As of this writing, I am at a medical facility, torso covered with electricity-enabled adhesives. I am told that I have a “ventricular arrythmia,” an irregular heartbeat based in the rough neighborhoods of my cardiac city.

WHAT? Yeah, it freaks me out too. I was among the healthiest people I know. No booze, no cigarettes, no red meat. Fairly regular walks and what have you. Fairly low sodium intake. Weird.

On Sunday, I got out of bed to get my youngest some almond milk. I felt my heart beating like it did when the regional spelling bee was on the line, but I had no immediate reason to be nervous. Ignoring it, I went about my day — lugging things down from the attic, packing, parenting, et cetera. Even saw a great Eccleston Doctor Who episode (I’m late to the party). At 11 PM, lying down to sleep, my heart jumped and jagged like a car engine that’s threatening to stall. I asked my wife to put her hand on it, causing her to run for the girls’ stethoscope. “You need to go to the hospital.”

Getting rushed past the waiting crowd was weird, but in I went for chest x-rays, EKGs and more to discover something, somthing that may have been there for years, was awry in the core of me. Something new, past the regular misanthropy and madness.

An overnight stay on atavan gave scant slivers of sleep. An afternoon angiogram is on the agenda, while my non-stop job will have to churn on without me, maybe for a month, if one cardiologist is to be believed.

SERIOUSLY, WHAT????? The bottom line is I’ll be okay. It’s very early detection, it’s “wholly fixable” and everybody here is treating it like a simple instance. I’ll be home with my ladies this weekend.

What’s funniest is that 90 percent of the things they thought would be the cause — smoking, fried foods, drinking, et cetera — were not relevant. My cholesterol and blood pressure are fine. Ditto blood sugar, and there are no signs of infections or foreign biohazards. Only worry — which I absorb through waves of second hand stress from half the people I know — stood as a red flag. I will have to try more exercise to offset the toxic energies floating around me.

Mostly it’s just a random accident of chance, the spin of some cosmic roulette wheel. Funny old life.

JUST IN CASE: There is a mathematically insignificant chance that something untoward might happen to me. If that’s the case, I want all my intellectual property turned over to Chinedum Ofoegbu (my wife has the passwords), and for his work on my work to be overseen by Vince Moore, Geoffrey Thorne and Brandon Easton. Any and all gross profits are to be divided evenly between my daughters, returning 45 percent of said profits to Ofoegbu, Thorne and Easton.

Not that any of us expect this to happen ..

DING! DING! DING! DING! DING! Since 1 AM, a loud chime from a Phillips Intellivibe heart monitr has relentlessly sounded whenever my heart does something unusual, or I think about …

• my numerous writing deadlines, as I am poised on the precipice of greatness but with little time to achieve it
• my day job
• moving
• money
• making sure my daughters will be okay
• making sure my overworked wife will be okay
• why the end of the modern Battlestar Galactica sucked SO MUCH!

… as it does now. A head-splitting reminder of my inability to relax. 20 percent charge on my iPad, heading for traffic and dye in my arteries, I’m just trying to breathe easily and become still waters, so I can flow to refresh my wife and daughters — and hopefully you — for many decades to come.

… BUT IF ONE WERE SO INCLINED … If you have a jones to do something to help me, you could use the Gumroad link and buy copies of my novels, The Crown: Ascension or Faraway, as most of that money goes right to me (well, right into feeding my kids anyway). If you own it, buy a copy for a friend. All good.

Now, to try to get Netflix going on my phone …

Playing (Music): “I’m Ready” by Tracy Chapman

This is one of a series of blogs promoting the Steamfunk! anthology by MV Media, which features my short story “The Sharp Knife of a Short Life.” This blog was supposed to publish on March 7th alongside ones from other writers in the anthology. Woops. Here we go …

When creating my “steamfunk” story, one of my biggest goals was to not place it on Earth in some kind of alternative history space. “Hannibal, what’s wrong with you? That’s where steampunk is from!” I know. That’s also one of the elements I don’t like about it. Sure, stories like “Men in Black” or the one positing a Black nation in the continental space of north America might feel good, but for me they only remind me of our failures as a people (which is why I would write that sort of wish fulfillment stuff in the future, therefore hoping it could still happen). So, I had to get the heck off of Earth … which led me to Pless.

I created the “planet” Pless for a number of logistical reasons that’d help me in telling the story. I could perfectly set the technological level to whatever I wanted it to be, which was crucial in establishing this as a “steamfunk” style of story, with all the brass and pageantry and pneumatics and what have you. Normally, I go for more … esoteric and futuristic technologies (which savvy readers might note at the end of my work, the moment linking this story to my larger fictional universe), so this was a challenge but one I accepted in looking at the assignment.

Another reason is that Pless’ ambiguous racial history allowed me to sidestep the aforementioned challenges that alternative history poses for my sometimes overcritical brain. The arguable “love interest” is essentially Latino. Two main characters are Black. The lieutenant governor (or whatever I made him, I barely remember some days) was white (based on some late 1800s politician I looked up). The town’s madam is an ambiguous Asian mix. There’s a whole new race that’s nothing like anybody else. Add that to the flora and fauna differences and my little alien “steamfunk” world is almost a character in and of itself.

Finally, growing up at the foot of my great uncle while he religiously tuned in to Gunsmoke gave me a deep sense of possibility in those old western tropes, if I could just sci-fi ‘em up a bit (apologies to Firefly fans). Pless became my untamed frontier, a striking contrast to the super-technological trappings of ‘Dam Clara Perry, a much broader expanse for my lunacy than cobblestone streets lit by gaslamps, patrolled by constables and what gave you.

Where is Pless? Ah, that’d be revealing a big part of Clara Perry’s overall story, which would continue if the proposed Dieselfunk anthology comes along or if I do a set of short stories past the one on my current docket (seeming more likely as more ideas come to me). Suffice it to say there are well-considered reasons for dropping our cryo-frozen NASA scientist there and I have every intention of finishing the larger story begun here. Maybe I just need a new country music song to get me inspired …

The camera shop was a suggestion from the real NASA scientist who consulted, as she said it’d be a place where strange smells and exotic chemicals and/or technology wouldn’t be looked at too oddly and she could continue the real work, using the “futuristic” technology she brought with her. That worked out really well for what I needed to accomplish for the “apprentice” Jenny Taylor.

I also had to give this place its own depth and nuances, like a fully realized culture. Creating their shared religion, with elements familiar yet haunting differences, was important. They believe in a trinity, but it’s a distant father god Avshalom who sparked life and then buggered off to explore the cosmos, a nurturing, forgiving mother god Iya’a and a daughter Muhsinah cast in the vein of Yeshua ben Josef, sent to redeem through sacrifice. The religion uses elements of traditional African belief (matrilineage, hunter/explorer men and gatherer/nurturer women) as well as tropes from Judaeo-Christianity and some other sources I stumbled upon. The framing device for the story (the song “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry as discussed previously) called for a casket to be sank into water “to the words of a love song,” so that meant composing a kind of hymn that would work as both a devotional of spirit and a romantic overture. Yes, that means I had to sing it, but composing a soundtrack of Plessi spiritual music was a bit more ambitious than I planned. If I ever do a reading of the work, digitally or in person, maybe I could be cajoled into at least humming the tune, for reference. It kind of sounds like “How Do I Live?” by LeAnn Rimes (still very country western influenced, and I heard that a lot as a south bay karaoke host). Anyway, I spent the better part of two nights parsing it all out.

I gave the people of Pless some alterations in their biology. Tying together purple blood with the purple clothing of their funerary rites was a nod to my youngest daughter and two of my wife’s friends, all of whom adore the color, so that’s purely cosmetic. Other alterations had practical purposes — I’d been aiming to redesign humanity since I was maybe six, so tired of the tedium of waste product. If it was all converted into carbon dioxide, something the ecosystem could conceivably handle, well, that’d eliminate some technical concerns and toilet humor all in one swoop, making for a more mature society (I guessed).

Other stuff — ‘Dam Scarlett’s Diversion Emporium, “fluffener,” or the twelve legged bjekk — was just me riffing, kind of like a pianist when the band is playing “Red Clay,” tickling extra ivories here and there but staying pretty much within the boundaries of the tune. I created a small frontier-styled corner of one fairly parochial planet for a reason … that will likely be revealed in a book I hope to put out in late 2014.

The Vanity Pomp was my excuse for a big, splashy visual scene that combined action (you’ll have to read to see what) and steampunk excess and pageantry. It seemed to work and made a good climactic crescendo for the story to achieve. I just kept going back and making the elements of it more ornate and ridiculous until I couldn’t take it (at one point, everybody in the parade was flying), then dialed it back to what I felt would work.

I think it turned out okay. What do you think?

The Steamfunk! anthology is available now.

Playing (Music): “Story” by King

I was sitting in a Burbank conference room, finishing up a somewhat dull but partially productive meeting, when I saw the “new email” light on my phone flash. While voices droned on the speakerphone, I read …

“I’ve decided to go with three winners and you’re one … I like what you did.”

There was other stuff in the email — logistics and what not, but who cares? I only grasped two words: I won.

I won the 2012 Top Cow Talent Hunt. Me. Really.

By merit alone, with nothing more than ideas spilling from my head, crap I found on Google and stuff told to me by a co-worker who’d been to a certain country where my story takes place … I’d won, beating out a lot of really good competitors.

Wow.

Winter is coming

I held it together until I could walk back down to my car, where I squealed like a Whedonite meeting Nathan Fillion, called and then texted my wife (my toddler was napping) so elatedly it almost broke my Android phone’s dictation.

The second thing I felt was an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Driving south on the 5 freeway as the sun heated the Burbank area to 80 degrees after a week of highs in the sixties, I kept thinking of all the people who helped me, who encouraged me, who introduced me to people or opened doors for me or helped make an environment where I could succeed, where I could let some of the crazy stuff inside my head out and into the world for people to (hopefully) pay for it.

This list cannot be complete. I’m sure I’ll forget somebody, even by the time I eventually hit “publish” on this blog. This is a good number of them, people to whom I owe a great debt in terms of helping me break into yet another industry. In no particular order …

• Eric Stephenson (I wouldn’t have gotten to CBR without him, I’d just be a jackass Usenet and message board guy)
• Christopher J. Priest (so much advice, so many good examples of how to do the work)
• Dwayne McDuffie (anedge hirak, showed me some of what winning was like, also shared so much wisdom with me)
• Jonah Weiland (who took a chance and hired me at CBR, endured my lunacy and found a way for us to work together)
• Geoffrey Thorne (a bawse in every sense, who’s showing me ways to change the game)
• Tchise Aje (who helped hone the sword of my writing)
• Brandon Easton (ditto Geoffrey — watch for us, I’d wager)
• Allen S. Gordon (my editor at Rap Pages who got me into the column game before blogs even existed)
• Robert Roach (look for his name below)
• Dale Wilson (our Antidote Trust cohort)
• Sebastian A. Jones (Stranger Comics visionary and all around friend of decades)
• Joe Rybandt (the first person to ever say “yes” to me in comics, no matter how it all turned out)
• Adam Fortier (the second)
• Warren Ellis (despite the fact he blocked my email, he taught me to be fearless & try anything to tell the stories)
• Peter J. Harris (my “father” in writing)
• David Walker (always on my side)
• David Gallaher (such a great creative partner, would love to work with him someday)
• Steven Grant (taught me a lot about the game)
• Regina Jones (who taught me how to be a professional, such a great mentor)
• Rumond Taylor (a reader and supporter since my Rap Pages days
• Jeff Katz (another strong believer in my voice and my work)
• Kwanza Johnson (who saw the mobile thing coming way before anybody else)
• Vincent Moore (my retail and business partner, colleague, editor and friend)
• Kevin Grevioux (who showed me how to stay determined)
• Larry Hama (who taught me more with G.I. Joe than I could ever repay, also, look below)
• Jason Smith (my Chi-town brother and future collaborator on … well, it’s too soon to say)
• Michael Datcher (who welcomed me as a friend and as a writer to the Anansi Writers’ Workshop at LA’s World Stage, and therefore helped me get a lot better)
• Vince Hernandez (constant encouragement, nascent emcee and a great friend who I hope to work with one day)
• John Layman (he thinks I hate him, I find him hilarious, and he’s shown me so much on how to diversify the work and the revenue streams while remaining true to yourself)
• Thaddeus Howze (got me on to the Good Men Project, fantastic and creative writer)
• Nedra Jenkins (the first person I shared my fiction with)
• Savas Abadsidis (a true supporter in every shape of the word)
• Eric Battle (my first comics collaborator, no matter how it all turned out)
• Steve LeClaire (owner of Comics Ink, who saw the logic in The Buy Pile and has supported it since before it was what it is now)
• Jenoyne Adams (another writer of amazing talent who’s been a friend, road dawg and supporter from way back)
• Chinedum Ofoegbu (my personal Darth Maul, who encouraged me when he didn’t even know it)
• A. Darryl Moton (my personal Vader, he’s next)
• Marsha Mitchell Bray (my big sister, my editor many times over, a fantastic mentor)
• Myshell Tabu (my wife, my life, my support, my dream, my everything)

… and last, but certainly not least, Top Cow EIC Matt Hawkins, for saying “yes.” I’m probably forgetting lots of people, but I appreciate them as well, I’m just an airhead.

Some quick Q&A:

“Will you tell me what your comic is about?”

No. Wait until it hits. I had to use all Top Cow characters, so you might be able to narrow it down eventually, but it’ll probably be faster to wait. Anything you wanna know that I can say can be found in the exclusive coverage from CBR.

“How did you do it?”

I followed the rules to an alarming degree of compliance. I sought out and implemented peer review, so I wasn’t flying blind. I followed the advice of elders and people who had gotten published in the industry. I focused on character and plot with equal determination. I acted like I would never get another chance and I left it all on the field. I am also extraordinarily, dangerously blessed.

However, until I have the book in my hands, it hasn’t really happened yet, so I’m still walking on eggshells in some cases.

“What’s next?”

Well, I already had an indie project in the works for … well, hopefully some time this year, the three part Menthu: The Anger of Angels with Robert Roach. Oh. here’s some art from that …

A two-page action scene from Menthu: The Anger of Angels, art by Robert Roach

I have that about half scripted, and most of the penciling is done. I also have to really pimp my books, The Crown: Ascension, Faraway and the third book, which isn’t ready yet (still with editors) — all building blocks for my own personal shared fictional universe. Oh, and I was just in the Steamfunk! anthology from MV Media, which I liked doing a great deal. So, writing more stuff (I have another novel due in 2015) and pimping what’s here.

Oh, and I’m moderating a panel at California State University, Los Angeles on May 1st at 3:15 called Color Inside the Lines: Superheroes of a Different Hue, which will have as its panelists the aforementioned Kevin Grevioux and Larry Hama, as well as Tone Rodriguez. My goal is to figure a way to live stream it. I’ll see if I can pull that off.

I don’t have anything else lined up immediately (that I can talk about, but I am working on some stuff behind the scenes, as all hustlers should be — apologies to Jai Nitz). I don’t believe in discussing details of deals that aren’t done. Yes, I like alliteration. I make no apologies for that.

“Wait, didn’t you say Black people couldn’t get hired to write in mainstream comics?”

I said it was insanely hard for Black writers to get hired by DC or Marvel, which remains true. I just got hired to write, essentially, an Image comic. Image keeps Jimmie Robinson on regular rotation (Five Weapons!). They brought Enrique Carrion’s Vescell to the party. They even did Mario Gully’s Ant. I’ve got zero beef with Image.

“Have you been drinking?”

Shut up, you don’t *hic* know me …

Okay, back to the grind. Also, thank you for reading these words and playing along at all. I am extraordinarily grateful.

Playing (Music): “Take Over The World” by Kidz in the Hall feat. Just Blaze and Colin Monroe

For the longest time, I had one sentence I used in reference to all things steampunk:

“I don’t get it.”

From what I’m reading, I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I saw people posting their cosplay, which for all intents and purposes to me seemed like it could have been costuming from the movie Hoodlum that had a watchmaker throw up on it. The idea of whirring and clanking gears left me indifferent, the corseted pomp and circumstance felt contrived. The different steampunk takes on Star Wars even left me cold, and honestly, if you can’t hook me with Star Wars, it might be impossible. Based largely in the Victorian era, my mind couldn’t help but think of the global realities for Black people in that era, with metal accoutrements that were not at all ornamental and much less shiny.

I don’t remember how I got into the Facebook group State of Black Science Fiction, which (at least in my initial estimations) was a place for fairly serious writers and fans of science fiction who wanted more of an African slant, focusing largely on events and programming in Atlanta, Georgia. I read posts from writers like Balogun Ojetade, Milton Davis, my own friend Geoffrey Thorne and more talking about steampunk and I thought to myself, “Well, they don’t seem to be cape wearing wackadoos, so maybe there’s something to this …”

Then either Milton or Balogun (I honestly cannot remember, probably Balogun) announced the request-for-pitches that would lead to the Steamfunk anthology on Milton’s MV Media Publishing imprint. I’d missed the deadline for the last Sword & Soul anthology, which had material close to stuff I’d done for Stranger Comics and had been on this real “publish or die” kick as (at the time) I approached my fortieth birthday. I said to myself, “Well, I’ve always said I could write anything, this is a chance to expand my horizons and figure out whether or not that’s true.”

I started poking around the web, Googling my way towards comprehension, as is my way. Technology based on hydraulics, steam power and what have you … well, that’s a limitation, but I looked at it like it was a villanelle or a press release or any other formulaic kind of writing I’ve had to do in the past. There seemed to be a focus on extravagance, so my brain started envisioning this big, impossibly ornate parade (which ended up being the big dance number for my story). I wasn’t really on board mentally until I saw this image …

… when I saw this sister, probably dead more than a century (unless it was staged), so serious, so stoic … I started to get an idea.

I know an actual NASA scientist, a woman of great knowledge and even greater whimsy, a friend of a friend. However, she wasn’t Black. I started to remix her personality and reactions through the differences of a Black perspective and the woman in this photo started to come to life in my head. My NASA friend was willing to play along and answer a lot of personality and technical questions, which was truly invaluable.

I still needed a way to get her into a steampunk environment. I probably was flipping through my files and saw something Futurama related (a favorite of my NASA scientist friend) and remembered Phillip J. Fry, falling into a cryogenic chamber and waking up somewhere very different. The elements of this character excited and interested me, and with a personal narrative to hook into, I was suddenly excited to see where I could put my plucky scientist and what sorts of experiences she could have.

I have built a fictional universe through my novels The Crown: Ascension and Faraway that has a ridiculous amount of room for my imagination to run wild, so I posited a scientist worried about the climate of the world and in a mood to run away from it, only to have her cryogenic chamber rerouted … somewhere else. I didn’t really figure out the location until my iPod was playing its thousands of songs on random and coughed up this …

… and I should note that, before writing this blog, I’d never seen the video.

I don’t regularly listen to country music, but this song snagged a spot on the pop charts, so when I got a big download of “pop” music, there it was, and eventually it found a way into my consciousness. The detailed storytelling and delicacy of the singer’s voice did it for me. This provided a loose framing device for my story, which would give the events happening to my scientist lead emotional resonance (I hoped). Likewise, the open frontiers and lawless possibilities of a western setting seemed to provide more room for my narrative to work without hundreds of years of colonial oppression to stifle my politics.

Anyway, my brain put Taylor Swift in the role of the character from the song, because I’m a horrible, twisted human being and it amused me to put an end to America’s sweetheart (that’s not much of a spoiler, as the funeral is literally the first scene of the story). With all those pieces in hand, it became time for research.

Newave Comics owner Rashida Lewis and contractor Michael Inskeep provided much of the technical data I’d need outside of what my NASA pal told me she would pack if she were climbing into a cryogenic chamber (and her list was quite interesting, as she provided the means of income as well). My own fictional universe gave her a “place” to be, and I spent about a day developing the religious beliefs of the people of the planet Pless (you’d never believe what Pless really is, and if I do three or four more stories, maybe you’ll find out). From there it was just riffing — a flamboyant character who’s essentially a steamfunk T-Pain mixed with Foghorn Leghorn …

… and an ethnic mix that’d make things interesting. From there, it was easy.

For me, anyway.

Putting those pieces together — spending the time researching bleed off valves and open compressors, weaving the religion of a non-existent people into the events of their lives — is the alchemy of fiction, the building of worlds, and one of my greatest joys. It affords me a level of control real life cannot match. Despite my initial indifference, I did enjoy the steamfunk settings and would be happy to return there, as I’d submit work for pretty much anything Milton or Balogun offered.

You’ve taken a look behind the scenes of my story for the Steamfunk anthology, and next (in theory) I’ll talk about how this kind of “difference” makes one, if you grok.

Playing (Music): “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry

We will be here forever

Do you understand?

FOREVER

Forever and ever
And ever and ever

We will be here forever

Do you understand that?
Get what I’m saying?

FOREVER!

- KRS-ONE, “KRS-ONE Attacks!”

The essense of Black creativity in the shadow of the western world has been one of necessity and scarcity. “Make way out of no way” is the only consistent commandment from be-bop to hip hop, from STEM education to, finally, the science fiction that fueled many of those who sought it.

Steampunk, as defined by the fine people at Wikipedia, is as follows …

Steampunk is a sub-genre of science fiction that typically features steam-powered machinery, especially in a setting inspired by industrialized Western civilization during the 19th century. Therefore, steampunk works are often set in an alternate history of the 19th century’s British Victorian era or American “Wild West,” in a post-apocalyptic future during which steam power has regained mainstream use, or in a fantasy world that similarly employs steam power. Steampunk perhaps most recognizably features anachronistic technologies or retro-futuristic inventions as people in the 19th century might have envisioned them, and is likewise rooted in the era’s perspective on fashion, culture, architectural style, and art.

A quick web search for “steampunk” will deliver tons of images, comic books, short films, cosplay conventions and discussions … and dangerously few people of color. Google Images has their first non-white person under the search for the term 18 rows down, a single spot of brown in a drawing with three white people. One might take this data and believe that not only are Black people (and people of color, by extension) not interested in the sub-genre, but that they have no place in it.

Milton Davis and Balogun Ojetade disagreed.

The co-editors of the new anthology Steamfunk! from MV Media Publishing offer up a definition that might not be found on Wikipedia …

The co-editors of the new anthology Steamfunk! from MV Media Publishing offer up a definition that might not be found on Wikipedia …

Steamfunk: a philosophy or style of writing that combines the African and/or African American culture and approach to life with that of the Steampunk philosophy and/or Steampunk fiction.

Their collection of short stories (nothing could be over 12,000 words) features the work of writers from the worlds of television, journalism and fiction, all positing a slightly more diverse world of fantasy and possibility than many have had access to in the past.

Anthology contributor Valjeanne Jeffers said, “Within this new genre we are witnessing the birth of worlds in which Black folks and that which moves us reign supreme. In short, Steamfunk is just as different from Steampunk as Black Science Fiction is from White science fiction. Imagine a Steamfunk hood, an antebellum South in which abolitionists fly airships. Or, as in my novel, Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds, folks living in a post-apocalyptic, steam-world with meta-humans…policed by androids. Now imagine each of these worlds predominated by folks of color: worlds in which Black, Native American, Latino, and Asian folks are not sidekicks but heroines, heroes and villains. That’s what Steamfunk is.”

Geoffrey Thorne, an actor and screenwriter with scores of credits to his name including Leverage, Star Trek: Titan: Sword of Damocles, Honor Brigade and more, said, “At some point in my lifetime I realized, ‘if I wished to see stories about people who looked like me engaged in the fanciful activities I loved in the books I devoured … the only way was to write them myself.’ That’s the best thing about being a writer; if you don’t like the world, just make up another one. So, I did. I did it a lot. I did it a lot A LOT and eventually came to the place I call THE OTHER COUNTRY. When you read the STEAMFUNK anthology, you will get a quick tour of the place and I hope you like what you see because that’s the point of that.”

Hannibal Tabu, weekly comics reviewer for Comic Book Resources and editor in chief of Komplicated at the Good Men Project, said, “When I started out, I didn’t even like steampunk. I didn’t get it. I’d seen the images and thought it was a little anachronistic — my eye was on tomorrow, not a brass-covered look at yesterday. However, I saw the amazing work Balogun and Milton were doing and, frankly, took it as a challenge to myself. Write a ’steamfunk’ story I’d wanna read, one with possibility and pomp, science fiction extremism and atmospheric flourishes. Along the way I developed yet another Black female protagonist who thinks first and kicks butt, and along the way … I kind of got sucked in. It’s just another kind of thing to like, you know, like I am nuts about Star Wars or the Patternists of Octavia Butler. You’re not gonna see me in a bowler and goggles, but I now like these fantastic ideas way better than I did when they tried that abysmal steampunk Transformers series a few years ago.”

Davis himself said, “I hope to see it expand. Hopefully other writers and readers will see the possibilities and share their own interpretations. As for me, I have a couple of novel projects planned that are set in my alternate history steampunk country of Freedonia: From Here to Timbuktu, an action adventure novel and Unrequited, an action romance series. After that, who knows?”

What is “steamfunk?” It’s Kool Herc behind the turntables, it’s Coltrane taking a deep breath, George S. Schuyler’s smile as he put pen to paper or Obama stopping to take it all in after the second inaugural. Taking the pieces of whatever’s available and making it wonderful, be it soul food or impossible situations and characters, coming to you one scintillating syllable at a time. Now there’s another new way, a path to “the other country,” and you’re welcome to take a trip.

“… there is a deeper world than this
tugging at your hand …

– Sting, “Love is the Seventh Wave”

The Steamfunk! anthology is available now.

[Originally posted on Komplicated at The Good Men Project]

“… I tried to be perfect
it just wasn’t worth it
nothing could ever be so wrong
it’s hard to believe me
it never gets easy
I guess I knew that all along

As the clock ticked over to start my fortieth trip around an impossible ball of gas explosions, I sat in a run down bar in Torrance, California, bracketed with commentary on Doctor Who and reminiscences over a fallen friend. One of my best friends stood on stage, maybe twenty five feet away, finishing up strains of “The Ballroom Blitz.” The songs I sang on the eve of this milestone will provide punctuation for these musings.

“… there are many thing that I would like to say to you
but I don’t know how …

On one hand, I have a laundry list of accomplishments worth noting. Edited a national magazine with a circulation of 200,000 by the time I was 21. Guiding hand in the construction of five multi-million dollar websites. Two novels published. Poetry published in a number of anthologies and journals. Talented wife, wonderful children, steady job at a company investing in growth.

“… off in the night, while you live it up, I’m off to sleep
waging wars to shape the poet and the beat
I hope it’s gonna make you notice
I hope it’s gonna make you notice

… someone like me …”

I have my share of demerits and disparagements against my name. A failed marriage during the first Dubya presidency. Financial catastrophes. Car accidents, almost dying four or five times … in the vernacular, “sh** got real,” too.

“… a heart that’s full up like a land fill,
a job that slowly kills you,
bruises that won’t heal …”

Through out my childhood and my twenties, I had a recurring dream that in September of 2013, I would be run down in the middle of a street by a yellow Ford Gran Torino. It was as crystal clear in my mind as any memory. I don’t seriously believe it will happen, but let’s just say I am going to be very conservative in my movements in September, and likely to drive right up to anywhere I’ll need to be.

“… it’s the terror of knowing
what this world is about
watching some good friends
screaming ‘Let me out’
pray tomorrow gets me higher high high
pressure on people, people on streets …”

One of my strongest beliefs was that a brother younger than 40 in a Cadillac was begging for trouble. I imagined the birthday would come and I’d magically transform — grow gray tinted dreadlocks, ditch the t-shirts and jeans for button shirts and slacks with a mean crease. You know, look like a grown up.

I find the all-purpose style I’ve had since college still holds up, that I can dress it up with a button shirt and take a meeting, but in general, my Nissan Altima’s a more innocuous (and cost effective) choice, that even a week’s worth of hair on my head feels so hot and itchy that it’s simpler to get my latter-season Ben Sisko on. I don’t wanna be somebody different, not like that. Just a more effective me.

“… even the best fall down sometimes
even the wrong words seem to rhyme
out of the doubt that fills your mind
you finally find
you and I
collide …

I say all this to say that I could go in any direction. I could toil away my days like the beleaguered protagonist of The Police’s “Synchronicity 2″ or I could become the Black George Lucas, or hit any point in between. All my best laid plans lie shattered on the road behind me, diminished from the second they made contact with the harsh light of reality. I honestly don’t know where I’m going, or what’s next, but I’m at a point where I care a lot less about it.

“… don’t give up your independence
unless it feels so right
nothing good comes easily
sometimes you gotta fight …”

What I do know is that I’m finding a balance to know what’s right for me. I tweeted this past year that every minute for me is stolen from one of you. That’s fine. It’s not every minute, and I do a lot for others. There’s a space between the vile jackass I once was and the non-stop normal guy I could become where I can take care of business while still furthering my own star-shattering ambitions.

“… nobody said it was easy,
girl it’d be a shame for us to part
nobody said it was easy,
no one ever said it would be so hard

I’m going back to the start …

So, this is 40, with apologies to Judd Apatow.

Playing (Music): “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service

Re: Homeland Season 2, Episode 10.

Huge, huge SPOILER ALERT, and I’m sorry if you haven’t seen it.

In all seriousness, if you haven’t seen the show and want to, you should stop here. I’ll give you some space before I continue …

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Yes, I understand the irony of the above image, that’s why I chose it.

Anyway, notorious international “terrorist” Abu Nazir has taken the CIA’s craziest analyst, Carrie Mathison, captive for reasons that are not really important for what we’re discussing here. He asked her if she carries the same dedication he and his followers do. That discussion, as quoted, follows:

CARRIE: “Whatever it takes.”

NAZIR: “Really? With your pension plans & organic foods? Your beach houses & sports clubs? Do you have the perseverance, the tenacity, the faith? Because we do. You can bomb us, starve us, occupy our holy places, but we will never lose our faith. We carry god in our hearts, our souls. To die is to join him. It may take a century. Two centuries, three centuries … but we will exterminate you.”

CARRIE: “Like I said. You’re a terrorist.”

Is it bad that a very horrible part of me wanted Abu Nazir to respond, “I prefer to think of myself as a teacher …” in that moment?

What Israel is doing to the Palestinians is wrong. The support afforded to them by the United States is wrong. Hate engenders hate. When the oppressed respond with hate, it’s just where they are in their stage of development, especially if the boot of oppression remains on or even near their neck. When their wrongs have been redressed — and please don’t try to talk to me about the idea Palestine has not been wronged, like the Serbs were wronged, like the Jews were wronged, like the Africans were wronged, like the Tasmanians were wronged and so on, down the line — then maybe they can begin to heal, maybe they can begin to collectively forgive.

Also, please understand that I am not saying it is right for children to be killed — by bombs from the Israeli forces or as sacrifices and suicide bombs. Both are equally wrong. The methods used by both sides are deplorable, the guilt is shared equally and I am embarrassed for the portion of my tax dollars spent furthering this conflict. I’d hope I’ve made that abundantly clear since few of us ever really get to be “innocent.”

As for the sentiments of Abu Nazir, in the words of Chris Rock, “I’m not saying I condone it … but I understand.”

Spirit knows I understand.

Watching (Television): Homeland, “Broken Hearts”

^{yeah, I know, the Department of Homeland Security will be all over this blog like Lindsay Lohan over a line of coke … such is life under Ingsoc …}

Now that there’s no chance I can be blamed for trying to affect the outcome of probably the most expensive election in history, here’s some stuff I haven’t said in literally dozens of Facebook comment threads over the last few weeks.

I grew up in Memphis, and saw the sites where King was slain before I was ten years old. My mother was a Black Panther. I am aware of and respect every element of our struggle for freedom.

I will not vote.

I am not registered. I doubt I ever will be, and I turn 40 in January. I will not participate in this farce with crying Afghan orphans and the end of personal privacy and the shredding of constitutional rights and the rest. Bad enough I’m forced to pay taxes practically at gunpoint (especially when one of the candidates — under Democrats or Republicans — did not). History will be very forgiving of the current administration, which in fact has a laundry list of accomplishments as long as my arm.

History is more forgiving than I am.

I am not telling anybody else not to vote. I am not decrying the farcical nature of it (although in a blue state it would be easy to, even on the laughable propositions). I just won’t be a part of it. In the words of KRS, “I like to ask these politicians, ‘would Jesus vote?’”

He would not. He’d be in the streets making things happen. This tactic is not my tactic. This battle is not my battle, and all the pretty words and grainy 1960s photos and cross posts will not change it.

I do, however, find it all a fascinating story, almost as interesting as watching Homeland. As with all things, your mileage may vary, but I’ll be glad to see these exhortations in my timeline disappear.

Some of my reasons …

1) I will never do jury duty. Jury duty is exclusively for registered voters. I believe the criminal justice system of the United States is irreparably broken, and have spent my life avoiding any form of participation in it.

2) In the words of KRS-ONE, “whether you vote for the lesser of two evils, you vote for evil/politics and god are not equal.” I’m striving towards the concept of Dr. Ron Daniel, who posited the idea of pockets of Black people becoming “ungovernable” — exempting themselves from public services, standing secure without the “protection” of the police and so on. I’m not there yet, but plan to be before I’m retirement aged.

3) Moreover, let’s say I get all presidential. I could vote for the rapacious businessman or I could vote for the guy who did this.

I’m out. Don’t involve me in that foolishness any more than the taxes that I don’t have enough guns or paperwork to stop (yet). This election in particular isn’t important because of how many things the candidates share in common as centrists appealing to the more extreme elements of their parties. The Supreme Court justice issue? Meh. The idea of “balancing the budget” or fiscal responsibilty? Right, sell me another $400 toilet seat cover to hide the funds for your secret rendition facilities. Whatever.

4) In the words of Talib Kweli, “conditions in the ‘hood never changed with the president.” I had a friend from South Africa, who told me that even after the Afrikaans regime fell, “it didn’t matter if the boot on my neck had a Black foot inside or a white one, it was still a boot on my neck.” I feel similar. Presidents are just characters on another TV show.

5) “What about local elections? You can effect things there!” Meh. I’ve dated and known many people who worked in local government and see exactly where the money goes and what happens. I’d again be better served working towards becoming “ungovernable.” Or doing it the mafia way and just kidnapping and punching the kidneys of people the elected officials find valuable. Even when voting for something makes sense, it’s possible to get people to work against their own interests if you have enough money and determination.

6) “So many people sacrificed for you to have this right!” Thanks. They also — in effect — weakened the growing Black infrastructure that many in corporate America saw as a threat to their own economic hegemony by demanding integration while not reminding their constituents to maintain their own (would-be “ungovernable”) systems. My mom was a Panther. I get it. I disagree with their strategy while respecting their intentions. It is my belief that they fought for me to have a choice. I am using that choice. Dissent is a stance.

7) I don’t want to. I don’t want to vote for “my” next American Idol, I don’t want to vote to see if the Joker will kill Jason Todd, and I don’t want to vote for anything else, all of which (on a long enough timeline) matter about as much to me. I accept that I am a de facto prisoner of war categorized as a “citizen” (ha) but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna get Stockholm Syndrome and play along with the charade.

I also covered all of this two years back.

So there you have it.

Playing (Music): “Salute Your Solution” by the Raconteurs

During the month of September, I’ll be DJing the pre and post shows for grandstand concerts at the Los Angeles County Fair. I will likely not interact with the talent. I will not get you a free ticket. I will be working and not very chatty. I will rock the party that, likely, will rock your body, should you attend.

All shows take place at the Pomona Fairplex (I got lost on my way to Pomona once with my mom, ask me some time, funny story). I start rocking around 7:30 or 8 and will be done around midnight, at which time the fair closes and they will hurl you from the premises. Just kidding. Probably.

In order, here’s the list of shows I’m doing …

• George Benson and Chaka Khan, Thursday, September
  13, 2012
• Tower of Power feat. Average White Band, Friday,
  September 14, 2012
• Boyz 2 Men, Kenny “Babyface” Edmonds and En Vogue,
  Thursday, September 20, 2012
• War, Friday, September 21, 2012
• Old School Soul Jam (featuring Rose Royce, Heatwave, Lenny Williams & Evelyn “Champagne” King), Saturday, September 22, 2012
• Earth, Wind and Fire, Sunday, September 30, 2012

I already did one “warm up” show (because I was rusty and didn’t feel confident, but it went pretty well) where I did a mostly 80s set for the B-52s. Super fun getting a chance to play “The Batter Ram” and two songs by LA’s Dream Team!

I’m doing these shows in conjunction with YNotLive Entertainment, the company formerly known as Starlight Entertainment. I probably won’t be drunk. Right, then.

If you’re making the drive, be patient with the roads as they’re super crowded and stuff ain’t going anywhere. Leave early, be prepared for them to search your bags and have fun. I know I will!

Playing (Music): “Girls on Film” by Duran Duran

Dwight “D. Black” Johnson died on Tuesday, August 14th of complications surrounding heart disease. Survived by two children, a wife, a brother and a sister, he … you know what? Screw the prelude, here’s all I need to say about him.

The hereafter went and got a little bit smoother ...

Twenty million
oppressive ultraviolet hammers
falling on your back.

Ain’t easy bein’ cool under summer heat.

Refrigerators asking for ice water.
Everyday challenges of
blacktop battlefields
hamstrings half-steppers
so frequently,
ain’t worth remembering names.

Dwight motherf***in’ Johnson, now,
Mister D. Black,
he could side step with supernovas,
cut heat in half with one breath.
Fresher than condensation
on grandma’s glass of sippin’ tea,
he was old school
like a diamond in the back,
with a sunroof off.
We’re diggin’ a scene
that’ll miss his lean, ooh ooh …

Pick up your pens,
D. Black 101.
Please make no mistake,
if you’re hittin’ southside streets
or talking LA legacies,
yo ass needs to know about Dee Black up in here.
The Dee Black I knew,
spun around two axes
like twenty inch rims
on a deuce and a quarter.

First,
D. Black was about these kids.
From ones he sired,
to helping orphans in need,
his sunglasses always saw tomorrow.
G’on and call Caltech or MIT,
find yourself a math whiz
wielding a super computer,
maybe they can help calculate
how many smiles he planted,
how many futures he improved.
Blazed a trail for me,
showed balance of art and responsibility,
giving back while getting yours,
all with perfectly pressed creases
and a brim free of dust or imperfection.
Example of one
who gave so much
to those who had less
will carry on, like his daughter
helping her little brother
with his tie on prom night.

He’ll be there,
even if y’all can’t see him.

Second thing,
maybe even what people knew more than anything else
was that D. Black was cool.
An ineffable sense of certainty
about who he was,
this implacable inner tranquility
exuding style and confidence
like long shoes he favored
or a Corniche rollin’ out of the car wash.
Whether Inglewood or Hollywood,
with ballers or busters,
you could find him at epicenter of everything,
posted up with something to sip
cooler than mornings in Anchorage.
Cutty mack, he’d say,
what Steve Harvey dreams about being,
never needing jewel studded showiness
of shuck and jive men on music videos.
Kept credibility in the hood
and respectibility for the northsiders,
incorporating young man slang
with old brother strut,
perfect synchronicity of swagger and class.
Everything he did spun out of that cool,
from poetry that gave Shakespeare some pimpin’
to shootin’ the sh** under street lights
to remembering that every goodbye ain’t gone.

We know he’s not gone.
Every time we brush that dirt of our shoulders,
he’s there with a smirk and an “mmph.”
Each shiny pair of gators
carries his blessing,
and every dude who ever steps smooth to a sister,
whether he’s trying to get with her or not,
has a hint of D. Black,
ready to fold her up
and put her in his pocket.
Leimert Park sidewalks embedded with his footsteps,
grafitti that won’t wash off,
you can’t paint over,
he’s here,
and we’re here,
and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

I’m not here to mourn.
This life is hard,
and D. Black had weight on his shoulders, too.
No, I’m here in gratitude,
wearing my nicest shoes,
giving my freshest respects.
We learned from each other,
we grew together in fellowship with words.
I miss him, sure,
I’m sorry he won’t see me side eyin’ his boy
when he’s checkin’ my daughter in a few years
but knowing he’s free from suffering,
ask me if I’m sweatin’ under sadness.
I’ll just smile, and say,
“nay … err …”

In the words of our people,
anedge hirak Dwight Johnson,
and thank you.

“His Sunglasses Always Saw Tomorrow”
For Dwight Johnson
By Hannibal Tabu

We’ve got to take care of ourselves, yo.

Watching (Hulu): The Booth At The End, “A New Reality

National Poetry Writing Month is over, but once in a while, something sneaks out as a poem anyway.

I used to be
single gray, rain-laden cloud
interceding in sunniest days.

Malicious cackles,
dipping through traffic
whipping wet willies or
just sayin’ stuff to make you mad.

Chaos street spirit,
fomenting maelstrom
bringin motherfunkin’ ruckus
because I could,
because it was a calling.

Now I make deliveries
more surgically,
save up everyday mischief to
manifest as manuscripts
HTML code the new flavor in your ear
plant seeds of evolution.

Now I’m toddler smiles at sunrise,
cubicle citizen
parent teacher conference alibis
for crimes you can’t conceive.

Today my madness
comes downloadable for your tablet,
or as pint sized sweethearts
growing up, ready
to tear it all down.
I don’t have to
do all the work myself.

Nothing changes
and everything changes.
To understand,
you have to know where to look.

“When Bad Boys Become Good Men”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’ll have to do my next superhero piece for the next NaPoWriMo I participate in. Next year looks like April will be for National Short Story Writing Month. Fingers crossed.

Playing (Music): “Street Lights” by Kanye West

Ha! You thought I’d forget! That because I was stir fried from doing that free MP3 column I’d screw up and stumble on the last day, huh? DON’T LET THE MICKEY FICKEY SMOOTH TASTE FOOL YOU, DAWG!

Here we go.

Like sunrise reflected
in toddler eyes
this is our chance.

Today we can do better,
we can find our way,
encourage greatness,
redeem dreams like lottery tickets.

Start all over.

Transition ain’t easy,
loading cardboard clad baggage
of mortgaged yesterdays
into moving trucks of motivation.
Making the trip
takes gasoline,
elbow grease
patience through stop signs
and stopped types
logjamming your route,
but we gon’ do
what they say
can’t be done.

Open front door to reset
hardwood floors for footsteps
echoing in tomorrow’s memories,
that one spot by kitchen
always creaks
watch your step.

Start all over.

This is it.
Holding hands,
striding heads high into sunlight,
don’t need no shades
don’t need to squint
see possibilities just fine
making mark in grandchildren legacies
stepping up
hitting free throws
getting out of bed
especially when it’s so warm
when she’s so warm
knowing world’s so cold.

Doesn’t matter.
Starting all over,
unpacking lessons we need
conveniently forgetting
boxes of transgressions
that rot foundations
this is a new place,
a new day
a new chance
to make it all right.

Best of all?
We’ll get another one tomororow.
Let’s go!

“Movin’ On Up”
By Hannibal Tabu

That said, this blog may go dark a while again (maybe not, now that I have both FTP and Wordpress going well on my iPad) but I (always) have a lot going on at Komplicated (celebrating its first birthday tomorrow) and I have a few projects in the pipeline (that one from before with the preview art is pretty much dead in that format now, long stupid story) that I hope to share soon. In any case, thanks for the support, and no, you’re unlikely to see me here for National Novel Writing Month. That joint is exhausting.

Playing (Music): “The Way” by Fastball

Great discussion this morning on Sunday Morning Live.

A train runs through center
of Los Angeles’ urban blight,
graffitti tagged streets
crime statistics
lower property values.

There’s no smoke
today
no truckers
pulled from place of work
national guard isn’t being deployed
fear that lurks on corners
and in alleys
is everyday variety.

Harder to get a job here
than it was twenty years ago.
More digital opiates,
glowing rectangles
chances for distraction.

Trayvon Martin.
Fredrick Martin Jr.
Oscar Grant, Jr.
Kendrec McDade.
That’s just this year.

Blood set to ignite
the fire this time.

Now train runs through town,
urban renewal
launched twenty years
after justice failed to stop here.

Easier to ship in troops via rail
armor via freeway
suppression via air
should sparks alight again.

“On The Anniversary Of The 1992 Uprisings”
By Hannibal Tabu

One more day left …

Watching (Hulu): Parks & Recreation “The Debate” by Maroon 5

I need to do a comic piece Monday …

Quiet dark around
Monitor light, keys tapping
Churn out tomorrow

”Haiku: The Night Shift for Writers”
By Hannibal Tabu

Tomorrow, I’ll be live on Sunday Morning Live talking about the 20th anniversary of the LA uprisings after the Rodney King verdicts, as well as doing a pre-recorded segment of tech talk and culture commentary. Just so ya know …

Playing (Music): “Sweet Sixteen” by Destiny’s Child

On our first date, my wife Myshell introduced me to a board game we’ll be discussing here. Let’s pick up our chat after today’s poem …

Circular game pieces
scattered like constellations
across tan cardboard,
she smirks at me,
velvet bag in right hand,
absently rolling next move
between fingers.

The game is called Pente,
Greek named variation
of Asian variant,
didn’t stop with Go,
trademarked in 1977,
found while teaching
scions of battered women
elements of education.

Now she’s like a
drunken wizened master,
trash talking
with sly smiles,
sweeping my most
strenuous strategies
off the board with ease.

This ain’t Scrabble,
which feels like my native land
this isn’t even
cutthroat considerations
of chess, Risk or Monopoly,
using logistics and
focused willpower
to obliterate opposition.
This is more like
dancing about architecture,
alien concepts
looking for places to land
on my inhospitable mind.

She wins
again,
but says I improved,
maybe not even mocking me
this time.
I marvel at mental machinations
far afield of my own,
just as brilliant,
just as dangerous
as capable of beauty and horror.

That’s just about right.

”I Was Told There’d Be No Math”
By Hannibal Tabu

I still don’t think I’ve ever beaten her.

Three more days, y’all …

Playing (Music): “Running After You” by Milly July

Shut up! It’s still Thursday (in my time zone)! It still counts!

Don’t matter if you’ve
collected enough unemployment checks
to wallpaper a mansion,
or ran your own business
long enough to give yourself
a gold watch
everybody knows that
one mother****er at their job
a quarter inch away from a beat down
every single day.

You know that mother****er,
always something contentious to say
when everybody’s looking,
or always has crooked answers
to straight questions,
never where you need ’em to be
but quick to level
spotlights at you
second they need something.
Speaking of needin’ something,
quick to ask you
where something is
before looking
like you’re babysitting
their brain function.
Please don’t need to
ask this clown for help.
Slip stream side step
commitment to commit,
dance card too full to
Hear your song.

What’s that?
Everybody at your job
is sweeter than cobbler and cookies?
Every single soul there
reminds you God is good,
love is possible,
and they didn’t cancel
your favorite TV show?

Maybe the problem is you …

”Equal Opportunity Employment”
By Hannibal Tabu

Poem for Myshell tomorrow, something about the 1992 riots on Sunday (as I’m appearing on Sunday Morning Live in person to discuss that) … in the home stretch now.

Playing (Music): “Allentown” by Billy Joel

We’re looking good for making it this year. Last year I failed. This year looks good.

You can see the Hollywood sign from my street.

Nine letters,
forty-five feet tall,
gleaming white and impossibly storied
symbolizing every runaway dream
and attention starved desire.

To the world,
they symbolize limousines
spotlights
forty five hundred dollar sunglasses
shielding bloodshot eyes
from paparazzi predation.

From my street,
those ideas might as well
be in another galaxy.
South of Pico,
there’s nothing like
petulant movie stars
demanding you pick out all the
Skittles of a certain shade.
There’s Guatemalan fathers
coming home late
from running businesses,
shepherding handymen or valets
while worrying about
eldest son grades,
baby with a rash.
North of Venice,
brother two doors down
picks aluminum cans
out of trash cans
rides his bike around the ‘hood
while his wife pushes
a brand new Korean mini SUV.
Daughters curse on sidewalks,
where a dead man sat
in a wheelchair
for most of a January afternoon.

Driving through social strata
to work in platinum scented suburb
contrast is not lost on me.
One foot in each world,
my phone’s filled with numbers
from two time felons
and CEOs.
Tight rope balance
between who I wanna be
and who church ladies
worried I could become
pulls every thread of me
every day.

One foot in front of another,
I see the sign
but never trying to climb that hill,
bringing my checks home
through clouds of Black & Mild smoke
across broken auto glass
because that’s who I am
and forgetting that
would make me as fake as everything
that sign makes people believe.

“I Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way”
By Hannibal Tabu

I really do need to do a comic book piece this week …

Watching (Hulu): Scandal, “Hell Hath No Fury”

Here we go now …

There’s no such thing as peace.

Rocket propelled grenades
sit next to breakfast bowl
play with 7.62 mm shell casings,
find blood splattered on street
four days out of seven.
More dead from fever and hunger,
less discriminating surge.

Baba fights the Americans,
Kalashnikov his companion
more often than mama.
Baba’s baba fought the Russians,
Americans at his side
more than his bride
whispered Pashto in his ear.

I am eleven years old.
I have never been kissed
by anyone not a blood relative.
I can make out
a passage or two of scripture,
know rustle of baba’s thick beard
and coarse clothes
when he hugs me,
taste of mama’s kahdoos.

Two years ago,
American soldiers
left a magazine near marketplace.
Kept it hidden for a month,
buried behind the house,
before daring to gaze upon
impossibly smooth skinned westerners.
Smiling and immodest,
shaven faced men,
like children, really
women’s bosoms in view.
They look like they’ve never known
bits of gravel in stew,
like they eat meat
less gamy than goat,
and not just on special days.
They look like relentless,
cloying smell of poppies
isn’t woven into every memory.

I don’t hate them,
fat and godless,
but I understand those who do.
I’m too hungry
to hate them.

At night,
sounds of shelling and screams
hopefully far from my pallet.
Wonder what nights are like
beyond hills of Sharobi,
where baby faced boy-men
sleep next to red lipped harlots
on endless pillows,
in safety,
in safety …
too busy tracking down survival
under unrelenting sunshine.

Mama tells stories
about golden days of Afghanistan,
days when quiet wasn’t frightening,
times of plenty.
Baba snorts
when she’s not around,
says we’ve always been
stop on somebody’s road
somewhere,
never wanting to be here,
always needing to control the way.

Baba says,
there’s no such thing as peace.

I don’t know about any of that.
I know sand and stone,
I know running and gunfire,
body parts and explosions,
prayer and waiting
for freedom even I don’t believe
will ever come.

”Jangi Shah: A Hymn For Afghanistan”
By Hannibal Tabu

Thanks to my wife Myshell for this idea, driving and listening to KPFK.

Playing (Music): “Sin City” by Sin City (Verbal and Icarus)

My wife Myshell gave me a great idea for a poem that I hope to finish for tomorrow, but it takes more research, and this one almost lives in the periphery of my thoughts (as evidenced by two short stories I did), so it gets the slot to stay on schedule …

If I had three wishes,
out would come thesauri,
figuring out angles,
making sure there’s an undo button
weighing benefits of unlimited funds
versus super powers
and what order things have to go in.

If I got two wishes,
decisions would take even longer
raising stakes.
Johnnie Cochrane
meets jackal headed trickster god
sort of stuff,
until every last syllable
was wrung dry of possibility.

However, if I had one wish –
no backsies, no “wish for more,”
no loopholes or tricks …
it’s easy.
It’s not even a question.

End everything
for everybody
everywhere
everywhen.

Accelerated heat death for reality.
Eliminate possibility of Newt Gingrich
and cupcakes in one felled swoop,
even as latter helped make former.
If there’s nothing, yes, you lose good things,
but you finally, forever kill bad things.
George Zimmerman. Johannes Mehserle.
George Wallace. Willie Lynch.
Kim Kardashian.

All gone with a sentence.

Intoxicating possibility,
terrifying to consider
staring into toddler eyes.

I like to think she’d understand.

“Nihilism”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’m way overdue for another comic book related one, just gotta settle on which. Leaning towards Punisher or Vandal Savage, for wildly different reasons.

Playing (Music): “The Panties” by Mos Def

Written on PCH as we drove back from the Topanga Canyon Earth Day Festival after seeing Leon Mobley and Da Lion.

Always with the swords

Traipsing along in clanking steel,
they come, again and again,
brimming with piss and vinegar,
delusion of valor.
Hungry for legend
of who they could be,
I’m stepping stone to greatness.

This stone hits harder.

I remember stone that fell from sky,
world set ablaze,
decades without sunlight,
Survivors forever changed.
Almost broke every bone
first few times I tried to fly,
but roasting food as I eat it,
makes it all the more delicious.

Too little meat in armor
to be worth the trouble.

One day it’ll be something more
god-spawned barbarian
or one chosen by magic and providence.
That’s what happened to all my friends
all my family
everyone else who survived.
Accepted that
before they mastered steel,
Took down cousin
with sharpened flint.

Everybody’s mortal
if you wait long enough.

For now, belly warmed by gold,
head sheltered by stone,
dream of day shimmering morons
don’t darken cave mouth.

”Here Be Dragons”
By Hannibal Tabu
with thanks to Myshell Tabu

Back to work tomorrow. The day job, anyway.

Playing (Music): “The Fact Is (I Need You)” by Jill Scott

Almost forgot …

I’ll never tell you
Hate within me could eat worlds
Safer you don’t know

“I’m Not A Nice Guy, Even If I’m Nice To You”
By Hannibal Tabu

No stopping!

Playing (Music): “Tobacco Road” by Common Market

For Myshell.

Everyday I want to buy her flowers.

Pull dirty green Chrysler
next to broken sidewalk,
two feet higher
with tree root squatting
like a repudiation of civilization.
Run across Alvarado
through open glass door,
slowly speak English,
obtain Gerbera daisy,
lotus if you have it,
she finds roses too cliche.
Bring home single stalk,
because she feels more
would be wasteful.

Mundane money
won’t stop for saffron sentiment.
tuition’s due and
we’re low on pricy whole grain bread,
student loans won’t take study breaks
while income taxes invoke
Florida Evans frustration.

Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it
every day on home bound commute.
Imagine corners of mouth turning up
like thermostat temperatures
during Wisconsin winters.
Sparks of smiles
igniting my life.

I plant poems instead.
A sonnet on her steering wheel,
haikus in homeschooling supplies,
Routine reminders, maybe,
but sure never to wilt or fade.

”I Never Promised You A Rose Garden”
By Hannibal Tabu

Keep on keepin’ on the road that you choose.

Playing (Music): “This Is The Remix” by Girl Talk

This should be the end of this stream of thought.

Had to tell Mittens
Corporations aren’t people.
They can’t love you back.

“Haiku: Be Careful What You Wish For, Part 3: At World’s End”
By Hannibal Tabu

Tomorrow’s for Myshell, so let’s see what happens.

Playing (Music): “Tomorrow” by Quincy Jones feat. John Legend

Presented without comment.

She saw me at the store with my kids,
apparently.

Friend of a friend
social networked to me
blog link I probably
wasn’t supposed to see.

Before that errant click,
would have had to cycle back,
remember where I was working
to even know what her name was.

Yet there were two thousand words
lamenting end of a relationship
I’d have a hard time
pinpointing on a calendar.

I was pushing red-framed shopping cart,
it seems,
eldest daughter holding literal coat tail
toddler singing Coldplay
as we grabbed bread and soy milk.

This woman must have been close,
chronicling cell phone in camera bag
hanging at my left hip,
like promises I apparently made
to love her.
but I never saw her,
never recognized face so quick
to rest on my chest.

Digital reminder,
she remembered explicit details
of our year-long romance,
chronicling her oral fixation,
specific curls of hair on my left arm
(some of which are gray now),
hum of space heater
in my first real post-college apartment
while beige slatted futon frame
creaked beneath us.

Words retraced steps
through straw and sand
at Rancho Cienega Park,
African Marketplace Festival
during some halcyon summer past,
then detailed arrest-worthy embraces
in back row of USC’s Norris Theater
one Friday night
in the last century.
On and on it went,
flooding memory with
discarded data.

Reading all that,
I almost wished I remembered it.

But I *don’t* remember it,
because it wasn’t that great.
It can’t have been worth neuron space,
because I recall high school
one night stands
with crisp, high definition clarity.
Had to sit down and track back
before I remembered crestfallen look
on pouty lips
when she told me she was leaving
to step back into an older love.

I didn’t wanna “still be friends.”

Realization cracks me up.
I didn’t break up with her.
I didn’t even do anything wrong
for a change
yet decades later,
pining for me in prose.
Dude.
What the hell?

I show my wife the blog,
and ask her opinion.
“Wow,” she said.
“You two must have been something.”

“No,” I replied.
“She’s just somebody I used to know.”

“Y’all Never Should Have Let Me Hear Gotye”
By Hannibal Tabu

Likely a haiku or tanka tomorrow, as fried as I’ll be.

Playing (Music): “Somebody That I Used To Know” by Gotye feat. Kimbra

”… it don’t stop ’cause it won’t stop …”

Growing up in Memphis,
I knew one thing
better than any other.
Not oppressive de facto segregation
Lines of safety
I knew to never cross
Not even which parts of town
Attracted tornadoes
Like blue jays to bird feeders.
No, I knew boredom,
Constant companion,
Most loyal friend,
Clinging to sides of
Grade school life like
Skinned knees or unrequited crushes.

Like many pregnancies,
My wide-eyed creativity was born
Between ”nothing else to do”
And sticky southern heat.
I wrote, I drew,
Hummed tunes to songs
Plunked out on second hand
Upright piano.
Humid, slow paced reality
was too drab,
too mundane.
I sought to fill it
with things I’d enjoy,
fill it with something better,
spark of wonder
unknown in Shelby County.

Same spark helped drive me west,
always west,
chasing the sun,
for surely it knew
where dreams lived.

Stepped into bright sunshine
John Wayne airport
August 1991,
climbed into vintage ’80s corvette
T-top, jet black,
Engine roaring
like a fighter jet.
Mother’s friend
Did 80 on the 5 freeway north,
Passed by a BMW doing 110
Followed by a cop car doing 90 easy.
Quoted Mellencamp,
”lord, this must be
my destination.”

I haven’t slowed down since.

Between pressing ambition,
Day job demands and
sparing hugs enough
for wide-eyed daughters
and magazine cover wife,
boredom seems half-remembered fantasy,
idea of idleness inconceivable.
Even single moment,
Grand Theft Auto or karaoke
filled so-called ”free time.”
Chicago hustler blood
kept me chasing paper
like toddler on a windy day.
Now it’s four schedules
running ragged
racing towards horizon accomplishments.

Pendulum arc’ed from
bored Memphis kid.
I know
without reservation
He’d kill to be me.

Luckily
he never had to.

”Restless”
By Hannibal Tabu

No rest for the wicked. Working on a cuddle night — even Mooch is typing away, on my computer (guest account, though) but television may keep us company.

Playing (Music): “Helena” by My Chemical Romance