Friday, February 23, 2007


SAVONNAH Born and raised in Newark New Jersey, Savonna lives, breathes and writes truth with painful, unabashed explicitness. Her poems are a reflection of her tortured past, agonizing present and uncertain future, and her style is best described as the result of a love triangle between Nina Simone, Edgar Alan Poe, and Frida Kahlo. Savonna will take you on a wild ride through her existence in her autobiographical, poetical journals (Photos from Savonnah).


I have fallen, eyes open, from building rooftops.
Dropped myself from movie theatre balconies and cliffs with jagged rocks and sticks waiting to embrace me, lace me, and drape me in splotched spots, red polka dots that boast surgical arrays and display my imperfections.
Despaired, I have murdered my children in their sweet sleep then turned the blade on my own wrists, tiny slits precisely sliced while submerging in warm tub water.
Assorted pain medications, swallowed without hesitation, were taken with spiritual libations, as a sort of melancholic celebration for the poisoned encapsulations...and... I’ patiently await the end, await the end, await the end, I’d begin to cry.
Tormented, I always awake from this daydreamed state my tear stained face showing traces of scrambled random thoughts fraught with ideations of suicidal, homicidal guilt that wilts and withers my psyche, my soul and body, as a rain forest flower transplanted in the desert.
And whether I survive is based on lies and the elements, dependant on others to make sense my purpose, it’s no wonder I can’t get a grip and slip fixatedly on what people say to me, how their reactions dictate what my day will be and tactless cracks predict what is to become of me.
I sink and give in to depressions every twist and bend and try over and over again to find an end, to find an end, to find an end, to my wasted existence.
Hints and glimmers of solutions present themselves as intrusions because the final truth is; I am used to this confusion I’m set in. It is a comfortable old friend. It secures my insecurities and constantly reminds me of where I’m from. So, so what if I succumb under it’s oppressive thumb, the point is not to run. The point is to face it, and it let it take you to the muse. Even if she’s a confused bitch and wishes mal-intent and purposely invents obstacles and optical illusions for her sheer enjoyment.
You loose yourself for a minute but there is wealth and power in it, fuck that happy ending shit, deaths my detriment for un-repentance.
And the sentence I receive leaves grief for the bereaved but I still feel the need to please that aching that sadness has taken me too. I can think of no others because this muse has governed me thus far. Apart from informed sane decisions, this circle is what I choose to live in, and
I can’t find the ending, and I can’t find the ending....


The lazy fat bitch wishes, as she sits with a mouth full of grits and a sink full of dishes, that her hips were 24 inches, and that her lips weren’t interested in wrapping themselves around chicken bones, blueberry scones, ice cream cones, or some other form of oral pacification.
The lazy fat bitch prays for days of diarrhea delirium just so she can fit in some size 18 jeans, without collapsing her spleen and while she drifts off to sleep she hopes and dreams that one day, say Pfizer or Merck will work out all her trouble in a magic bottle.
When she wakes, the floor creaks and shakes under her enormous weight and she states “Today is God damned day! Fuck ice cream!” She screams, and loads a pile of eggs, toast, home fries, and steak on her plate.
The diet starts now, I don’t care how, I’m going to loose 50 pounds by the end of this month. Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Nutri System, Carb Blockers, Curves, Pilates, Bally’s and herbal hot toddies.
The month comes to an end and her belly, her best friend, is still as rotund robust as can be.
So the lazy fat bitch just sits with a mouthful of grits and a sink full of dishes and wishes for a Mercedes.

NAIM OMARI has appeared locally at community churches and school sponsored events. He performs poetry open mics at any venue from New York to Washington DC and all stops in between. Naim Omari is a writer, a dancer, a football player, an award winning wrestler, and a model. All before his 12th birthday!


I am afraid to move.
I lie still on hard black pavement. If I move a muscle, It will see me.
I watch It glide across the street, slowly, with a black hood and no face.
It is night. Or it is a black day. Which one I can’t tell. There is no sun or moon.
It sees me. I am frozen. Paralyzed by fear. It feeds off the adrenaline that flows through my body, and It uses it against my will. I have no control. I can feel It smiling at me. A smile that pulsates from It’s core and burns into my mind. At that moment, I know my life is over and I’m not afraid. Then blackness.

I lie still on soft blue sheets. I am dripping with sweat. Still paralyzed. Panting. My eyes focus. The black railing of my bed glimmers in the new sun light. I move slowly out of my bed. I stretch. My arms are foreign. The floor is cold. The shower is hot. I try to wash It and It’s smile away. I am not hungry, but I am told to eat. My body does not feel like my own. I hear someone call me. No one is there. I walk to school, but I am not alone. I wonder why kids shy away from me. I don’t care. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. The day is over. I wasn’t even there. I walk into my house. There is garbage every where. Glass from broken dishes and cups are all over the floor.
The tables are smashed. The sofas are ripped to shreds. My family is gone. I open the door to my bedroom. It sits on my bed smiling Its inner smile. I hear a siren. Then blackness.

I lie still. Frozen. I am dripping with sweat. My eyes focus. I slowly get out of my bed. My body is not my own. I am not hungry. Someone calls my name. There is no one there. I walk to school. But I am not alone. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care.....

NIGEL JOAQUIN is a 14 year old model, poet, martial artist, football player, wrestler, chef and Shakespearean enthusist. Now if he would just clean his room....


I am not an African American.
I am not an African.
I am not an African in America.
I am an American.
In America.
If I were to go to Somalia, Kenya, Liberia, Nigeria or any other part of the “Mother land”, they would not call me brother.
They go to school with me. I tell them we are all the same.
They tell me I came by boat and they came by plane.
They tell me they can trace their roots and their family name.
I asked my mother where we got our start.
The farthest she could go was Chief Troublefield on one side and on the other, old master Clark.
I don’t know which ship we were on. Africa is not my home.
They sold me to master Clark for some trinkets and shiny things.
That’s why there’s an X after Malcolm’s name.
But even the Shabazz tribe has no meaning.
My ancestors died here in America on trees swinging.
We built this country, I am this nation.
I don’t need any tribalization.
I am not an African. I am not an African.
I am not an African American.

No comments: