Remembering

Dear God, God(s), Universe, Creator, You,

Some days I feel so ungrateful. I have so much yet I want more. I have so many reasons to be happy, yet I linger in sadness. Why is it so difficult to bask in the joy of my blessings? I look at my love and my heart flutters, why can’t I always feel this way? Why do my worries overcome me when clearly love has wrapped itself around me through the divinity of my lover, my family, and my friends? Why do I carry with me this feeling of unworthiness? Why do I not feel worthy of the gifts placed all around me?

I’m beginning to realize why. I have trouble loving myself. I have trouble forgiving myself. My blessings become my burden when I feel shame for not having done more, for not having given more… for not being perfect. I am loved by such incredible people and forces but instead of celebrating, I stumble under the weight of my own expectations and judgment. I don’t feel worthy. I’ve let people down. People, who love me, people who’ve needed me. I’ve let myself down. I’ve broken promises to myself time and time again. How can I believe myself anymore? And to the point, how can I love myself anymore?

It’s because of you, my brothers and sisters. I see the light of loved ones even when they don’t see it in themselves. I find myself feeling out the words of love and support I readily give others as some foreign object of hope. Have I been so blind that I never realized that the words I crafted and imbued with love for others is also meant for me? And that I exist here for more than the words but to live this message? I am not perfect and I will never be, but I am worthy of my own love; I am worthy of forgiveness. Loving myself isn’t egotistical, it’s necessary.

I’m not certain where this path will lead me, though I am sure to get lost again. I hope to remember and maintain a practice of self love, so when the path is winding or perhaps I’ve lost the path altogether, I remember to listen to the compass of my heart, for although others may travel farther and my feet may stray further, I've only ever traveled to find myself.

PS I say “I” but I really mean “We.”

Suture (On Haiti and D.R.)

There is no border only a suture

Stitched by stigmas.

Our states have holes in them

From sticking to their guns,

Stigmata.

The only things bigger than the earth is our prejudice

And faith will move mountains

But it cannot budge ignorance.

An island divided amongst itself cannot stand.

We are broken, being pinned by the paralysis of empire.

Rwanda reminds me of Republica.

I was taught to hate you,

Echoing whispers spread like notes in a classroom.

Do you hate Haiti? Circle yes.

Want to see Stockholm syndrome?

Visit my republic, where slavery is ugly

But our slave masters are beautiful.

Little girls wither in the mirror

Trying to get that hair just right

Wishing they were just White

But our blood is Triguena, Morena y Negra,

Como Cela in la Sierra Maestra.

We are masters of this bestia.

Our island was the 1st Black republic of this hemisphere.

And I want to tag that in big block letters on the 1 train,

Because it’s easy to forget.

We are laced with lull lullabies that lose track of our lament.

Listen to the mountains.

They DJ “Fight the Power”.

It’s evident that PE sampled Haiti.

Its #1 export isn’t sugar, its revolution,

The Panther’s original source material for fighting the imperial.

In fact, we should open a chain of stores

In front of the hotels built on the most famous of shores.

It’s slogan would be:

“Stomping out European colonialism since before eighteen-O-four.”

You see, we used to be powerful

We used to be whole,

But centuries of surgery left a suture

And there are no borders any more,

Only scars stitched by stereotypes.

Come to D.R. if you want to deconstruct a duality.

Research how far a people can be pushed before they hate themselves.

Our conditioning is sick.

And on the whim of others a border was stitched.

The truth is they have sutured borders into all of us.

Secluding our Afro-centric sentiments.

That’s why we straighten our mountains and bleach our lands,

Segregate our cities and privatize our sands.

Pero yo, soy Aytiano.

And God does not make borders,

Only mountains. 

Soul on Ice RMX

…Violence begets violence

And every day I fight against silence

Unleash my mind on the world

Finger down my third eye and I hurl…

I don’t release masterpiece creations

Just share with ya the abominations

Cuz ya ain’t ready in Obama’s nation

So consider this a light mental molestation

Don’t ask me why I write if that’s your contemplation

I’ll tell you to study the earth and pollination

How you gonna understand the flow of my creation

When you don’t understand the physics of condensation…

You hear a rapper but respect the mula

Just cus you smoke don’t mean you close to Buddha

Ain’t about that life but I live a door from it

That’s what happens when your soul is your stomach… glutoness

What’s the price of a soul?

When you seen some things make you cold

Nightmares from the things that you know

No heart no more just a hole and the flow

Dear God, what’s the price of a soul?

When you seen some things make you cold

Nightmares from the things that you know

No heart no more just a hole and the flow

I ain’t afraid of death I can’t wait to be home

Living here where loyalty’s a word to be thrown

Every action is a conversation

And I’m listening writing it down in a compilation

I got an army not for salvation

Living in between the damned and damnation

I know why men get lost in a bottle

The surprise of the stab and the pain that follows

Make you wanna sleep till your hollow…

I made a promise to Apollo…

But now I crossed the Styx do you follow

When the footprints lead to a corpse in the grotto

And the pain is greater than tomorrow’s

Hope so you start to drink all your sorrows

Fell so far that you can’t rise above it

But the devil sweet and you start to love it… treacherous  

What’s the price of a soul?

When you seen some things make you cold

Nightmares from the things that you know

No heart no more just a hole and the flow

Dear God, what’s the price of a soul?

When you seen some things make you cold

Nightmares from the things that you know

No heart no more just a hole and the flow

*Listen to Soul on Ice RMX

Her Soul

Her soul is a sanctuary,
My favorite place to hide.
Her smile a zephyr,
Whispering the secrets of spring.

Summer lovers say,
"Her words fall upon the wind."
But my heart is not a door revolved, 
There are few who enter.
And though the cold grow it slow, 
Spring is treasure, 
For the man who's lived in winter.

Grasp

For so long I have grasped tightly

To a dream state you spoke of.

I poured all of me

Into this paradise of fools

And now I have come to mourn,

To take these hands

To the sea,

So I can finally release this weight.

I will wait till summer

Until the sun is brightest

So that it’s warmth

Can fill me the way

Your words once did.

How bitter the taste of a dream

Left out too long.

2 hands clasped-

Tightly, nails digging into skin.

I thought I carried a truth and a dream

But there were worms in the fruit you sold me.

And still I held them

Hoping that time would play alchemist.

Your words are truths I no longer believe in.

And I will bring them to the sea,

And let Poseidon play host in your lost paradise.

And for the 1^st time in years

My hands will feel the freedom

To create a dream

Worth holding onto. 

Love Is

Love is mornings spent entangled in you.

I don't want to get up.
So I hide underneath you and shoo the day away.

"Go away day, this feels too right."

The alarm rings again and I rise.
I laugh at the irony.
I go to work and sacrifice the sweetness of now,
So I can later afford more moments
Just like this.

Lonliness

I would never miss her call.
I'm too afraid she might leave.
She's left before,
But I know where to find her.
She's never far.
She asks for much
But I'm much obliged.
For she's taught me 
To hold this pride.
And so I kiss a chance at bliss,
As I go to lengths,
To maintain this relationship 
With loneliness.

If Black People

A response to: “If Black people stop committing so much crime then they wouldn’t get harassed or arrested soo much.”

The statement “well if they [Black people] stop committing so much crime then [they wouldn’t get harassed or arrested soo much]” is ridiculous and ignorant, although I believe most Americans share that uninformed opinion. I know different for the following reasons: 

1. There is a lack of correlation between crime and punishment. Although U.S. crime rates have been on par with other Western countries our rate of incarceration has skyrocketed (interesting since people were not committing more crime). For example, our crime rates in the 60’s were matching those of Germany and while our incarceration rate quadrupled in the 90’s, Germany’s remained stat quo. Our crime rates as of late are below the international norm; however, we have an incarceration rate 6-10 times greater than any other “developed” nation. What this means is that we have created and maintained a prison industrial complex. We have a system of laws, policies and enforcement created to disproportionately incarcerate a segment of the U.S. population (Black and latin@ people).

2. 40% of Black people incarcerated are there for non violent drug offenses. So is it that Black people sell and use wild crazy amounts of drugs, more so than White people? No. Though you may think so if you tune into any form of mainstream media, because they have been demonizing Black folks since slavery. All races use and sell drugs at similar rates. For example in 2000 the National Institute on Drug Abuse did a study that showed that white students where 8 times more likely to use crack than black students and 7 times more likely to use cocaine. So no drugs are not only a Black or brown problem.

3. Drug dealers aren’t just in the hood; they come in all shapes and sizes. Most White people buy from White dealers, yet there is a discrepancy in rates that Blacks and Whites are imprisoned.

In short it’s about who the police choose to stop and why; and what happens to that person once arrested and in the system. Are they told to plead guilty by their court appointed attorney, just because the odds are against them, innocence be damned. Black people especially poor and working class Black men are pushed into the prison industrial complex at disproportionate rates to their White counterparts who are committing the same kinds of crime at a greater rate! This is not only my academic conclusion but my personal experience having been stopped, questioned and stopped & frisked numerous times with no just or probable cause. Hope this was enlightening.

All the statistical information came from the research and citation of Michelle Alexander’s book “The New Jim Crow.” Alexander is a civil rights advocate and litigator and has worked with the A.C.L.U..

Here are some other interesting points in her book, just the tip of the iceberg:

*In her book, “The New Jim Crow,” Michelle Alexander states that the U.S. has a racial caste system that “stigmatizes a racial group and locks them into an inferior position by law and custom.” “The term mass incarceration refers not only to the criminal justice system but also to the larger web of laws, rules, policies and customs that control those labeled criminals in and out of prison. Once released, former prisoners enter a hidden underworld of legalized discrimination and permanent social exclusion. They are members of America’s new undercaste.”  

**”The United States imprisons a larger percentage of its Black population than South Africa did at the height of Apartheid.”

If you’re really interested in this subject here is a link to the book!

http://www.amazon.com/New-Jim-Crow-Incarceration-Colorblindness/dp/1595581030/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1324259753&sr=1-1

La Herida

La herida

Mas dolorosa

Es la que

No mata

Y no la causa

La bala,

La espada,

O los puños

Es la traicion

Del Corazon

La que te

Déjà vivo

Sin esperanza

De un fin

The Masses are Lost

The Masses are lost.

They drift through water and time

And get stuck on sharp rocks.

They accumulate like trash

Gathering litter by litter

Until the river is clogged

And unsafe to drink from or swim in.

The masses are lost.

They wander the great American wasteland

Wasted and wanting things that leave them wanting.

They thirst for water but drink the sand.

No direction, no plan, no eyes, no hands.

They see mirages as revelation,

Walk in circles as revolution.

The masses are lost,

From the concourse to the catacombs

From Brook’s end to Brooklyn.

They walk the streets like unemployment lines

Waiting for someone to call their number.

Desperation is comfortable, hunger inevitable

Struggle unavoidable, progress unattainable,

Yet here they are mimicking the walk of the purposeful.

They confuse everything with anything.

And not all who wander are lost

But not all who are lost wonder enough to ever find direction.

The masses are lost,

And we are lost without the masses.

Caught in a cycle of tumbles,

I say “keep walking don’t mind the door”

But they’re always showing the rich and hiding the poor

Until we find something worth looking forward…

Something worth looking for.

Fighting Fires

There's a great fire in a high-rise building. Hundreds of people are trapped and will die as a result. The fire department shows up but begin to argue about what course of action to take. The firemen are split. They can choose to only evacuate residents on the floors that have not caught fire yet, lowering the chance of firemen injury/casualty; or they can attempt to rescue residents in slightly more precarious locations but raise the probability that firemen will get injured or die in the line of duty. Regardless of the option chosen, hundreds will die and those in the hardest to reach apartments will not be rescued.

During this time a handful of unauthorized people start making their way into the building. They are clearing debris and attempting to rescue any person they come into contact with.

On the sidelines are thousands of onlookers. Some are jeering the firemen for their inaction. Some are insulting the firemen for their proposals. Many of them are upset with the people who took it upon themselves to attempt a rescue without following proper procedure. The onlookers create a cacophony of complaints but none of them lift a finger to help.

The building on fire is our country and this country is in crises. The people we have leading this country have various plans, some ineffective, others downright harmful that exacerbate our crises. The people without authority (and sometimes proper instructions) who are making a rescue attempt are folks like OWS-those tired of complaining from the sidelines, who have taken it upon themselves to be harbingers of change.

Who I would like to focus on for a moment are the millions of onlookers. Those in our country that find the wrong in everything and everyone, yet take no action themselves. They complain about the democrats and republicans when it is election time and they destructively criticize OWS during occupations. I have a bone to pick with you. You are cowards. You hide behind your apathy and cynicism like bullet proof glass. You see the spark of change and you criticize it until it is snuffed out. And you know why? Because you are comfortable... and safe. You live in a country that will not persecute dissenting opinion, yet you don't cherish that. You revel in your apparent rebellion, that is not a revolution, just you and your band of haters walking in circles. Do the world a favor and grow a spine, take action, go out into the world and make mistakes worth talking about… Those mistakes are the growing pains of any movement. Stop sniveling behind a computer screen tearing down anyone who attempts to alter the status quo. You are part of the problem because you bring no solutions. Let your criticism be your action... or at the very least stop distracting those who are busy fighting the fire.

Sincerely,

Enmanuel Candelario

The First Stone

A boy stands like a bear 
On its hind legs protecting its den.

Fingers hugging hard earth, 
He is poised for a fight-bearing teeth and growling.
In reality, that boy is just a cub barking at men strapped with murder,
2 extra clips of death on their belt and displacement a radio call away.

This boy holds hard earth until it hurts.
He keeps it close to his heart because it holds the wound in place.
And he will only let go when he sees the white of their eyes.

“Let he who is without sin, throw the first stone.”
He doesn't know if he is sinless, he doesn't care.
Sin is a flag that the enemy wears.
Sin is an army of cowards without faces.
The boy has heard about drive-by shootings
But he lives fly-by bombings.

In Palestine there is no forgetting
There’s a 9/11 every week.
Except the world does not call this group of murderers terrorists.
They are called brave and honorable.

A grandmother holds the boy’s dead and crumbled face in a rubbled place.
A boy who once stood as fierce as a bear protecting his home
Now lays broken at the foot of the river
Stones scattered all about his body.
1 for every heart that the enemy ripped out.

Hearts are just hardened earth
And he who throws stones throws hardened, dying, embittered love
That explodes with the force of a people 
Dying to be free.

The Lesser of 2

Sometimes the distance between

The evil and its lesser is so great

That more harm would come

From a decision of omission.

Life's Little Lessons

An accident can lead to injury.

An injury can lead to separation.

Separation can be painful.

It will make you reminisce of the good times-

How you took each other for granted.

The pain of separation will ebb

And lead to acceptance.

That will make way for healing.

In healing there is rebirth.

In rebirth there is strength.

Both of you are now stronger than you were before the pain.

The scar is a testament to your unity.


These are the lessons from the loss of a toenail.

(Life is always teaching us about ourselves and our connections to one another. We would grow wise if we take a moment to listen).

Fish

So much to write,
And still I grasp for words.

They slip through my hands 
Like fish in a pond.

A Soul to Bare

She wrote her lovely story down
In pretty words that shined,
And people clapped as well as I
For baring is divine.

And bare she did her soul to me
I promised not to chide.
Inspired by her endless toil
I wrote my soul upon a rhyme.

I scribbled a battered story down
In clumsy words on lines,
Enwrapped in somber silence now...
She did not clap for mine.

This World That We Live In

Images of villains pillaging villages/

Imminent apocalypse, capitalism killin it/

This world that I live in/

Time is limited/

Rhymes is infinite/

Mind is ridiculous/

My knowledge is intimate/

While theirs frivolous/

Folded like molded tissue/

I incorporate focus issues/

Pen with a fine tip/

Jedi with the mind tricks/

To sever your pleasure/

Kamakazis like the nebakanezer/

Plus I’m a feminist/

Met women who storm and control all the elements/

This world that I live in/

Destruction of Eve/

Corruption and greed/

Spreading the seed/

Ground is fertile/

Mos said it landed somewhere between Broadway and Myrtle/

I don’t embellish, we too selfish/

We too hellish, they say fuck it/

Kids starve to increase military budgets/

Don’t touch it, don’t change it/

Too few change agents/

We change faces like trading places/

We are now the slave masters/

But fuck it, we enjoy the fragrance/

I see your shackles and I’m trying to tell you/

They trying to sell you/

“You ain’t free, you well behaved/”

Don’t let them say/

Araminta could have freed you,

If you only knew
You were a slave/

Sunkiss

When you walk by 
The sun hides behind the moon,
Urging her to introduce him.

Your smile makes the sun blush.
He gets embarrassed 
So he tiptoes over the horizon,
Stealing one last stare 
Before setting.

You make boys 
Of great men.

We Be

We be early mornings still awake
Cafesito en el campo
Media noche que traga rio
Liberated dreams of enslaved people


We be deep
Inundated in consciousness
Joy in humility
We be subtle rebellions


1 on 1 off the clock
After school at the park
No where to go 
We be home.


-The Peace Poets 2012

Genius In Progress

Encourage art you like,

Encourage art you don't like.

Your words may sow the reaping of future genius.