Telepathically Speaking (Counsel Member, K.Now, Director, Department of the Advancement for Human People, Speaking to The Counsel of The Eleventh Environ: Oratory For The Need To Start Communicating Verbally Once Again) PRO-12-140041

We found out, quite too late of course, that the endless amount of wireless impulses going through our living environment was causing a tremendous amount of stress to the human form; like a microwave oven used to do…you all do remember those? Good… with food products, those same electrical impulses going through our bodies trying to penetrate whatever that matter, in this case our precious entities, was in front of those volatile impulses eventually they go through that matter, being hell bent on  getting  to its various connective sources and beyond, in the interim our bodies were being denatured; being broken down, more and more by the energy engulfing and passing through our human forms, destroying that form faster and faster;   what we know now as, clandestine subsonic ultra waves of ventricular vibrations.  The ones in the past that were, well… let me put it in the rarest of truth, killing themselves without knowledge of the cloaked danger they had created.   

And so we are here today, our honorable Counsel members of Eleven, to instill another teachings from the scribes of old which we can clearly see with our characteristically gaunt facial features and bulbous heads.  We have learned to diminish that energy going through our bodies, as in days’ pasts, by telepathically communicating.  But that has had its dangers too.  By us not vocalizing our thoughts we have transformed, in my opinion, to an unattractive race because of our wondrous ignorance.  We know and see what has been and what we have become.  Yet, we still have been disobedient from our past knowledge.  Working in adverse instead of being responsible; hence, the reason I am speaking to all of you, Great and Honorable Counsel members of Eleven.  We can change our present and make a better future; but we have to sustain the human form. 

A Victim? (Forty Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) 2006

"He was crazy!  That mother fucker!"

"I can't stand that crazy bitch!"

And on and on it goes Sunshine. 

But let me asks yo lil tired ass this, "You didn't see all this comin?" Come ohn nah?  Yah see, what you say bout the mothah fuckah yah used tah be with and was fuckin says alot about yo sorry ass.

Oh, don't look at me all crazy.  You fuckin know what I the fuck mean!  Yah see, if you would have told a mothah fuckah, "I like a lil crazy goddamnit.  But that mothah fuckah was too crazy!  You know what I mean?"  And they would probably look at chew like you were crazy, because: No, I don't know what you mean.  Crazy is crazy.  And you got what you say you fuckin like!

But cha see, that don't win yo sorry ass no damn brownie points does it?

Break Fast (Black Ex-Stoner, Recovered Drug Addict) 2000

They say Adam didn't fuck Steve but Eve. 

The only way to conceive is with the female persuasion in the situation of humankind; a procured sign left behind, a little nibble to quibble. 

But I say, "Fuck that and the Cat In The Hat," because the fat does more better when wetter.  You just can't wear a sweater, whenever.  Sever all the binds that pines a nice memory to every human being, blind, not seeing.

Well, what then is our fault within? 

Quite naturally, sin.

Mommy And Daddy! And So Be It! (Nineteen Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) 1985

I remember when I was a lil mothah fuckah, my brothers used to tease me about callin my Father and Mother, Daddy and Mommy.  All the rest of my siblings called my Daddy and Mommy, Dada and Moma.  It didn't quite set well with me.  I don't know why it didn't, it just didn't.  I have ten brothers and one sister, and sibling pressure, like peer pressure, is a mothah fuckah.  And I was just about ready to cave and start callin my Mother and Father, Moma and Dada, until Mommy took me to the side one day and said to me, "Meredith, as long as you live I will always be your Mommy."  Works for me!  And, fuck you othah mothah fuckahs!  For real. 

Yah see, we get caught up in the bullshit of life, human shit.  What about your life?  What is that mothah fuckah worth?  To you?

We make this mothah fuckah, we call 'Life,' harder than ah mothah fuckah.  Why?  Don't we have more tah fuck tah do than tah try tah control anothah mothah fuckahs life?  We got enough on our own damn plate of our own sorry ass lives tah try tah deal with!  Don't we?  Or maybe I'm just fuckin out of my goddamned mind. 

But really, I don't think so.

Sliding (Twenty-Four Years Old, Black Male, Indianapolis Native, Saved For Eight Years In An Apolstolic Church, Now A Back-Slider) 2006

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                                              HELL.
                      

One Nigguh Has Made It To Heaven (Sixty-Nine Years Old, Delander Rawls, Conversing With His Old Childhood Friend, John Bailey, from Trenton, Tennessee) 2008

Bailey, let may tell yuh.  I gottuh new Cadillac; I gots, not only one, but two pockets full of monay; a .38 pistol in my waistband towards my back; and tuh top it all off, I’m married tuh uh white woman!  What mo can uh nigguh ask fo?

Director Ever E. Place, Drug Counsel Member (Pleading to the Mass Counsel Members on: Why Cocaine and Cannabis Should Still Be Utilized In Such A Wondrous Civil Society On The Planet Earth) PFO-12-010473

“No, we have evidence that shows from the Tenth Cycle, Circa PRFO-2017x10-D736935, we had misused the information that was before us.  We tried to outlaw it because of the insurgence of cannabis into the Counsels’ own families.  Then we had to deliver the Counsels’ family’s on Earth more information which they did not have because of our protocol, to get their families, who wished to indulge, in cannabis, off that drug and onto cocaine.  The numerous real live studies that have gone on in the, especially, Tenth Cycle, clearly shows what the inducement of the given drugs do to human behavior.  And what they found out was interesting.   When one was allowed to indulge in cannabis, they were the docile ones, the ones you could teach, be guided and most of all, followers.  And when one was allowed to indulge in cocaine, they were the ones that were the leaders, aggressors...they did anything they needed to do to keep us alive…”

A Letter To The Future Chloe (Forty Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) February, 2006

I look at your eyes,

You couldn’t have gotten them from me.

I look at your nose,
You couldn’t have gotten that from me.

I look at your lips,
Those you definitely didn’t get from me.

I look at your hair,
Well, Sunshine, that was definitely a toss-up…

I guess I write all of this to say: How could I have ever co-created such a Beautiful Daughter?

But I’m so glad you’re mine.

Hell Is Heaven (Forty-Seven Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Near Salvation) September 11, 2013

Sometimes I like this mothah fuckah.  Hate to say it, but damn.  Got this Police Officer herein our finest, Indianapolis, Indiana, hit, a group of motorcyclists while the motorcyclists were stopped at a light, he driving his police cruiser, Ol Officer Bisard, and whatdoyouknow?  Ol' Bisard tore those group of motorcyclist up!  Killing one and badly injuring another.  The mothah fuckah was over two times the legal limit and shit, oh, and did I mention, he was on a police run in the middle of his shift, getting paid to get fucked up.  

But that’s the fucked up thing about it, sometimes when you are getting paid to get fucked up, yo sorry ass fucks up! We’re dealing with numbers, the more times yo ass does some fucked up shit, the better chance yo ass got of getting caught while getting fucked up.  Oh, and he did.  But after over, I believe, almost three years, they are still trying to see what they are going to do with his white ass.  Now, if it were my Broke Black ass that gets into an accident, while almost two times over the limit and kill a person and badly injure another, they’re going to prosecute me to the ends of the law and the trial would be over in three weeks or less, which means, my Broke Black ass will not see a free light of day again until my soul leaves here.  But shit I still wouldn’t see it then.  Shit, The fuck I’m going to do in Heaven.  Mothah fuckahs talkin that shit bout, “Oh, and the streets are going to be paved in jewels…and you will be able to praise him until eternity.”  Oh, shit!  You mean everybody up in that mothah fuckah goin tah be the same?  Doing the sleep walker shuffle; in this intoxicating euphoric state of serving the lord only?  Ain’t that what we supposed tah be doing nah?  Ain’t no variances in ah person’s behaviah, everybody always in a good mood, no ill words to one another…Shit, that don’t sound like no mothah fuckin Heaven tah me!  Shit no!  That sounds like mothah fuckin Hell, goddamnit. 

Everybody bad mothin Hell, sounds like some haters hatin on Hellians.  Fuck that!  You mean tah tell me that, if God made this 'Hell' shit too, you tellin me, there ain’t one good thing bout that mothah fuckah?  Not one itty-bitty thing good about Hell?  And God made it also?  Um! Damn, Heaven got a badass P-R Department.  Fo Sho! 

And why the fuck we worryin bout Heaven or Hell anyway; unless, yo sorry ass gettin paid for gettin fucked up. 

Quiet Storm (Aaron Thompson, Black Male, Non-Custodial Parent, On-Going Child Custody Case In Johnson County Indiana) 2010

When my Daughter is around, nothing really matters.  Being a non-custodial parent isn’t as easy as most people think.  Quite the contrary.  And the time you don’t have to spend with that child, given this non-custodial, custodial bullshit that the courts came up with to survive?  Puhleeze!  “In the  best interests,” my ass!...but getting back to my point, You Fucking Suffer!  Straight up!  How a woman or a man not suffer from not being around that child, you and another brought into this existence and not being able to spend that precious life of time with that child?  Tell me?  Please?  Hurting, doesn’t even come close.  Good Lawd! 

But it is, what it is.  And chill with that shit.  And everything is going to be all right.  Oh, yes it is. 

Today...But Respect Tomorrow (Sixty Years Old, Black Male, Vietnam Veteran) 2008

The only thing that matters is today.  Yesterday’s news.  Tomorrow’s blues.  But I’ll take the blues if I make it til tomorrow, and tomorrow can happen from now til then.  So, tomorrow’s just a trite ass word meaning, hope.  I am alive and in color right now.  And no, I can’t speak for tomorrow.  But,

“How Y’all folks doin…Today!”

And Hopefully I may speak for tomorrow. 

Fine Again (Forty-Seven Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, One Year Married, Near Salvation) October 2013

What kicks yah in the ass is, that this is the only mothah fuckah that wanted and took yah losin ass, and you’re looking worse physically than you have ever in your life.  But you gave the women before, that didn’t ever want to marry your Broke Black ass, a body that was, if not presentable, at the very least,  semi-presentable.  But I wouldn’t dare take my thirty-five pound extra havin ass shirt off in front of no damn body.  Shit done went downhill with a quickness.  And you didn’t see it coming at all.  Now, look at cha fat ass?  Going to have to take some pain there Big Boweeeeee!  Best believe that.  She didn’t sign up for another thirty-five pounds more of, “…A hunkin, hunkin,  burnin love.”  Come ohn nah?  Yo, fat ass gotsta pull yo’self together, and start representin this woman, who took a major chance on yo tired ass, and show these mothah fuckahs why she really married yah.    And fast a little bit more mother fucker! 

Yo ass be fine again in no time.  We’ll see. (…to be continued)

What Good Is A Fucking Fag Without...(Twenty-Six Years Old, British American) 1978

You see?   You have two types of fumers:  

1) The one who is always cognizant of where their fags are, but always bitching bout, “where the hell did I put my torch?” 

2) Then you have one, like I, who is always cognizant of the placing of said torch. 

Fucking fags are in abundance;

But only a few,

 Always carries a torch.   

"...Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!" (Forty Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) 2006

“I got a needle in my gum!/Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!”  That’s what our quasi-ghetto commercial jingle was when I was a lil mothah fuckah.  My nephew, Keith, got this needle stuck in his gum and the rest was Hopson lore.  I don’t know why we did it when we were lil but we thought the shit was cool seein tailors with needles stuck between their lips while the tailors fitted you for your wardrobe.  So, shit, fuck a toothpick, we gots metal niggah!  Whah?!  Yah heard my Black Broke ass! 

So, aftah  Mommy pulled the mothah fuckah out, aftah the stupid mothah fuckah tried tah make a full revolution with the metal needle in his mouth, like the cool mothah fuckahs did with the wooden toothpicks we had seen, with their toothpick exploits in the hood, ol Keith, didn’t even make one full revolution and the point of the needle got the fuck stuck!   And that’s when he was hollerin like a bitch, with his stupid ass.  But, oh, how we had fun with that shit!  Hence, the jingle mothah fuckah, “I got a needle in my gum!/ Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!”  And with the, “…Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!” You had tah shake yo lil ass a lil three times on the beat, tah tease the fuck out the mothah fuckah.

I, quite simply, hated Keith; he was four years older than me and always accusin me of havin his drawahs ohn!  And I remembah the time he accused me, and Keith was right, and my lil ass runnin in the house, hollerin fo Mommy tah exact some forthwith penances on his ass, fo me tah have tah run in this house, callin fo her because I was bare ass naked because, yes, I had put ohn this hateful mothah fuckahs drawls by ah mistake.  But he didn’t havetah make a mothah fuckah take the damn things off in front of the whole neighborhood and God.  Come ohn nah?  You heartless, bastard!

And that’s why this jingle was fuckin gold!  Now, my prey ass became the fuckin predatah!  And with the backin of the many peoples growin up in the house, I began tah revel in that most wonderful jingle, “I got a needle in my gum!/Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!”  And fuck you!  While I made sure my hips went, with much fervor, right-left-right, in beat with the “…Yeah/Yeah/Yeah!”

I'm Glad You Picked Me (Forty-Seven Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Now Married) October 5, 2013

Do you understand the severity of life you're getting yourself into?  You do?  Okay.  Let me give you a lil factoid for your ass!  I have had thirteen serious relationships in my life, at my old ass age of forty-six; which means my successful relationship average is: 0-13.  There ain't been one of those women that wanted tah marry my Broke Black ass; I have been a Loser in the relationship department with the record tah show it.  Do you understand the odds marrying me? It ain't lookin good is it?  You don't care?  Well I ain't evah ran into a woman like you.  Evah!

And as long as we're togethah, I will always be beatin the odds.

Happy One Year Anniversary, Geeg!

Do You Want To Even Be Human? (Aaron Thompson, Non-Custodial Parent, Marion County, Indiana) 2014

It's all about you and me.  That's it, in a nutshell.  Because we are in that shell together.  You can wish away all that you want, but we are all in this together.  Oh, yes we are.  And why shouldn't we be?  You think a deer really wants to be a deer?  A mouse really wants to be a mouse?...  Heck, some humans do not even want to be human. 

You see? 

Our False God (Forty-Seven Years Old, Broke Black Prophet, Near Salvation) October 03, 2013

I hear nothing in the house.  I hear the sounds outside this very window I am sitting next to, looking down at the woods (that used to be painted green, a now greenish gold)… writing.  Pondering.  Thinking.  Musing.  Sashaying.  And Feeling. 

The house is still, funeralisticly quiet.  One might say, quite deathly.  But what do I think death is?  This greater than life entity, death: is going to be this loud blare of infinite voices hollering in terror as One to make this terrible sound which one cannot bare to make the death more painful?  This God of Death?  Well, the only thing I can tell you is:  Death has better things to do, and it too moves on to the next one, quickly.

We have learned nothing from our pasts voices.  Leaving traces of the past so we may last.  But that is the danger, one tries to live forever from leaving those same traces from our past to continue with…Life.  But Death has always been a sly one.  Death peeps the game and decides to turn those Lives against one another.  And Life has always lost.  Big ol goose egg.  Loser!  But we keep signing contracts with our individual Lives to that same losing team of, Life. 

And we have a God given choice to believe in any God we want to be true. 

Damn-right-about-that!  Amen!

We Are The Fuckin Same. But That Don't Mean We Act The Fuckin Same. (Forty-Six Years Old, Broke Black Prophet) 20012

Lonely.  I remember on a television show one time, I believe it was CSI: Criminal Intent, I like that shit, but with Goren and Eames, some of the best television ever, anyway,  ol’ Goren, as usual, getting all in this suspects head right?  And he says to him, “…you must be used to being alone.”  And the mothah fuckah gives him something he didn’t expect.  The suspect calmly looks at him and says, “Oh, you never get used to it.”  Damn!  Oh, mothah fuckahs wantstah sit up there with their Billy Bad Ass selves and avow to the world, “I don’t need no fuckin body!”  And all that you can do is give them one of those lil smiles that makes them understand, “Talk shit all you fuckin want.  You!  Yo ass needs some fuckin body!”  Or why the fuck you leave the house?  Why you livin in an urban area?...  Shit, plenty of wide open space in Idaho, Nebraska, The Dakotas, Alaska…where yo mothah fuckin ass can live sans seein anothah mothah fuckah fo the rest of yo goddamn life.  So, don’t try tah fool a recoverin foolah, or try tah lie to a recoverin liah!  Shutitthefuckup!  Right-the-fuck-now!  Cause you can kiss my Black ass!  Yah heard may?

Cause yah see, Goren, like my Black ass and you understands the shit.  But what you did was fucked up!  For real! But you see, yo sorry ass went and applied the shit that was going on in your mind.  As long as that fucked up shit stays in between those two ears everybody’s cool.  But once action is involved in those fucked up thoughts that you, I and the rest of this so called civil society have…then Houston:  We got a problem!  And that’s why yo sorry ass lookin at my ugly mug bein  bothered with questions; Mister or Miss don’t need no fuckin body!