Black Futurists Speak

7/27/2019 Black Futurists Speak

1/56


2/56

Black Futurists Speak

An anthology of new black writing by the Black Futurists Arts CollectiveKwan Booth Ed.

Those that bend the WORD

Meet those who reflect SIGHTOver mixed mediums of SOUND

(May 17-2012-The Future)

Black Futurists Speak is a multimedia literary performance project produced by the BlackFuturist Working Group and hosted by Omiiroo Gallery in Oakland.

Curated by d scot miller with visual programming from Deadeyes, the project showcases someof the most cutting edge young wordsmiths, lyricists and storytellers working in the Bay Areacombined with live painting and musical performances ranging from hip hop to free jazz.

This anthology is a written account of the 1st public reading.


3/56

A Black Futurist Doctrine

The Black Futurists are pan-diasporic, trans-generational, hyper-local, global, & gorilla.Tracking, exploring, sharing, & cultivating, producing influence that smells of the same funk,building maps of culture to create virtual, actual and mystical space to dial up the future .

Our intent is to have fullness of voice in order to produce works that reflect a global, allocentricblack experience. Our ideologies range from black nationalism to afrosurrealism to anarchist tothose who are simply BLACK AS A MOTHERFUCKER!, but don't adhere to any convention.

We trust that:

1.The Black Futurist create safe spaces for productive conversations & planning the future ofdiasporic arts, social and political expression. As artists, writers, techies, intellectuals, activists,historians and cultural polymaths, we explore collective and individual evolution.

2. To reclaim the fullness of all that we are as black people moving forward into the future, wewelcome black geeks and misfits, zoo curators, activists, & trailblazers with the awareness thatwe need all of us, not just a small boxed-in definition of who and what is "black."

3. The Black Futurists are a forward-thinking arts think tank where artists & theorists are invitedto come together to build projects. Influenced by realities of black science fiction and the sciencefiction of black reality, our mission is to create new, liberating mythologies.

4. We are allies with the struggles and creative resistances of all the peoples of the planet,encouraging all to present their ideas & opinions, for extending the movement, buildingcommunity, & creating and promoting opportunities to present Black Futurists works andideologies.

5. Manifesting the future by reclaiming the fullness of cultural expression by writing ourselves,defining our language & canons, & shamelessly threatening the programming that limits ourability to connect & accept ourselves. Our purpose is to create from forward black thinking.


4/56

Knot Frum Here: Interzone

D. Scot Miller

Terror is necessary. Isnt that a frightening thought? Terror is necessary. It is fear of invasion thatbuilds families. The fear of malice breeds community and mutual consideration. How many

times have you witnessed a bully and prescribed the remedy, That one needs to get his asskicked? The misbegotten soul just aint scared enough to be civilized. Well, they are bullies, theascetics, the binaries, as we call them. Them either-this-or-that-motherfuckers are our enemiesand must change their ways or its the end of all of us. They refuse, and the only thing thatsgonna make them change they minds is fear.

They created us. We believed we had created ourselves. When we found out that we were thisway because they wanted us this way, we resented it. Wouldnt you?

As usual, the boat sidled up to the pier closest to the bazaar. I could hear feet slapping on theloose wooden planks as the fog lifted. The tops of the tents looked like little fez hats from the

distance.

BLOOD! A woman yelled. BLOOD!

The waves popped against the side of my boat as I opened my satchel to put away my book. Ishook it. I was out of coins and my stomach grumbled to make up for the missing sound of coinsclinking together.

BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! The woman screeched as I stepped out of the boat and nudged itaway from shore with my foot.

Say Blood! Blood! I heard a high voice call. Turning, I was met with the hungry gaze of aWild Boy. His thin face and body were covered in dirt. The only thing that looked pristine onhim were his red roller-skates and silver metallic silver jock strap.

BLOOD! BLOOD The woman continued to wail.

Bellona chains and a leather strap with a flask of goofer dust in a vial at the end hung around hischest. Ageless, it was impossible to tell exactly whom you were talking to with them.

What can I do you for? I smiled. The boy smiled back, pushed the tuft from his eyes, cast hishead down, his eyes up. He rotated one skate on the stopper at the toe.

A pearl of wisdom and working curse. He said. I laughed.

BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!

Youre more interested in the curse than the pearl.

He laughed then. I like pearls too. He gave me a hard look and skated off before I could ask


5/56

him what he meant.

She was an older woman, small and frail, holding bags of saffron spheres amid the bustling ofbrown bodies.

BLOOD oranges! BLOOD oranges! She screamed through the holes in her teeth. Her body,beneath a black shawl protruded in places that let me know that shed kept the extras tuckedunderneath. Or at least I hoped. Such was the point of sales at the bazaar of Interzone, all drama.I bought two with a verse on inner beauty and a blessing of painless death.

Agents in linen suits and straw hats were filing reports at the Remingtons stationed at thewindow. The ceiling fans wafted the smell of cigarettes, hash, coffee and rum around the humidcaf. The sun was just beginning to set and a whistling breeze wafted above the still silence.

Blood! Dr. Benway called from the back, waving a raised glass of rum in my direction.I am a god of air, Frustrators, one of those tall, lean, dark-faced bedside spectres. I drag them

through the window as they dream, let them look back and see their bodies lying rigid in theirbeds. My consort is the White Goddess, Queen of fright and lust whose embrace is death. Mywords are my spear.

Were all Seers, not gleemen. Gleemen are entertainers. If the gleemans flattery to them radio,them television, them book, or magazine is handsome enough and his song sweetly enoughattuned to their booze-sodden minds, they load the him with cash and honey cakes; if not theypelt him with beef bones. Shit, let them try to rob me of my dignity and Ill compose a satire onthey ass, bring out black blotches on they faces and turn them bowels to water.

Throw a madmans wisp in they face and drive them insane. Were The Exalted Doves, the mostmenacing band of Frustrators. Our uniform is Panther Jackets, turtlenecks and skips. Our call is ashort piercing exhalation IA, and the bass response HU?

I dont know how long its been since Ive been hear, this acoustic space where sound vibratesthrough my soul, tears at my flesh like lust. Sonic vibrations ripple through me like a freezingbreeze. It hurts, but I havent been home in what feels like years, and I havent considered goingback in a long time. They say you dont age hear, but I cant see how thats possible. I feel older.

Sit down, my boy. The corpulent Benway motioned me to one of the wicker seats at his side.You must be boiling in that leather. Aubrey he snapped his fingers at a pale, anorexic whiteboy. His hipbones jutted out, cutting into his long shirt, take the young mans coat.

No, Im fine. Got anything to drink around here?

Well, isnt that obvious? He shook the tumbler in his bejeweled hand.

You called me here, Doc, I reached for a glass. What can I do you for?

I need you to go back to San Francisco.


6/56

What?!? I couldnt believe my ears. Here I was, just thinking about never going back, and hewants what?

Fuck that, Doc, I said, swallowing the rum Id planned to sip in one gulp. No way Im going

back.

I figured youd say that, but let us not forget the little debt you and your boys have amassedover the years.

The debt. Doc used to have coin and plenty of it. I wasnt around for his glory days, but when hewas working for the pharmaceuticals, helping them create the anxiety drugs to calm what ourantics provoked, he pulled down enough metal to loan out. The Doves owed him big. I wasntaround for the spending of the coin either, but that shit didnt matter. Id enjoyed my spoils ofthis war. The debt was as much mine as it was anyone elses.

Fuck The Doves, Doc, I said. Im freelance like a motherfucker. No way youre gonna get meback to surface on some old loyalty bullshit.

I know you dont mean that Youngblood, the fat bastard took another pull at the hookah at hisside. Doc Benway was grotesque. He weighed over 400 pounds and stood well over six feet. Hisaphrodisiac was power and girth, and he used it very well. Better, in fact, than many of mybrothers from the veldt who only used their bodies, reading eyes, and tongue. He was, in fact,seducing me with the same machinations. I was thinking about coin, power, and loyalty, just likethe abandoned foundlings that served his domestic interests.

What makes you think I dont? I dont owe The Doves shit. By extension, I dont owe you agoddamned thing either.

Youre asking whats in it for you? He smiled. His teeth were Juicy Fruit gray laced in gold.Okay, if thats the way you want to put it, I smiled back. I knew my shit was little yellow fromall the frop, but still diamond grill in the truest sense. Whats in it for me?

Nothing but the kill, Youngblood, he leaned back and lit his cigar stub. I waited for therepeated line. The one that bosses say for emphasis that confirms the finality of theirproclamation. The repeated line that is their truth, immutable and above debate. He arched a thineyebrow, knowing I was waiting. Waiting for the one repeated line that once spoken, sets theadventure in motion with no further explanation, Nothing but the kill.


7/56


8/56

For Octavia...

Shawn Taylor

1. She told us that god was change/we didnt listen

She told us to change god/we clung to the tethers of stagnancyHoping against the evidence that we had a planOr that someone had a plan for us

2. Bodies ripped and rendingColors bleeding/skin and gender becomeCartography/ Divine LocusMaps and territories braided

3. Doro and AnyanwuA greater happening masked

Families built with will and manipulationPower and minute control encircled

4. It is about shapesThe shapes of things to comeThe shape of the present momentShaping ones self/The Genesis point forShaping God

5. Prayer is in the bloodThe blood is the connectorTriads of histories meetLeaving only the beginning of a new line

6. The sky has no secretsAway from those we embed in itThe unspoken shadowStifles the screams of the air

7. Words have always been enoughInadequate symbols of the neverwasMeaning extracted from the loss of speechLiteracy becomes a soothing currency

8. Hosting and pregnancy are the sameAs they both bond and nurtureMans stomach holds the futureThe egg keeps the present at bay

9. Time is a whip/Splaying backs open


9/56

To ensure her existence she had to save hatredHistory becomes myth becomes painPain is the clay with which to shape

10. Pain/Darkness/Hunger

Tongue flits across punctures/this is a joiningPleasure compressed into the perceptually forbiddenFamily shares blood shares life shares each other

11. Can the difference between power and loveEver be differentiated within the chaosWhen the object of desire and affectionConstantly wonders if they are loved or food

12. Positive obsession engenders adaptabilityPersistence is the ever-moment

Rigidity is the enemy of future-thoughtOur destination has been plotted and composed

13. The shape of seeds is as important as what sproutsGodseed/Earthseed both needs fertile groundThis is an uncommon transactionWe are blinded by the beauty of this exchange

14. Vinyl-clad Devil Girls from Mars touched downGiving a young girl a new set of eyes to seeBeyond the utilitarian nature of paper and penHumble world-creator finds her shaping tools

15. Hammering at the edge of awarenessShe transitions from pen to punctuated key-burstsWorlds and their peoples asking to be bornThe possibility of tomorrow captured with just 26 letters

16. Time and sky are her only boundariesBoth shattered with little effort or willShe makes her sorcery look easyOnyx adepts plant themselves at her feet

17. Death may very well be the All PowerfulThough it is underwhelming in its insidious banalityStories leaking onto crusted iceForming constellations of ossified symbol

18. She rose from the end of thingsLooked out and high


10/56

She stepped over the flickering non-corpse of the unprayed to god and declared "Only the starsare holy."

Octavia Estelle Butler June 22, 1947 February 24, 2006


11/56

Shawn Taylor is a student, teacher and lecturer of Interdisciplinary humanities, critical culturalstudies, media, propaganda, popular culture and speculative fiction. He is also a storyteller whosometimes helps others to tell their stories. He is the author of Big Black Penis: Misadventures in

Race and Masculinity, a book about A Tribe Called Quests first album for the 33 1/3 series, andthe forthcoming Alphabet for New (and soon to be) Dads. He also contributes semi-regularly tothe Rad Dad zine. Taylor is the writer and performer of the highly acclaimed solo-play SlowerThan a Speeding Bullet which was the AOL pick of the week both weeks during its two-weekrun. He has directed a play (Da Cipher) for The Living Word Project, and is currently working ona stage performance that combines folk-magic and blues music, and an animation for DerrickBells The Afrolantica Awakening.


12/56

Why I am a Black Futurist

Eric K. Arnold

Black Futurism. Its a concept which speaks to a cosmic mystery. The clues to its existence arescattered throughout myth, archaeological history, folklore and literature, but also through

seemingly random, somewhat obscure 70s, 80s, and 90s pop culture references which, whenconnected, form a celestial key or DNA sequence: P-funks specially designed Afronaughts,capable of funkitizing entire galaxies ; the Jonzun Crews extraterrestrial pop-lock anthem PakMan the original, indie label version of which subtly states black man in the chorus ; SunRas low-budget sci-fi, time-traveling, psychedelic opus Space is the Place; Parliaments funkyhitchhikers waiting on the Mothership Connection, which could very well turn out to be KoolKeiths Pleiades pimpmobile, the Space Cadillac.

The list of Black Futurist soundtrack essentials goes on and on. For starters, theres Rammellzee& K-Robs densely-packed nugget of slippery syntax, Beat Bop; Fab 5 Freddy and B-Sidesequally-seminal Change the Beat; Cybotrons techno-hop blueprint, Clear; Funkadelics

forward-thinking floor-filler One Nation Under a Groove; the Fearless Fours computerizedvocoder-handclaps-and-808 classic F-4000; Herbie Hancocks jazz fusion meets turntablismprimer, Rockit; the Ultramagnetic MCs terrific treatise in telepathic ego-tripping, Travelingat the Speed of Thought; and the entire Fela Anikulapo Kuti catalog, but especially CustomCheck Point, buoyed by its swirling keyboards, from the Live in Amsterdam album. These wereour ninja scrolls, our stone tablets, our Declarations of Independence. Fresh was our word, andit still is.

Black Futurists are from the home planets of Andre 3000 andDeltron 3030. We are the originalmen who fell to earth (Sirius-ly). Our primary care physicians are the good doctors Funkenstein,Octagon, and Drewhen he was still scratching turntables and asking his nurses for 1200 ccs ofNumark.

I am a Black Futurist because this is the age I was born into: one where the future bends into thepast, thereby creating the present. I say Black Futurist because the concept of Afro-futurism hasbeen co-opted by non-black peoplesjust like Ethnic Studies courses at universities taught byCaucasians .

Black Futurists reject the Eurocentric notion of avant-garde; wed rather say, it is what it is. Wedraw inspiration from a cornucopia of cultural stimuli from seemingly outside the AfricanAmerican canonvisual art, music, movementand become experts on everything from animeto Zen Buddhism in the process. Yet we know, at the same time, our influences are drawinginspiration from us. We are the beautiful ones who are not yet born; this is our birth cry.

Black Futurists have always existed, a lineage stretching back to Imhotep the builder of Khemet,theAnnunaki of Sumeria, theNommo of Dogon belief, and Dhejuti the Atlantean. Yet mygeneration of Black Futurists came of age in the Golden Age of hip-hopwhich as it later turnedout, was important.

Hip-hops significance lies in the fact that it was and is a hybrid culture. The futurist aspect


13/56

comes from the willingness to embrace technology, in particular electronic drums and computerrhythms, and in the forward-thinking mentality, reflected in the innovative, sometimes abstract ormetaphysical, lyrical patterns which marked late 80s-early 90s rap in particular.

Hip-hops universal truth lies in the fact it carries the weight of the past into the future. It

encompasses untold generations of cultural development both in Africa and throughout theAfrican Diaspora sometimes subtly, yet always present. Once we posit the notion ofinstantaneous interstellar motion at will -- as Rakim says, lets travel at magnificent speedsaround the universe it is but a short step from theAtun, the Khemetic glyph for sun ray, to theMain Source album title,Breaking Atoms. And yet, to take that step transverses untold eons,miles, generations, and heartbeats, measured over space and time.

Transposed against a nitty gritty, urban backdrop -- an inner-city incubator -- hip-hop introducedthe practice of cultural sampling, a modified form of ancestor worship whereby still-livingpredecessors were celebrated BEFORE they jumped inside the boat of Ra for that last hoo-ride inthe sky, ya dig?

As further evidence that the word was indeed living, hip-hop even refined the practice of self-sampling, of projecting future ancestry into the present tense. Once again, Rakim provides alyrical example: Lets quote / a rhyme from the record I wrote / (follow the leader) yeah, dope.

What we wanted the future to look like back in the days then was in many ways better than theactual future we got when the 21st century finally arrived. Back then, a JC Penney ski jacketwith zip-off sleeves and symmetrical V patterns, paired with a mock neck, pro-Keds, and aKangol tilted precisely at a 33-degree angle, suggested a postmodern, forward-thinking stylisticaesthetic which matched perfectly with first-generation digital samplers. It could have easilysufficed as leisure wear on the Starship Enterprise, yet instead it became a b-boy classic, nowironically considered retro.

In the 70s and 80s, we didnt use the word electro to describe the genre of music we liked.We could just say, we like that Beat songs with overly-prominent drums. We didnt have todifferentiate between rap, techno, or new wave a point Bambaataa emphasized on PlanetRock, yet another Black Futurist anthem rooted in cosmology.

If it had electronic drums and you could boogaloo to it, it was golden. Thats why KraftwerksNumbers gets included in the Black Futurist time capsule, as does Thomas Dolbys SheBlinded Me with Science. Though both were ostensibly Eurocentric takes on techno-pop, bothsongs nevertheless hark to the unmistakable hallowed ground of Black Futurist origin: Khemet.

Mathematics, without which there would literally be no numbers, gestate in Khemet prior to theGreeks claiming ownership of geometry and astronomy. So does the very concept of science, i.e.the interrelationship of everything in the universe with everything else.And yet, it was perhaps an unintended consequence of the Egyptian Lover, who made the songEgypt Egypt simply to be a dancefloor anthem allowing him to get his freak on, that he endedup reawakening an ancient truth in the minds of the blunted b-boy faithful. Despite masking it inchauvinistic sexual innuendo, cheesy synth lines and electronic drums, that truth remains


14/56

evident: Egypt is the place to be!

In Khemetic thought, there is no difference between science and religion. Also, no singularnotion of god or supremacy of any one particular god. The Khemetic peoples didnt even use theword god; their most equivalent term, neter, roughly translates as divine blessing. The

derivative ofneteris neteru, or divine being. The importance of speech as an aspect ofcreation, and therefore of the oral tradition as a facet of history, is suggested by the Khemeticphrase Metu Neter, which means divine word, also known as the (eternally) living word which also happens to parallel the West African concept Nommo, a reference to the first livingbeing, folklorically of extraterrestrial origin, which means to make one drink as well as magicpower of the word. Word up. Literally.

Instead of an omnipotent supreme deity whose rule encompasses all existence, the Khemeticpeoples had a more logical explanation: there is a cosmological understanding which connects allliving things, not just on Earth, but throughout the entire universe. To them, the act of creationwas sacred, and worthy of ritualized celebration. The Khemetic belief was that creation was and

is an act which continues to reverberate throughout all life forms.

Khepera, the neteru associated with creation, was a verb, but also a noun, and sometimes anadjective. Linguistically, Western thought has no equivalency for these concepts, which hasalways made exact translation difficult. And yet, somehow, the hip-hop generation got the memo,received the message, deciphered the code, and created a cultural practice out of everythingaround it. As Khepera manifests, funky fresh.

In many ways, the Khemetic peoples were the original Black Futurists. They believed in acosmic, rather than a purely terrestrial, existence. Their concept of time was similarly open-ended, as evidenced by the hieroglyph Shen -- which has been translated as both eternity anda period of 10,000 years. It also means protection.

10,000 years. For real? Who can thinkthatfar ahead? Obviously, the Khemetic people could.Imagining extraterrestrial interaction and origin wasnt beyond them the boat of RA, after all,traveled through both inner and outer space daily. Moreover, theres evidence that Khemeticcosmology wasnt just myth and folklore: for whatever reason, the Pyramids of Giza are attunedto a different solar system than Earths. Thats deeper than an ocean, deeper than the notion thatthe earth was flat when it was round.

Black Futurism begins with Khemet. But it doesnt stop there. Just as the act of creationreverberates throughout everything which has come into being, Khemetic thought resonatesthrough the ideological beliefs and ritualized practices of every culture which has existed sincethen.

This might help to explain why Newclus ship on theJam on Revenge album bears physicalresemblance to the depiction of RAs ark in the Papyrus of Ani. It also explains why the notion ofbreakdancing outside Earths atmosphere, not to mention interstellar call-and-response, wasntbeyond the imagination of the Jonzun Crew on the electro-hop classic Space is the Place.Another early Jonzun Crew song, Space Cowboy, could be referring to P-Funks Afro-naughts,


15/56

SumerianAnnunaki, DogonNommo, KhemeticNeteru, or Sunny, Sun Ras character in Spaceis the Place.

Black Futurism postulates not a supreme God, but a supreme universeor as Coltrane expressedit, a love supreme. It is a legacy, a birthright, a harmonic convergence. A spirituality which

doesnt define itself through rigid and unwavering liturgy or static reality. Instead it utilizes afree-flowing fluidity which embraces all the cultural touchstones of the Diaspora and upholds thecreative principle of the cosmos for all eternity. Its manifestations are sublime and eternal. Forinstance, who did Pele play for, when he played in New York?

The Cosmos. Exactly.


16/56

Eric K. Arnold has been writing about urban music culture since the mid-1990s, when he wasthe Managing Editor of now-defunct 4080 Magazine. Since then, hes been a columnist for suchpublications as The Source, XXL, Murder Dog, Africana.com, and the East Bay Express; his

work has also appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, Vibe, Wax Poetics, SF Weekly, XLR8R,the Village Voice and Jamrock, as well as the academic anthologies Total Chaos and The VinylAint Final. Eric began his journalistic career while DJing on college radio station KZSC, andremembers well the early days of hip-hop radio, before consolidation, and commercialization setin. He currently lives in Oakland, California.


17/56

THE FOLLOWING IS A TRUE STORY

(excerpt from the film,A Little Bit Colored. A Little Bit White.)

Shy Pacheco Hamilton

My name is Les Franklyn. You dont know my middle name. My name is Leslie Sylvester

Franklin. They call me Syl in Colo Spgs where I grew up and they call me Les in IBM where Iworked and they call me Frank in the military where I helped protect the country.

I was born in Colo Springs, as an infant, my mother and father took me to Los Angeles, and Istayed there until I was almost 8 then came back to Colo Spgs. My mother was in theentertainment business and so because she was a singer and traveling, she sent me back to livewith my grandmother and my aunt. So I did that from the time I was 8. And my mother cameback and joined us when I was probably 12, 13 or so, a few years later. And then she startedworking with my aunt her in her uh, club, a bar, she was a day manager. I was the janitor. Istarted playing hockey when I was 7. And got into skating and loved it but in those days youcould play all sports and I tried to play most of them.

Hockey was my favorite but I was best at football. I probably wouldve been equally as good athockey if i'd had the opportunity to skate as much as the opportunity playing football. I playedbaseball and basketball and I did well in all of them. I enjoyed them. I was a good hitter inbaseball. I wanted to be Jackie Robinson. And so I played second base and I ended up playing alot of different positions. But football I was a in terms of recognition, as a high school student, Iwas an all state, state in football, all city all conference in football. I didnt get the same kind ofaccolades in the other sports. But I was in Ebony Magazine, and Jet magazine playing hockey.

I have 2 stepsisters but they are like my sisters and weve been together for a long time sincethey were 13 and 14 and I was 15 and so now at some 52 years later weve been brothers andsisters longer than we havent been brothers and sisters. You know? Longer than a lot of peoplewho are natural brothers and sisters.

I was a young man and I was rooming with a guy, his name was Forest Anderson and when hewas married and when I was in college in Greeley, then he got divorced and I went to the serviceand was out and was working for IBM at the time and also selling Hamilton mutual funds, andafter he got divorced he was looking for a place to stay and I was in a 2 bedroom duplex up onPontiac here in Denver and so he needed a place, he came to me so I let him the place so hisgirlfriend was best friends with the lady I married, he never married his girlfriend but I marriedher friend. And thats how that happened.

We were married probably 12 years and we were divorced when Jamon was 12 and Shaka was 6and I raised them from that point on.

When we divorced, Shaka didnt never handle it well. But I never really knew. Jamon was olderand he had friends who were in the same situation and he handled it by I thought better thanShaka, Shaka was devastated. Shaka felt like he was being given away by his mother. That shedidnt really care and I think that had an affect on him. Deep. He had a lot of anger. He didntrealize that he was breaking a lot of things in the house. And uhh, as a baby as a child, but I think


18/56

it devastated him. Shaka never ever wanted me to meet or marry anyone else, he wanted me toremarry his mom and he said as much when he was younger and then when he got to be ateenager, kind of went away but he had meetings and conversations with his mother I never knewabout. And ummm, I have a French neighbor, Percy Duvet who took him to see his mom. Hewould ask her to take him over to his mothers house and I think that because we had a volatile

divorce, you know, uhh, I think that not a really good relationship. He felt like he had to sneak tosee his mom. He didnt. I never, would hold him back, never, ever do that but I think he felt thathe didnt want to hurt me by telling me he wanted to see his mom. And he was very protective ofme. You know?

Shaka, I mean he loved sports, he loved football and I think he wanted to take it all the way. Heloved to give bear hugs, just a nice sweet kid, umm, to himself more than he needed to be. Wewere buddies, we hung out every Friday, I never went out or hung out without Shaka. I didntleave him at home. Other than to go to work. But when the weekends came, it was he and I. itwas he and I and his brother, before that. If you dated me when I was single, you dated me andShaka. And Jamon and thats the way I always kept it. It was that way from Day 1 with anyone

that I ever met. And uhh, Shaka liked, we would play in the pool together, he was a teddybearand I think that really worked against him because uhh, he had such a soft heart. He wasnt hardenough, tough enough.

To give you a good example about him, he could bake a cake from scratch. And he used tobabysit for a little girl, a little Shy girl down the street.

I was a work a holic. And I was in organizations and all that stuff I did for corporate America Iworked 18 hours a day and fortunately I had an aunt who lived here so there was an adult alwaysin the house, always she was here 24/7 and yeah, I worked a lot, I was on a lot of boards so Iwent to a lot of meetings and if I had to do it over again I wouldnt be on any boards, Id spendmore time with him and I wouldnt work the hours that I worked. But I was trying to do while Iwas young enough and had the energy and I'm thinking that that the creature comforts wouldhelp and I could provide things to them and college education which I did for his brother youknow theres no govt loans for Jamon.

I took him to school that day. I remember standing up in the bathroom, he was quiet and umm hewas real slow. I was like come on Shaka were gonna be late. Cuz I had to go to work and I wastaking Maryanne to work and he uhh, he knew then what he was going to do and I could see himlooking at me in the mirror. Hes looking at me real long and hard and I wish I could go back andsay, Shaka, lets just hang out today. Im not gonna go to work. But he didnt give me anyindication any indication other than he was real quiet and uhhh I took him to school and hewalked into the side door, the lower door at TJ uhh from the parking lot and not the front doorbut the kinda the back door the north door and he was walking with his head down and he wasdejected and thats when I shouldve, right then, right there I knew something was wrong but Ididnt know what was wrong and then when I came home, I found him in his bedroom with abullet hole in his head.

He wasnt dead, he was dying, he was brain dead. Uhh so thats what I remember and Iremember uhhh looking at him thinking he fell and hurt himself. and then seeing the pistol


19/56

between his legs. And he had neatly hung his jacket up on the back of the chair in his room andummm, I called 911. I screamed to Maryanne she was calling on one line and I was calling onthe other line. And we were both calling and when they got here I remember the police I nevertouched him, ever. I remember the police saying uhhh I heard him say its a 25 year old man andI said he's not 25 hes 16. The cop just looked at me. And he's looking at me suspiciously I know.

But ummm then I called a friend and the ambulance just took him, I knew he was gone becausethey ambulance took him slow they didnt rush. But he died later that night at the hospital and Icalled his mother and everybody came and somebody called the governor because I was workingfor him at the time and he came cuz Shaka worked for him up there part time.

My friend who is slow as dirt, you know, uhhh, he just came slow and took me slow and Iremember going to the hospital and there were 2 police officers from I dont know what districtbut they werent Denver police officers I remember grabbing this one and hugged him and I wascrying. I knew I think I went into the room once, his mother was in there by him. I stayed in thehallway and I was a wreck.

Something in my psyche told me somethings going to happen to Jamon, but it was Shaka. Andits weird because from the day Jamon was born, I knew he was gonna die. And I always was onedge about him. Uhh and then when it happened to Shaka, it blew me away.

I told Shaka and Jamon that anytime there was anything they wanted me to do they came first butthey were such good kids that they just didnt do that. They never said dad I really want you togo here. Well you know well Im the guy who saved my vacation. And I always used it to go toschool Im the one who sat in the school even when I was married. Uhh my wife didnt go to hisclasses and sit in the classes and talk about stuff I did it. You know I was the domesticated one. Ienjoyed what I did with those guys, I enjoyed being around them. Um but there were things thatbothered Shaka that I didnt handle well. And if I had to do it again there are things I would dodifferently. And so fortunately I try to tell others, dont make the same mistakes that I did.

I'm angry with Jamon, I'm not angry with Shaka. I'm angry with Jamon because Jamon KNEWthe pain that he would cause. But he got so caught up into his drugs, that he started blaming me.In fact he told me he said it's your fault that Shaka is dead. I never said a word. i just looked athim like that and broke my heart for him to say that but now that I know what he was into I knowit was the drugs that were having him talk like that. It was cocaine.

But I dont feel the same about one situation had to do with the other I mean was I hurt by it yeahI stayed in my room for 2 years, I never went out. My wife used to bring me food i'd sit on thefloor like she was feeding a dog. I never talked to my sister I didnt talk to anyone. I wouldntanswer the phone I wouldnt talk on the phone.

His death broke his brothers heart because his brother, they were like. They were buddies andShaka was like his little pet, had always been like that that was his baby and uhh, Jamon justcouldnt handle it and he got into drugs and that wiped him out.

But, I dont know what I can say about Skaka other than that we were always together. We wentand hung out went to restaurants together and and because we went so many places together and


20/56

then when I would go to these places it was like dj vu and it would trigger uhh memorieswhich you fight in your mind you try to forget things and you never do.

I mean I dont even try anymore. I sleep very little, I ummm I think of him. I have him on theheadboard of my bed. And his brother. And I look at him like I remember these times. I

remember how he used to do his finger like that even when he was 16...always do that.

There's little things that I remember about him. I would come in the house and he would have thewhole football team TJs team would be in the house here eating stuff and in the pool playing andthey wouldnt even see me. Id come in and theyd be having a good time. So I didnt disturb it. Iwould kind of ease out of the house and then they never hurt anything they never tore upanything and they never took anything, but food and I had it there for them. I used to buy casesof stuff.

After Shaka, people kept calling me and calling me. They just kept calling. And uhh one day mysister rang the doorbell and I normally would never answer but this time I did and for whatever

reason I got up and I looked and it was her and I went down and opened the door and we stood atthe door crying and hugging and after that It kinda shocked me out of it. She thought Maryannewas keeping me away from her and everybody and Maryanne was always upset because peoplewere starting to feel bad about her. And she told me you gotta talk to someone. Youve got to.they think im not letting you talk. That its me. And I said oh well, I felt bad for her.

Jamon entered college at the age of 17. He was probably 21 with only 3 classes to go, 22 whenShaka died. It took him from 22 to 32, 10 years to finish those 3 classes. And he failed 6 mathclasses on the campus of Auraria and finally we went down to the college we drove down tomake arrangements and meeting with professors to get him to take the 2 different classes that heneeded to take to finish. And he was able to do that and he asked me if I'd help him and I did buteven there he was already doing whatever he was doing because while we were there I let himtake the car. It was a rental car and the next thing I know it's stolen. And I had a pair of ice skatesin the back of it and I was like how do you get a car stolen, how does that happen?

And I know he sold the car for drugs. I'm sure thats what he did. We came back and I had aChevy Suburban and that car was stolen about 4 times. And I kept asking him, how does a carget stolen, how does that happen? And either hes so wiped out that hes just leaving it out thereletting guys take it and then I think he was kinda dreaming. He went to school with Bill Cosbysson, Ennis Cosby and the car was found on the side on the highway with the door open and justlike Ennis, like a copycat thing, so Jamon did some silly things.

Uhh unfortunately as soon as Jamon got his degree he took his life. We came back from holiday.We spent 3 weeks in Europe and when we got home Marianne said there's somebody in the car. Ididnt even look. I already knew. I just went on upstairs and called 911.

He was nave. He was a follower. Shaka was a leader. Jamon followed other people and got intostuff and people had him get into things that Shaka I know never wouldve done and I certainlynever did. And I dont know there are things I suspect that have gone on and happened becausethere are people that I know loved Jamon he was a really good person. And I think that the girl


21/56

that he was with led him down a bad path and I think she had him do things and get into stuffthat he shouldnt have and I think theyre friends out there that loved Jamon cuz I saw grownmen come in here crying. And I believe that probably some of them killed his girlfriend. Cuz notlong after that the girl he was living with, was found on the railroad tracks in west Denver andtheyve never caught whoever killed her and she was a beautiful girl. But she was

unrecognizable and she had been beaten to death beyond recognition and thats a lot of anger, ifyou do that. And in my heart I believe there was someone that knew Jamon.

No I do not feel the same. And there will not be a Jamons Place. Illl never have a Jamons place Idont want to do anything to encourage people to think that you can just take your life andsomeone's going to create a monument on your behalf. I'm not going to do that. Shaka was ababy. I dont care if he was 16 he was still a baby. He was my baby. He was a mature babythough in terms of how he was dealing with a lot of stuff I didnt know he was dealing with.

But no I dont feel the same. I love him as my son but you can see in this room the difference justfrom this and that, its not the same. And I took way more pictures of Jamon then I did of Shaka.

But the difference is right there.

All those hours I mean you give up something to be successful and to have things and I foundthat. Stuff and things really dont mean anything to children they want their parents they needtheir parents.

I loved my boys. My boys were everything I ever wanted. You know. They were the last of theFranklins. I knew there were no other children named Franklins that were ..uhh, my dad was aFranklin so there's no other Franklins on my dads side. And I wanted boys and I wanted a girl butI wanted both boys. Those boys were like a dream to me. And so everything I did, even in thishouse, if you go through this house, there's a black couch upstairs has a twin downstairs thatsred. Theres a white set of furniture in one room and theres a black set of furniture over here andtheyre identical. And that was the day when me & Maryanne would move out into a smallercondo and theyd have their place and if they decide to sell this, they were set up. They were setup to go and move and do whatever they want or stay here and have their own apt theyre owncomparable type of stuff. I did this. I bought tvs that were twins. I did a lot of stuff like that. Inthe beginning. You know Im trying to plan for them when I wouldn't be around and uhh, I alwaysthought and the irony of a lot of this is so I always thought that.

There was nothing that those boys couldnt have been able to overcome. If they had engaged meand gotten involved and we had discussions maybe sought the help that they needed to haveoutside of me and uhh, I just think Shaka had, Shaka felt like no one loved him. No one cared. Iknow he felt that way. I think he felt that he was the stepchild in the family. He wasnt but hedidnt know that because he never talked, he was too nice to say dad why dont you do this forme. Why dont you buy me this. He never asked me to buy him anything, never. Ever. And itswrong. Its not normal for a kid to not to ever ask you to buy anything for them. And I did. Iremember one Xmas out there, buying $3000 or $4000 worth of stuff and it was toys andclothing and it was stuff everywhere and they tore those boxes open went on about what theywere doing and I never did that again because I felt like theyre spoiled and it doesnt meananything to them.


22/56

I dont know how a father can love his kids anymore than I did. I mean, I loved those boys. Idstand in the middle of the floor with the two of them and we had our arms around each other andId say we have to stick together, we have to stick together. And they swore they would. Both ofthem lied to me.


23/56

Shy Pacheco Hamilton was born an Afro-Latin@ in the United States, raised by crypto{hidden} Spanish Jews, Louisiana Creoles and descendants of runaway slaves. As an Afro-Surrealist artist, Shy rides her multiple streams of consciousness with a dirty martini in one hand,

and a bowl of gumbo in the other. Current practices include glitching historical images, takingphotos, making films and writing. Her work is about the here and now and she is frequently inconversation at her altar with the Goddess. She recently completed a full length experimentaldocumentary about suicide in Black youth entitled, A Little Bit Colored. A Little Bit White. Shyholds an MFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is currently a doctoral studentof Womens Spirituality. She still lights candles on Fridays like her abuelita taught her and forthe record, Shy is not shy. http://www.shyhamilton.com/
http://www.shyhamilton.com/http://www.shyhamilton.com/


24/56

Black Opts-Body.Mind.History.

Kwan Booth

2015 had been a lie.

As the auras around everything slowly faded back to their solid shapes, Travell slumped,shoulders drawn down and back into the seat. He stretched as his body and mind reconnected,flexing and feeling the pin prink tingles in his fingers from extended non use. He blinked. Threequick shutters and the world was back in focus. The skin under his eyes was wet.

DeepTech diving always caused slight disorientation. The body needing a few seconds toreadjust to being controlled by a higher intelligence even as the mind shifted nimbly frommanipulating flesh to surfing fields of free data.

Free Data. The term seemed such bullshit after what he'd just seen. After what he'd felt. Evenwithout the body sensations-lost whenever one went DT-the information burned into his brain

was enough for him to physically ache all over.

Hours ago he'd been a simple VG, a relatively well known video griot mixing holotracks at artshows and spinning simple digitals for business conferences. He'd been content in his dulleuphoria and regular paychecks. Privileged but not especially well informed. But now he hadproblems. Now he knew things.

This new information flashed through his head: images of the disappeared and dead, data fileshighlighting huge sums of untaxed Nuevos, never broadcast black opps footage and the uneditedtruths behind the histories he'd been misrepresenting for years. He blinked again and stared outthe window into the green and gold farmyards of West Oakland. The Port's heavy machinerywhined in the distance, as the amber sun burned silhouettes of massive cranes into his brain forthe thousandth time. Hovers and skytrains moved midway between sky and pavement. The airaround everything was still and heavy.

Deep breaths. Get it under control. 'The fuck are my cigarettes?

Walking up behind him, Casa trailed her fingers across Travell's neck and down to his chest,tracing through the pools of sweat as she massaged his shoulders then further down. Travelltrembled. The skin on both her hands felt identical despite the very different anatomiesunderneath. As she moved closer and her right hand wrapped around him, he noticed it'smechanical fluidity and winced at the advanced technological perfections. Travell's mind racedwith the new truths of what those advances were designed to hide.

How... the questions were too big, too many, and he wished he hadn't asked even before theword slipped his lips. He wished he could just unsee the last 5 hours.That is a very long conversation. Casa's voice was a warm balm around him. We'll have timefor that later.

She knew what he was feeling-the same shame, shock and fear they all did the 1st time they saw


25/56

The Under. The feeling of disbelief and betrayal once they knew truth.

Her hand traced the moisture beneath his eyes and massaged it back into his dark skin. She wasclose now, holding him so tightly that their chests swelled and fell with the same rhythm-fourlungs, one breath. Her breasts warm and full against his neck as her arms fell across his chest and

pulled him farther in. Their long shadow crept across the floor towards the door, reaching higheras the sun kissed the horizon.

All those people. It just doesn't make sense.

2015 had been a lie. The protests and mass actions designed to free the world had only tightenedthe grip of a few. They'd been tricked. There had been no real revolution. His parents, friends,idols-people he'd read about and heard vague stories from and looked up to over the years. Theywere all wrong. And the ones that weren't wrong were all dead.

Travell shifted and stood. Turning slowly to look down into Casa's eyes-brown pools of thought

and circuitry. He'd always figured most body modifications were just hipster fashionslop-prosthetic limbs and system upgrades driven by the whims of the latest infoads. Now hewondered what else he'd been missing.

Casa looked up. She'd come to him after a show weeks ago and they'd been together ever since.She was a few years older, her skin a shade of shadow with a grace that hinted at her knowingmore about life than Travell had ever considered imagining. He'd thought then that she made anodd groupie. He knew now that their meeting was anything but accidental.

Why did you come to me? To...show me this? Travell couldn't turn his mind off but also didn'twant answers to the questions he kept asking. He didn't want to think about the things he nowknew.

She returned his glare. I thought it was time you saw the truth behind all that glamourslop youspin on screen every night. Besides she smiled, I thought you were cute.

Casa lifted up on her toes as her lips quickly closed the 6 inches between them. Her tonguetraced his bottom lip before Travell welcomed her open lips to his, her warm breath to his mouthas they moved closer together. After a minute, his head dipped lower.

Travell nibbled her nipples, teeth lightly biting the sensitive skin, as his mouth closed over herflesh. Casa's moans rolled out into the evening, catching onto the light breeze and dancing outthe open window towards the sunset.

Her arms went round his neck, draping casually at first until his urgency made her tighten hergrip, right hand mechanically grabbing his shoulder blade matching, then surpassing his strengthas they went further.

Travell groaned from the pressure. His mind was on automatic, all systems shifting to neutral ashe sped away from the images of the last 5 hours. Casa's back arched, pushing more of her stiff


26/56

nipple into his mouth. Her right hand still on his shoulder, her left went to the back of his headand pressed harder as he bit harder, screaming yes into the quickening darkness.

Holding her closer Travell stood, lifting her small frame as he went. Casa's legs wrapped roundhis back above his ass as he walked them both to the bunk near the entrance. As they fumbled

onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and lust, Travell felt the heated rush as the Juice releaseditself into his bloodstream. He paused, shifted slightly and touched the soft spot behind his leftear, stopping the flow of chemicals from their enhancing mission. After what he'd just seen, hehad no desire to experience more transhuman technology any time soon.

He wanted this to be pure, human fucking. Boiling with heat and without care or concern for theoutside world or it's systems or technologies or the life altering information he'd had dumped onhim just minutes before.

Casa knew the best medicine for his ache-for the next few hours at least. Her hands found thefront slit of his pants and he jumped, back curving like a cat's before sinking down, feeling

himself grow harder in her hot hands. She bit into his neck and stroked him roughly the way heneeded her to. His head dropped to her dark shoulder as his body filled with tensions of a muchmore welcome flavor.

They ground together on the wide bed, the slickness from their skin liquefying each movement.There was some tenderness to this dance, but more urgency. The need to grab onto somethingsolid before a tsunami washed over them both.

Pushing himself up onto his arms, Travell raised Casa's left leg and looked deeper into her eyes,staring deeper as he pushed inside, through and deeper into her wetness. They rumbled togetherand shook and loved as the oblivious evening outside turned to darkness.

Travell lay his head on her hot stomach, the sweat between them still serious and warm. Casa'sfingers traced his face along the jawbone and ear as his arms settled into their home around herwaist.

The questions were coming back and as much as he didn't want to know, he knew he had to: howshe knew, how they kept it secret, what it meant, what had to be done next.

But at least the asking could wait until the morning. And-by necessity-in the coming years thiswould be something Travell became intimately aware of: there was always the future to dealwith.


27/56

Kwan Booth is an award winning digital media writer and strategist focusing on the intersectionof communications, community, art and technology. He is the cofounder of Oaklandlocal.comand House of Local consulting. He is the creator of Say Im Different: The Black Other Projectand Sit Next to a Black Person Month and has creative writing published in Beyond the

Frontier: African American Poets for the 21st Century, the Journal for Pan African Studies, andCHORUS, the upcoming anthology edited by Saul Williams to be published by Simon andSchuster. Kwan has developed media projects for organizations including the Knight DigitalMedia Center, the Online News Association, Netsquared, The National Conference on MediaReform, Public Radio International, Not For Tourists Guidebooks, Newsdesk.org and theInternational Journalism Festival in Perugia, Italy. http://boothism.org/
http://boothism.org/http://boothism.org/


28/56

Chocolate Butterfly

Kaye Kadesh

Helpless mind in reach of joyFear not and what can be was already yours

An adoration for wisdomAchievementGo forward pushingPullingAnd reachingFaith in ones selfInspirationSaying what can be, will beNot what isn't, but what already existAs the world stops spinning, you never stop dreamingConstantly molding and holding that portrait

Drift away into realitySteadyKeep steadyObstacles are simply stepping stonesRun, skip, fly away and flourish...


29/56

Kaye Kadesh Bay Area based, Caribbean American, mixed media artist, activist and peacekeeper. In love with jewelry making, poetry, and painting. She found her calling in art at a youngage and has made a promise to herself and community to NEVER stop creating. Kadesh alsoworks within the Oakland area mentoring young African American girls as well as distributingclothing to families in need in the Bay Area and in areas of Africa.


30/56

Oyala's Era (Excerpt)

R. Malcolm Wright

Oyala felt shaken, altered. She walked up the subway steps, slowly emerging back into the mazeof slate, steel and asphalt that she knew as the land of the living. It was now dark and foggy, and

people were home eating dinner. She walked a couple of steps, stopped and leaned against awall, and slowly slid down to the floor.

With trembling hands, she felt her temples and traced her fingers along the deep snake-shapedscars that ran down each side. They felt like they had already healed, already been there forweeks instead of minutes. What was really going on? What was happening? Sisters of theLeopard Clan? Cerubis? Some great task involving blood?

And was that really Grandpa? It was all too bewildering, too much to hold. She sat there holdingher knees up to her chest, wanting to just disappear. Tears started to roll down her cheeks, somefinding the scars and running along them like guiding serpentine river beds. They did not sting.

She buried her head in her arms and sobbed.

At that moment, she heard her Grandpa say "Buck up Oyala, you got a situation on your hands."She whipped her head up looking for him, but instead a large, disheveled man with matted, dirtyblond hair. "Hey sweetie, what's wrong? You lost? Lemme help you get home." He reeked ofalcohol, old sweat and other unpleasant elements.

Oyala unsteadily got to her feet, wiping away tears, saying, "That's okay sir, everything is okay,I'll just be on my way.""Which way you going? I'll walk with you.""Really sir, I would prefer to"

The man lashed out and grabbed her arm, surprisingly fast for how inebriated he seemed, Oyalalet out a startled gasp.

"Its gonna be all right, I know a shortcut, just come this way, no fuss, everything will be just fine,I promise." He started to pull Oyala towards a dead-end alley while looking around furtively.When Oyala started to wrench away, the man forcefully twisted her arm in a way that made painexplode, white-hot in her shoulder.

"I said, just come this way, and make no fuss." Her assailant hissed through gritted teeth andspittle. "And if you make a sound I'll rip your arms right out of your sockets, you hear me?"

Bent over facing the ground, her face grimaced into a noiseless shriek, Oyala felt the searing painin her shoulder grow and engulf her body in flames as the man dragged her into the alley. It wasunbearable.

And thenThe red burning coals in her shoulderturned into the bluest arctic ice.


31/56

unseen rivers cascading off of glaciers crashed onto Oyalasending frosted needles into every cellto blossom into valleyside harvests of snowflake crystals.Oyala shivered deeplyas a rushing cold that splashed through her whole body

transfixedher.

And as quickly as it came, the river of subzero frost melted into a cooling. A cooling like a sun-dappled brook trickling through familiar woods. A calming. Oyala felt the ease and calm returnto her, and felt the man's grip slowly loosen with her increasing sense of ease. There was amoment, where Oyala lifted her eyes to meet the man's. He seemed bewildered, far away, andmournful. She saw his pain, his suffering. And she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes, arecognition of her humanity, a recognition that it wasn't Oyala who had hurt him so long ago.And there was something else, a clarity: a visceral knowing that they were playing out ancientroles of drunken power and resistance. They stared at each other for what could have been

moments or minutes, as Oyala slowly started to stand upright again.

But then he shook his head, as if awakening, discombobulated, from a slumber, and slowlystarted to tighten his grip again.

fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffftttttKCTHUDD

Both of them were startled by an arrow that buried itself in a window sill above their heads. Theyboth turned towards the alley entrance to see two ominous cloaked and hooded figures,silhouetted in the streetlight and fog. One was holding a bow, and one was holding a very cruellooking sword of some kind, with various angles, hooks and curves.

They stood there silently, cloaks fluttering slightly in the wind.

The man loosened the torque on Oyala's shoulder, but kept his grip.

"Can I help you, I am just here talking to my, umm niece, and she was just"

fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffftttttKCTHUDD Another arrow thudded into the windowsill, though barely a flicker of movement was perceptible from either of the figures. One figureseemed to just be slowly lowering their bow, though Oyala could not recall seeing the archerraise the bow in the first place.

The man froze. Then he moved very fast- and in one movement and a click, he quickly slid anopen switchblade under Oyala's throat.

"I don't know who the hell you guys are, but you ain't police. So just get the hell outta here, orshe gets it!" spat the man.

The cloaked figures split out of sight and out of the alley, one going to the left, one to the right.


32/56

Oyala's spirit began to fall, but then almost immediately something intuitively told her that shehadn't been abandoned. It was as if the cooling itself had a soothing voice, barely a whisper.

The man was breathing hard, the alcohol and fetid breath creating a noxious cloud. He dashedOyala behind him, towards the dead end wall, which Oyala hit hard.

Stunned, Oyala put one knee down to the ground, leaning against the wall. She scrutinised theman with a glare, and really wanted to curse at him, kick him, something. She was also awarethat as she hit the wall, the impact rekindled small flashes of the strange coolness and assurancethat she felt before. The man was busy shaking his knife out towards the foggy night.

"I know you are out there, and I am warning you, if you come through here, I am gonna cut her, Iam gonna cut you, I am gonna-"

A resounding roar echoed through the alley, and an instant after a fire escape creaked, a hugebeast jumped on the man from above, knocking him to the ground, and the knife went spiraling

into the darkness.

Oyala beheld the sight of a full grown and growling leopard, with its front paws resting on theman's chest, and its teeth bared inches from his face. From the shadows emerged one of thecloaked figures; it was the one with the sickle shaped, hooked sword. The figure sheathed theweapon, and walked past the scene on the floor and went over to Oyala, who couldn't help butshrink back a bit. The cloaked figure lowered the hood to reveal the face of a beautiful and strongwilled looking woman with striking African features. The womans eyes were so deep brownthey were black, as was her smooth dark skin. Her high and full cheeks were pedestals forvigilant and wise eyes.

She also had facial scars- some similar to Oyala's! The woman held Oyala's shoulders and lookedher in the eyes, which was immediately comforting, and familiar in some way. The womanlooked Oyala up and down, searching for clues of injury.

"Are you hurt?" she said in a thick accent.

"No." said Oyala.

The woman nodded in approval, turned around and said something that sounded like moddupweh naahja and other mumbled words to the leopard. The leopard backed off of the man, andallowed him to get up. The shivering wreck of a man got up, and half stumbled out the alley inshock. The leopard walked slowly after the man, as sort of an escort, and an added inspiration forthe man to leave. The man broke into a run, and the leopard followed, disappearing into the alleyshadows.

"The mouse who taunts the cat had better be near a hole."

Said the woman, turning back towards Oyala with a barely perceptible smile. Oyala was still halfkneeling on the floor, so the woman also half-knelt in front of her so that they were eye level.


33/56

"My name is Naki. My sister Naja should be back very shortly." She paused and cocked herhead.

"In fact, here she comes."

The second woman strode forward, her black cloak ruffling in the night air. She too walked up toOyala, half-knelt, and then pulled back her hood.

The women were mirror images of each other, identical twins, facial markings and all.

"Naja at your service. It is an honor to finally meet you Oyala."

They smiled at Oyala ever so slightly in a synchronized manner.

Oyala's head started spinning again with all the new information. They know my name?

Leopard? The man?

As if reading her thoughts, Naja pulled back her cloak, briefly revealing a lining of leopard skin,and a belt carrying all manner of tools and accoutrements, some pouches, small wooden objectsand metallic glints winked for a moment. She produced a goatskin flask.

"Here, drink this. It is just water. We are here to ensure your safe passage. You have been througha lot." Naja extended the flask, and their eyes met, and Oyala felt the same sense of comfort andfamiliarity that she had with Naki. Oyala took the flask and drank the cool and tasty water. It wasas if the flask were connected to a pristine and playful mountain river. She found herself gulpingit down, and she felt refreshed and lucid almost immediately. But she still had many questions,and the events of the past hour or so still weighed heavily on her. She remembered Grandpa withmixed and complex feelings. She had heard his voice clearly, right? Oyala gave back the flask,and studied the beautiful twin faces, the scars, and their deep and wise eyes.

"You are the Sisters Of The Leopard Clan."

They nodded in unison.

Oyala looked around, then back at the Sisters.

"Where did that leopard go? Where did it come from?" They smiled their wan smile again. "Theleopard is never far from us." Said Naki. Naja nodded in agreement.

"But come, we have set up camp away from all of the cameras. And we have work to do. Let ususe the foggy night to get to our destination." Said Naja, standing. Naki stood too. Naja extendedher hand to Oyala. Oyala took it, and allowed herself to be pulled up to her feet. She rememberedwhat Grandpa had said, that it wasn't safe to go home, and that he was being taken care of byother relatives.


34/56

Oyala walked with the Sisters towards Central Park, slowly disappearing into the fogand city night.


35/56

R. Malcolm Wright is a 1st generation Jamaican born in New York City who loves living inOAKLAND. He wears many hats, including DJ, community organizer, visual artist, writer, andco-producer of the future soul/dub collective ,Transdub Massiv which featured MeshellNdegeocello on the basslines during their European tours, as well fresh and edgey Jamaicanartists. As a dj he has been musically transporting crowds with his intuitive, driving, soulful and

eclectic style for over 25 years. He can be heard 1st & 3rd Mondays at Disco Volante alongsideOakland's finest underground artists painting live (Soul Selector), and every last Thursday atJupiter in Berkeley. As a writer, he has been writing a feminist/womanist, afrofuturist novel forsome years now, and will read a passage from it for the public for the first time at Black FuturistsSpeak. When he gets around to blogging, some of his anti-patrirachal musing can be found at http://fem-men-ist.blogspot.com. Onward to the afrofuture...
https://soundcloud.com/transdub-massivhttp://fem-men-ist.blogspot.com/http://fem-men-ist.blogspot.com/http://fem-men-ist.blogspot.com/https://soundcloud.com/transdub-massiv


36/56

Sons of the Circle (Excerpt)

Malcolm Shabazz Hoover

The tv was on. Rarely did he stop to watch the box, mostly it was there to for background noise,cartoons and the occasional video games, but the news was on and it looked like they were

somewhere in Africa. This was the rare broadcast where they were not talking about War orfamine, poverty or some kid wasnt onscreen with flies in his mouth.

The newsman, Black, an American Black woman, had been dispatched to cover this...

......what we now know Bob, is that this Temple Complex has never been seen before, it wasburied beneath these sands for we suspect millenia. Dr. Zawi Hawass, the worlds leadingEgyptologist is now assembling a multinational team to enter the complex, the first time inprobably over one thousand years....

Behind her he could see a massive door. This was not a Pharoahs tomb or a Temple. There were

no Gods posted outside the doors. The symbols were Kemetic, not Egyptian.....this wassomething theyd never seen and the newscaster didnt know what the fuck she was talkingabout.

He hadnt even wanted to go to college, his only ambition was to continue to test his skills innring, to fight and to be of service. But the other thing that he had a talent and love for waslanguage. He could speak 7 languages well, and read a few more. College had been a place forhim to learn what he could not in his dojo, offered him another place to excel that didnt involvegetting knocked upside the head.

He was good at two things, fighting and communicating and when one didnt work the other did.Almost as easily as he became a leader in the martial arts world, he became a leader in what wasknown as the sacred languages tongues that had only been open to a few people, mostly priestsand sacred servants. This Temple that was not a temple was covered with symbols that he hadonly seen in scans of sacred books, available only to real linguistic eggheads.

He had to get there. Had to. Something in him had just woken up and when they opened thatdoor, he was going to be there.


37/56

Malcolm Shabazz Hoover is a Bay Area Native circa 1970. Raised between Philadelphia andThe Bay, He started writing poetry, fiction and video games at the age of 12. He is the father toan 18 year old son, Aaron and a 7 year old daughter Laila. A former writer for the now defunctbut seminal 4080 Hip Hop magazine, he blogs and rages against the machine at deepculture.net.and is now working on a book of fiction and poetry 144 as well as a graphic adventure novel

Sons of the Circle. http://deepculture.net/
http://deepculture.net/http://deepculture.net/


38/56

Even if i dreamed a dream

Davu Flint

Even if i dreamed a dreamshadowed by circumstance,

Or lived a year of baptismal fireIn lonely Madagascars of the mindOr allowed myself to be led downshadowed whirlwind paths of circumstance

If my new poems were only blues poemsor simply me and you poemsand if only u and i recited them to each other hourlythen honestlyOurs would only be a million miles awayFrom Miles Ahead

If i could truly love lifewhile living lifeLove it until love and beingwere One beingWalk barefoot across the sunSeeing my future son and daughterWith hammer and chiselEtching my likeness in holy marbleI would still miles awayBeing merely a million miles awayFrom Miles Ahead

If i could see the seerOr hear the tide divideOr worlds would whirl outsideI'd hideWhen sound and sense resoundThe Sound will sound for miles


39/56

From murals to music, from poetry slams to theatre, from beats to rhymes, emcee and producerDavu Flint is a multi-genre creative artist constantly searching for new ways of expression. TheSan Francisco (by way of Pittsburgh) resident keeps the beats and rhymes sharp, as heeffortlessly waxes poetically about the everymans struggle. As a performer Davu has sharedstages with Camp Lo, Psalm One, KRS One, Sekou Sundiata, Ursula Rucker, Grillade, Saul

Williams, Coultrain, Wes Felton, and The Adrian Younge Black Dynamite Sound Orchestra. Hisoriginal jazzy/smooth-rambling flow is bolstered by grown folk lyrics and beautiful, spaceywest-coast boom bap. Currently performing around the Bay Area with his live ensemble. BottomHammer, as well as studying acting at The American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco,Davu Flint is truly a one a kind artist that is not to be missed!


40/56

Icarus Justified-Excerpt

Ayize Jama-Everett

Savac walked slowly on stage with no sounds accompanying him. All the other Shrinkers in thehouse, even Jaele felt pain. This was a performance Faux-pas beyond all others. The crowd was

always to be stimulated. Led by instinct, Savac kneeled before the Crowd and began to performprostrations while piping Shiite Muslim call to prayers through the right side of the building.From the left he added random readings from the Torah. From above, he cued Russian OrthodoxLiturgical songs for the dead. From below he added the bass. African Talking Drums.He synchronized them all by equating them with an Indian four stringed instrument that hadntbe heard in over three hundred years. By the time Savac stood up and looked out over the crowd,he knew he had them.

Can we keep this real?! he said using the sub-conscious normative voice of the crowd. Savacpiped Welcome to 5 from trash 4 through his arm and head movements, reminding himself ofFirels skill as he danced the sound like a snake. It was only then that he realized he had yet to

cut any layer of music yet, nor had he lost any of the crowd. He decided to go with what wasworking beginning to see that it never had to end.

Bass! How low can you go!? He shouted in the voice of an old mystic and reformatted theprayers to slowly unravel themselves in reverse while at the same time lowering their oppositeends reverb level. Using a formula for constructing a surface area of blackness using only thecolor red, Savac began to pace his foot movements to bring in the wailing of a mother who killedher baby in India because she didnt have enough food. While she kept the high notes, Savacgave the lower notes to a Brazilian Berimbau player who no longer had a roda of Brazilians toplay for. His right hand allowed for the last of the Mississippi Bluesmen to make his way throughthe musical collage with an electric guitar that has yet to ever be matched. Savacs resulting bodymovements put him in mind of the cult of the holy Raves, and so he gave those samples to hisright hand, while the dub poets of old has his left. Realizing he had yet to truly start using hisown body, Savac became excited.

He cross referenced his pulse with the mean average of his accelerated heartbeat to adjustamplification of last tracks of Bob Marley. He let his left eyebrow twitch indicate the beginningsof a nineteen second pan from the speakers below the dance floor to the subwoofers that cut thesampled didgeridoo highest pitches leaving only a haunting droning that stimulated deep neuro-pathways that had never been activated by some but was familiar to all. He limited the gate onthe music by adding a reverse reverb that kicked in with every deep breath he took.

Naturally that added a flange effect that shook the windows when the sampled Tibetan monkscame in, but a steady early eighties Beatbox cued by hand movements not only mollified thecrowd but also allowed them to feel comfortable fully jacking in to the experience. But Savacwas just getting going.

Acknowledging this only be a means to an end, Savac gave his breathing over to his suit afterlooping an old Saxophone colossus longest recorded note, and piped his breathing neuro-pathway into his own logic centers. For fun, he balanced a Balinese Monkey God Drum rhythm


41/56

with Navajo War Cries on his hips. From the logic enters, he displayed the entire crowdsneuropathways on the screen behind him and one by one, he began to make them conform to amean average through activation of pleasure centers. No one resisted because they felt the pullwas too gratifying. Few understood the connection between these feelings of warmth, comfort,and joy, were the direct result of what they were seeing and hearing. If the crowd had known

what to name the experience, it would have been religious.

Not wanting to lose the Crowd but still wanting to explore more, Savac triggered Last night theDJ saved my life through the tightening of his neck muscles. As he did so, he realized that hehad been shrinking for longer than he thought. Midnight was only a minute away. Thetermination of the Shrink would have to match the intensity of it. As he gained clarity, herealized that the crowd was stilled patched through his logic centers. Any resolution on his partwould equal resolution on theirs. Quickly looping the music for three seconds, Savac turnedaround to face a screen of Bio-rhythms that were all dancing in harmony together like schools offish happily sharing an ocean of music. The crowd was ecstatic. People were jacking into eachother as well as him. It was an orgy of endorphins, Synthetic neurotransmitters, and music. Even

the other Shrinkers were jacked in. They operated not as competitors but rather as high disciplesto this new art.

Why cant it be like this all the time? Savac asked himself just before jacking back into thecrowd. Not coming up with an answer he turned the question to the audience in every speakabletongue on the planet.

Match all Shrinkage with body movements, map for least conducive aesthetic, let shrinkagelead with gate near death only. Mark! Savacs body went the way of the spasm as all the crowdsemotions, thoughts, and desires rode through him like a hard core Synth driving a Bullet train. Itput him in mind of the Santeria celebrations he had seen on his Uncle Cinos desk earlier.Making the connections, he used his own voice to call down Gods he had never prayed to:Obatala, Shango, Yemnya, Oshun, Baron gede, baron samedi, Baba Nkwa, Nzame, Olofi,Ochosi, and Legba

Savac read a little on Legba and found him the most appealing. The gatekeeper. The one whoknew how to get anywhere. And so he looped his name until he could find the Gods praise songand connected it to his heartbeat.

Now the hard part came in. Slowly, very slowly, Savac began to let the music go. As he sloweddown his body movements, so to did the music stop. This created a hunger for each group ofpeople that was responding to particular conjunction of sounds. No one became angry forfrustrated, only hungry. Even the higher Sects who had previously unplugged, jacked in again totry and figure out what was going on. Savac was covered in sweat.

Savac Bios front screen all access. Mark And the crowd saw Savacs internal metronomes allgiving way to abyss of silence. His dancing came to an end. It could be seen clearly when thesuit took over for his back by keeping Savac standing. His head stopped moving, his eyes closedno longer blinking. The rolling beats he kept going with his arms movements ended on beat. Justas finitely, Savacs internal work began to slow and stop. His tongue movements, his pulse began


42/56

to slow to a rate that the computer deemed dangerous. Luckily, Savac had turned off the warningclaxon before he got on stage. He knew pushing the envelope would cause some sort ofcomputer driven response. But that was the goal. To go beyond computers, beyond sections. Themission was to become Human.

In the end there was only the heartbeat, which accompanied the Legba tribute song. The crowdwasnt sure what to do when the heartbeat ended. Savac had no bio-rhymes to speak off. He wasdead. Standing, but dead. And yet somehow, the song was still going. Those who had heard thesong before in their present life or before became suddenly pious and made the symbol of Legbaacross their chest. Everyone was shocked when Savac opened his eyes and said Happy NewYear.


43/56

Ayize Jama-Everett was born in 1974 and raised in Harlem New York, Since then he hastraveled extensively in Northern Africa, New Hampshire, and Northern California. He holds aMasters in Clinical psychology and a Masters in Divinity. He can be found teaching in the areaof Religion and psychology at Starr King school for the ministry when hes not working as aschool therapist at the College Preparatory school. When not educating, studying, or beating

himself up for not writing enough, hes usually enjoying aged rums and practicing his aim. Herecently released his 1st novel-The Liminal People. www.theliminalpeople.com
http://www.theliminalpeople.com/http://www.theliminalpeople.com/


44/56

several dreams ago/ maybe years dreamt ago

La Bruha DESI La

Prowling a thai temple for the first time in the heat. colors familiar to me are unfamiliar to meand people`s faces I`ve gotten used to are not used to. there may be blood on the floor. that be

possibility. there are no subways here and cars are not close enough to harm me. the templebefore me scrapes the sky failing to make a new sun. The remaining sun is relentless but I alsofail. fail to complain. The entrance is wide and only people leaving cause me to almost losebalance as I descend. Descend? Descend. I`m walking down 3 or 4 steps to the center serenadedby flowers of the tropical type. the thai there are on their knees but not convulsing like in blackchurches. silently praying, heads down and hands slightly pointed upwards from their foreheads.

I realize the ceiling is high and the wind is around me. the entrance I came through is oppositeanother entrance (or exit?) exactly the same. I vainly search for the real entrance and the real exitonly to see that I am real wrong. The temple points in four directions (or possibly more) whichmakes the prayer center a center for which there is no end and no entrance and no exit as all that

come are allowed to enter again and pass through as they wish. and I felt that my thoughts end isit`s beginning and it`s beginning is an ideas end. and my life of everyday is a beginning forwhich a previous feeling or facade embraced ends. here, a holy place for the thai was a repetitiveuniverse repeating for me pushing my mind into a walking dream for which I would walkbackwards and forwards simultaneously. and there I found the infinity I had been looking for. sonow I carry infinity in my pocket within my creations as they have no limitations. neither do I. Icreate to be the vision I wish to dream. letting infinity hit.


45/56

La Bruha DESI La Artist/Musician/Organizer, Visualizer/Creator of Afrovisionary-a visualencyclopedia and documentation site for Black Avant Garde art, music and culture/Compiler ofAfrovisionary's Mutantextures The 1st Avant Black Experimental Music Compilation/Over 6releases to date including the 3 CD set Afrovisionary 1/Toured through America and Asia/Heldgallery shows throughout Tokyo, Japan/Born Somewhere/Existing Somewhere Else... To HellWith Data Infernos-Searching for Zero/One Zen.


46/56

Photos From The Event


47/56


48/56


49/56


50/56


51/56


52/56


53/56


54/56


55/56


56/56

Black Futurists Speak

Documents

Transcript of Black Futurists Speak