You can’t recant, retract or regard it as fate. Because this breads from a source of everyday living, not something you can record on tape. You entered into an agreement which you thought was discreet and now every single thang you ever worked for belongs to the streets.
Tormented disfigured reels of insanity play, so many opinions invade the storm holding my intuition at bay. I WAS ERECTED FROM A STORM JUST PASSING THROUGH, AND YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO TRY AND CHANGE the clarity of MY point of VIEW. Gravity tends to take hold when I struggle at night and every downer I sneak and take, leaves my head feeling light. This ain’t the type drama you can vicariously get. I grew up listening to stereos, 8-tracks, and Summer Breeze on cassettes.
So what is the basis of this letter? Is it another fad or a LONG drawn out attempt for attention? This is by no stretch of anyone’s imagination some fairy tale ending that leaves us in a comatose state holding hands singing “kumbaya”, only to wake up and return to the mundane lifestyle on the horizon. Some of us sprint to the finish line, but in the end…it’s just a matter of time…..
(“DEAR BLACK MAN”) AN EXCERPT FROM ARCHIVES OF A BLACK MAN WRITTEN BY ANTONIO MOSES
Copyrights of Antonio Moses/Publisher Ashanti Publishing Group
STREET JUSTICE 