All of us need a plan.
If you wanna be a rapper,
it's gone take more than a few lines on
loose leaf, wide-ruled
dollar store paper.
It's gone take more than a posse of
underprivileged friends.
It's gone take more than
walking a beat and running drugs for
the neighborhood "businessman."
You gone have to learn music and
music software and
music production and
legal requirements
just like everybody else,
because all of us need a plan.
If you wanna be a dancer,
it's gone take more than you
waiting in a line all day in
California
to get picked for a
60-second spot sliding down a
pole.
You need more than a stolen credit card
and a one-way ticket to a
city of dreams.
You gone have to learn dance and
how far to go and how far you
shouldn't go just like everybody else.
It ain't gone be enough to
copy gals that done been to dance school
and dress half naked cause we
all need a plan.
If you wanna be rich,
it's gone take more than waking up
everyday in your momma's house and
waiting for her to fix you breakfast while you
check your Facebook account.
You gone have to think original thoughts and
produce original products and
learn about patent laws just like
the rest of us cause everybody gotta have a plan.
And if your plan is to marry somebody rich and
live your life in the lap of luxury,
you'll soon find out that
ain't no plan
at all.
-T. D. James-Moss
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
"Ghetto Girls," A Poetry Post
Them girls on Real Housewives of Atlanta ain't no ghetto girls.
Ghetto girls don't run around town in
thousand-dollar shoes
slapping each other upside the head
over some man they
both slept with.
Ghetto girls don't hook up with
celebrities to
get themselves on
television.
Ghetto girls don't
buy hundred-dollar weaves and
accessorize them with
tackily oversized hats and
costume-like
earrings.
Ghetto girls wash they panties in the sink and
hang em up in the bathroom.
Ghetto girls be trying to get they own daddy attention.
Ghetto girls know how to cover up
just enough of the floor so they
don't catch the draft
while they sleep.
Ghetto girls know the days of the store sales,
and they know which Puerto Rican store
got the best candy.
They done stood in front of a
open stove to get
warm.
They done hung clothes on the line.
They'll beat a man before they bow to him.
And best of all,
they don't parade themselves all over the place
claiming to be the baddest,
because they know that acting like that
will get your bag snatched and your
back whacked.
Stop making us look bad in TV shows and
music videos and
talking about us in songs like
we have identity issues.
We start small and get big like
everybody else.
And often times,
we do it quietly.
You wouldn't even know me
if you saw me.
-T. D. James-Moss
Ghetto girls don't run around town in
thousand-dollar shoes
slapping each other upside the head
over some man they
both slept with.
Ghetto girls don't hook up with
celebrities to
get themselves on
television.
Ghetto girls don't
buy hundred-dollar weaves and
accessorize them with
tackily oversized hats and
costume-like
earrings.
Ghetto girls wash they panties in the sink and
hang em up in the bathroom.
Ghetto girls be trying to get they own daddy attention.
Ghetto girls know how to cover up
just enough of the floor so they
don't catch the draft
while they sleep.
Ghetto girls know the days of the store sales,
and they know which Puerto Rican store
got the best candy.
They done stood in front of a
open stove to get
warm.
They done hung clothes on the line.
They'll beat a man before they bow to him.
And best of all,
they don't parade themselves all over the place
claiming to be the baddest,
because they know that acting like that
will get your bag snatched and your
back whacked.
Stop making us look bad in TV shows and
music videos and
talking about us in songs like
we have identity issues.
We start small and get big like
everybody else.
And often times,
we do it quietly.
You wouldn't even know me
if you saw me.
-T. D. James-Moss
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
"The Labels," A Poetry Post
In some schools there are labels.
The students who have special needs are
clearance meats.
They are cheaper to educate due to
government subsidies.
Schooling them is a
profit-loss endeavor,
and it is done
(almost solely)
to avoid department waste.
We place them in the clearance section and
stamp them "reduced value,"
hoping that someone will
take them off our hands if the
dates and notations
precede the point of
"total loss."
During reviews,
we face them red side out,
hiding the decay and gray resulting from
days and days of neglect.
The students who can't read are
endcap specialties.
Their weaknesses are paraded before the public as
bargaining chips to draw in
unwitting investors,
who will later find specialties
just as branded
in the center aisle.
The student-parents and dropouts are daily specials
allowed to replenish themselves in
a never-ending supply to advertise for
sympathy from charitable eyes.
And the bright kids are the bread and butter,
products so esteemed that
any price could be required and the
backers would pay, and pay, and pay:
pay for their preserves, pay for their big cheese,
pay for their concentrates, pay for their cream.
Gangbangers and drug dealers? No longer inventoried,
but moved for disposal, left to ride out their shelf-life in the
back.
Prostitutes and bullies? High carb starches.
Not recommended, but hardly discouraged.
Athletes and artists? Grains.
Served more often.
Teachers?
Trash.
And anybody not labeled?
Well, we'll figure that out
next quarter.
-T. D. James-Moss
The students who have special needs are
clearance meats.
They are cheaper to educate due to
government subsidies.
Schooling them is a
profit-loss endeavor,
and it is done
(almost solely)
to avoid department waste.
We place them in the clearance section and
stamp them "reduced value,"
hoping that someone will
take them off our hands if the
dates and notations
precede the point of
"total loss."
During reviews,
we face them red side out,
hiding the decay and gray resulting from
days and days of neglect.
The students who can't read are
endcap specialties.
Their weaknesses are paraded before the public as
bargaining chips to draw in
unwitting investors,
who will later find specialties
just as branded
in the center aisle.
The student-parents and dropouts are daily specials
allowed to replenish themselves in
a never-ending supply to advertise for
sympathy from charitable eyes.
And the bright kids are the bread and butter,
products so esteemed that
any price could be required and the
backers would pay, and pay, and pay:
pay for their preserves, pay for their big cheese,
pay for their concentrates, pay for their cream.
Gangbangers and drug dealers? No longer inventoried,
but moved for disposal, left to ride out their shelf-life in the
back.
Prostitutes and bullies? High carb starches.
Not recommended, but hardly discouraged.
Athletes and artists? Grains.
Served more often.
Teachers?
Trash.
And anybody not labeled?
Well, we'll figure that out
next quarter.
-T. D. James-Moss
Friday, October 12, 2012
"Pretty Girls" a Poetry Post
They don't ask survivors to compete in
beauty contests.
Not the women who were cut and sewn,
raped and beaten,
abused and restrained,
destroyed.
You won't find a
scarred, sun-burned vixen
running for
Ms. America.
There are no trophies for
former prostitutes.
Nobody writes songs for
the collateral damage of war,
those who are
one limb or breast short,
their appendages given
to protect their children.
Vogue doesn't print pics of the
swolle controllers of whole
households, villages.
These pretty girls don't get seen,
and they don't give a damn.
They are too busy praising their gods for
live and breath and
little remnants of wealth.
They do not subscribe to
fashion mags.
They enjoy their rags,
whatever the brand,
with or without the love of a man,
and they do the best they can.
When people judge them in ignorance,
they don't give a damn.
This is what a woman is.
She adjusts to life's curves as she lives.
She shakes, but she endures.
She is beautiful.
Look at her.
She has the audacity to be seen
in public.
-T. D. James-Moss
beauty contests.
Not the women who were cut and sewn,
raped and beaten,
abused and restrained,
destroyed.
You won't find a
scarred, sun-burned vixen
running for
Ms. America.
There are no trophies for
former prostitutes.
Nobody writes songs for
the collateral damage of war,
those who are
one limb or breast short,
their appendages given
to protect their children.
Vogue doesn't print pics of the
swolle controllers of whole
households, villages.
These pretty girls don't get seen,
and they don't give a damn.
They are too busy praising their gods for
live and breath and
little remnants of wealth.
They do not subscribe to
fashion mags.
They enjoy their rags,
whatever the brand,
with or without the love of a man,
and they do the best they can.
When people judge them in ignorance,
they don't give a damn.
This is what a woman is.
She adjusts to life's curves as she lives.
She shakes, but she endures.
She is beautiful.
Look at her.
She has the audacity to be seen
in public.
-T. D. James-Moss
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
"A Message to My Son," A Poetry Post
Young son,
for centuries
men would do
anything
to get their children
educated.
Men would sit down in
clay and
draw out sundials to
teach their children
time.
Men would sketch out
logograms and abstract lines for
alphabets to
teach their children
reason.
They would slave in mud and straw to
teach their children
constructs.
They would give their lives to
teach their children
faith.
Innocent men would
stand before judges and
be hanged to
teach their children
dignity
in the face of
inequality.
Wretched men would
give up their freedom to
steal bread in order to
teach their children
responsibility
in the face of
desperation.
Wicked men would
verbally and physically
abuse their working servants to
teach their children
brutality in the
interest of
promoting market success.
And I son am no different,
being a woman.
I must be as hard, as stalwart,
as dignified, as desperate,
as responsible, as restrained,
as wise and as wily
in this life
for both of us.
I must give all that I have
to get you
educated.
And I cannot apologize for that.
Not.
Ever.
-T.D. James-Moss
for centuries
men would do
anything
to get their children
educated.
Men would sit down in
clay and
draw out sundials to
teach their children
time.
Men would sketch out
logograms and abstract lines for
alphabets to
teach their children
reason.
They would slave in mud and straw to
teach their children
constructs.
They would give their lives to
teach their children
faith.
Innocent men would
stand before judges and
be hanged to
teach their children
dignity
in the face of
inequality.
Wretched men would
give up their freedom to
steal bread in order to
teach their children
responsibility
in the face of
desperation.
Wicked men would
verbally and physically
abuse their working servants to
teach their children
brutality in the
interest of
promoting market success.
And I son am no different,
being a woman.
I must be as hard, as stalwart,
as dignified, as desperate,
as responsible, as restrained,
as wise and as wily
in this life
for both of us.
I must give all that I have
to get you
educated.
And I cannot apologize for that.
Not.
Ever.
-T.D. James-Moss
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