There is a conscious counterculture kickin’ in the Capital
Back east in DC, the community’s rockin,
Non-stoppin’, the underground family’s poppin’
bee-boppin’ to the rhythm of a go-go beat

Kickin’ music and revolution out in the street
Rhythm Workers bangin’ out a beat in time
Guerilla poets wagin’ a lyrical struggle in rhyme
Belmontia risin, Batala boomin

DC51 son! We be swoonin’
Enraptured by individual visions
Minds uncaptured by institutional incisions
Every single soul human nuclear fission

My man C-Max produces artwork in stacks
Original paintings, graphic design
Direct action organizer most of the time
A funky fresh handsome fly Argentine
He rocks a new school mullet and feels just fine

Little Moo is my brother from another mother
A little belly tickling always makes him shudder
When it’s time for an escapade, he’s done for another
Renaissance man, socialite, Brasiliera lover

Little LSB is our pet love bug
she’s always spotted hefting a massive-sized mug
Giving out to everyone the most amazing hugs
Of all things I’ve encountered an excellent judge

And then Mooper Cheekrabubblereggaenameen
Met each other the first time in a dreamy scene
Used to do her best to destroy her spleen
But always willing to switch to Al Green

Sweet-T was once a mousy computer guy
Always cooked a mean meal, but learned how to fly
After picking up the mic and telling “the Man” to die
Photographer extraordinaire with a morning high

Special K knows the way to make the beat go boom
Let her into any space, and she’ll conquer the room
She’ll croon, dance a jig and then, real soon,
You can watch every brother (and half the sisters) start to swoon

Little Vishy has cheeks I’d call squishy
He drops funky beats on both decks and drums
W always have fun, kicked it in the sun
On extended trips, we touch each other’s bums

Daddy Fadi is the warmest clown you’ll ever find
if we monkeys are juice in fruit, this man’s the rind
ready at the drop of a hat with some kind
standing ever ready to get you out of a bind

My doppleganger Hawah does a lot of yoga
Way too healthy to ever drink soda
You gotta get a load o’ the way this man stands
With him walking the world, it’s like we’ve each four hands

Back in the day, Mama Laila fed us all
An inundation of inspiration, an energy ball
End up at her place after playing the National Mall
Now she takes care of our snack, Amal

Sweet little Yummers has the brightest smile
Nobody can step to her on the dance floor, child
We spent some time, kicked it for awhile
For her company, I’d walk every mile of the Nile

It was recently the 27th anniversary of the Proposition One Vigil outside of the White House. Prop One is an anti nuclear grassroots movement, that has been doing the vigil since june 3rd 1981 when William Thomas though most know him as just Thomas sat down and then later Concepcion Picciotto (just known by her first name) sat down with him and well there begins some history and here is my poem about it that was written for their big 25th celebration

In 1981 a man sat down

he sat down on the cold white house ground

all he wanted was honesty and wisdom but the president 

couldn’t make a  nuclear proliferation treaty 

cause he kept building tanks missiles and bombs 

didn’t care if the world was soon to be gone

then very soon a lady sat down

she sat down on the cold white house ground

she joined up with the man, Thomas his name, 

Concepcion hers, they weren’t playing a game

they built up many signs, some big and some small

they drummed and fasted throughout the fall, but the cops came and took them away

said you will not have a better day, but they all came back 

and stayed there through years of tragedies tears and presidential fears

they stood up tall and they will not fall 25 (now 27) years and thats not all

For more info about the vigil and whatnot

http://prop1.org/

Go, Musharraf, go!
That's how my flow goes
so learn what happened if you don't already know

Pakistan needs to see democracy
we need sanity
to help preserve humanity

the vanity of America's fading empire
means only that the rubble will pile higher
kick the liars and the cronies out of power.

Shower.
Wash your hands of the master's plan.
Attack Iran?  What makes 'em think we can?

Cheney's high-rollin' for 30 years with no plan,
chickenhawks say we need to invade
but talks ain't even started, and there's peace parades

They want more war, but why listen to them?
They started a quagmire and will do it again.
To stop the next war, brother, pick up your pen.

The history of America’s science fictiondon’t take my word say it with picturesman the life boats spaced out missionsonly the Pentagon has money for winchesand a screw come loose in the trenchesa vote for either or’s natural selection

channel choices, tunnel vision pilots

elect evangelical bargain basement schism

wall to wall cars throughout the solar system

can you buy your way past the world bank

K-9 shoppers as long as you don’t think the

whole Big Bang’s yours including the kitchen sink

the sky’s the limit while there’s enough to eat

keep your foot on the gas and remain in your seat.

 

12/2003.

This spring, Laurie started actively pursuing an ongoing collaboration with Sol y Soul and the BlackOut Arts Collective, two other groups in the community doing work similar to that of the Guerrillas. The first concrete opportunity emerged in "The Other Side," a hip hop play put together by Sol y Sol, also featuring TriFlava.

We performed the show tonight in Space A at The Studio Theater as the closing act of the Hip Hop Theater Festival, which ran all week at a variety of venues including the Kennedy Center and Howard University. A packed house of around 200 people offered a standing ovation for the show, which one guerrilla in the audience described as "magnificent."

The Washington Post's Style section ran a front-page article today discussing the festival and its reflections of conscious hip-hop. After noting "The Other Side," and mentioning its appearance at the Studio Theater, the article quoted Sol Y Soul Director Regie Cabico (who also directed "The Other Side") at length:

"Hip-hop has created a generation where teens are attracted to poetry more than ever," Cabico said. "In the '70s, everyone wanted to be a rock star. In the '90s, everyone wanted to be a spoken-word poet. In this particular decade, you are seeing multi-performance artists coming together. . . .People are taking the power onto themselves. I feel we are heading into a new era. Who knows where it is going?

Read the rest of this entry »

Darfur, Darfur, Darfur,

I wanna shed my stress in Darfur,
where the rats eat well,
the graveyards too
and children take grenades to
the schools.

In Darfur
you can get
your dreamt six pack,
and eat all organic
cause you’re gonna thrive on your guts.

In Darfur
rape is a civil right
and you don’t have to worry
cause somebody else
will beat your wife.

there, you've got

no problems to get a gun

and can practice easily shootin

your neighbors or your son

and you'll be praised not send to prison

if you kidnap a woman

and please her with female circumcition

In Darfur freedom will be

according to your own standards

nobody will have a word

not even these U.N. nosy bastards

No more constraints!!

just sit down and relax

enjoy the suffocating atmosphere

and all the fun in Sudan!

gorila from delawhere-spain connection

viva la evolucion!

So I did a full re write of the Baghadad Blues by friend and all around awesome Shahid Buttar, here is how it goes!

Class president in high school
abused a freshman or two
I stole their money
kicked their ass went to court
but my rich lawyer daddy got the judge to abort

When I became the C.E.O.
All I wanted to do was make a lotta dough
So I sent off little boys straight to Iraq
Told their moms that they ain’t coming back
because they are shooting at brown people in the sand
while the moneys swept up by my corporate hand
I will supress you if you try and make a stand
so just continue to attack foreign land
got of my yatch in a port in mystic
saw people everywhere on the sound they aren’t as rich as me so I look down
on their poor asses as I get driven into town

I was off in my convoy two SUVs
every twenty seconds taking a sip from my martini
Billing elevated fees to all my employees
Hey driver lets go buy some gold plated skis

And they are shooting at brown people in the sand
while the moneys swept up by my corporate hand
I will supress you if you try and make a stand
so just continue to attack foreign land

I was driven up north to my cabin in Bangor
Feeling pride at my merger with Berger
Suddenly I find myself in legal tangles
from my bank accounts in the Bermuda triangles

My buddies on the jury and the judge is too
Hope since I am rich I won’t get treated like you
that drug dealer who had a dirty shoe
I want to walk free and move down to Malibu

And they are shooting at brown people in the sand
while the moneys swept up by my corporate hand
I will supress you if you try and make a stand
so just continue to attack foreign land

They gave me a fine to which I quickly paid off
got in my car lit a ciggerette started to cough
when you are rich you can always get off
unless your name is Abramoff

See all you gotta do is pay off a judge or two
become friends with the president tear a country in two
then all the politicians will support you
and then you can keep polluting the blue
as well as And they shooting at brown people in the sand
while the moneys swept up by my corporate hand
I will supress you if you try and make a stand
so just continue to attack foreign land

mom mom mom mom

can't you see

look what baby don't to me

he took away my std

and let me watching barney

tic tac toe

three in a row

barney got shot by gro

we went to the doctor

and the docter say

sorry kids but barney death

The American Foreign Legion is coming to your town

A bipartisan resolution to help illegals stick around

Republicans get cheap labor, Democrats get more votes

Illegals get free housing, plus feed for all their goats

As goose-step ambassadors for the Commander In Chief

This minimum wage job will keep your family on relief

You'll learn to vote, bomb and maime in various ways

As you march and sing Hail To The Chief at dawn each day

You'll invade Augusta, Georgia-search for WMDs

Bush knows them tall, needly-things can't all be pine trees

"Destry all their bunkers and set them flags on f'ar!"

This terrorist golf course is one my daddy couldn't par

Your past crimes against others that you never denied

Now work in your favor; Hey! you're pre-qualified!

You can practice any religion-worship alligator shoes

But if you're caught, I promise you'll pay some heavy dues.

Bush'll cut teacher's salaries to buy your uniforms

Then buy even-smarter bombs with Social Security reform

Your unpatriotic neighbors we're taking away

Our scanner shows their drawers weren't made in the USA

You'll have computerized weapons and ballistics second to none

And planes that track and vaporize your enemies as they run

We've figured out how to use you without setting you free

But Congress is hoping like hell that you won't mutiny

So all you soldiers of fortune and action-figure sons

Get paid to live your "closet life" as Attila The Hun.

Just sign up now, or make an "X" whichever you can do

A lifetime job and a MasterCard is waiting for you.

These taxes are killing me,
tax my soul, my heart
tax my love to pay for hate
blowing up in the name of state;
well, I'll file them for you,
little machines of death,
and you'll call yourself Caesar,
but all you really do
is make it difficult to please her:
the money could be for flowers,
or new shoes on cold feet.
You ought to put this money
into making our cultures meet
with handshakes and cheek kisses,
these are more targeted
than your smart bomb misses.
So, here's my god damned money
that I worked hard all year for
and there you go again
simply ignoring the dying poor.
Fine - I'll go and march
in the May day parade
with the people really working
and not playing charades
while you take my money
and destroy other places,
so these new homeless
have somewhere to go,
come to our golden shores
since we blew up yours.