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Transcending Toxic Times

by The Last Poets

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1.
This wind you hear is the birth of memory. When the moment hatches in time’s womb, there will be no art talk. The only poem you will hear will be the spear point pivoted into the punctured marrow of the villain, and the timeless native son dancing like crazy to retrieved rhythms of desire faded into memory. Therefore, we are The Last Poets of the world. And the question is not whether the world is ready for change but rather are you, niggaz.
2.
For the millions of Africans Chained to the slaves ships For the millions of scars On the faces by the bullwhip For the millions who jumped overboard For the blood that poured On the shores of North America South America Central America Europe And each ripple in the ocean Is a grave for an African Who refused to a be a slave For the millions Who cut the cane picked the cotton Whose names have been forgotten Whose flesh has rotted With the trees they hung us from Cut out the tongues Cut off our hands If we played the drums For the millions who were shot hung beat to death Tar and feathered boiled in oil whiplashed backlashed Croc sacked and thrown in the river Castrated mis-educated segregated Integrated legislated by the constipated For the millions who've been lied to Denied to vampire eyed to Misguided to and not abided to So we decided to get together And change the weather Not just for now but forever We decided to love each other Stop the madness And be real sisters and brothers We decided to stop and take a look At the beauty of ourselves At this colored skin And this thick hair And these full lips And this Africa inside our Souls Still breathing the breath of Gods In our lungs Greatness is where we're coming from For the millions who marched sang Prayed sat in lived in jailed in Boycotted picketed spit at cursed at Yelled at like Blacks not where it’s at And we should be satisfied To ride in the back For the Fanny Lou Hamers and the Rosa Parks And the Eula Mae Johnsons and Harriet and Solourner and Eleanor Bumpers and Assata Shakur and Gwendolyn Brooks And the Martins and the Arthurs And the Deacons the Panthers and James And Langston and Richard Paul Malik Marcus and Nat and Cinque and Kunta Kinte too For the millions who know those who have always known That no matter what "Truth crushed to Earth shall rise again" No matter how many bullets and prisons Diseases and deaths No one can take our breath away We are here to stay No matter how much liquor and crack Nothing can kill the fact That we are a divine creation Started civilizations Built the pyramids and the Sphinx Taught the world How to pray and think Not mention inventions We never got credit for And all the babies we raised Even when our own were ignored For the millions with fire in our souls That burns so bright And the strength of our will As dominant as the night And the rhythm when we walk And the rhythm when we talk Even when we have nothing to say We utter sounds That put color and spice in the day For the millions Who are ready to turn this thing around Who are tired of being tired And crawling on the ground It's time to return To our Spiritual Home Reclaim our Throne And leave this American Nightmare Alone.
3.
A.M. Project 08:40
The Media has been alerted to the brave new World with action packed comedies full of Navy SEALs and dirty blondes. Welcome to the Revolution where ex-CIA madmen go AWOL in children’s cartoons. No deposit no return. A sickness prevails in the land… the keepers of the watch are fondling the children. Youthful madness chasing games around the fire. Malt liquor grins dripping with the sacrifice of innocence. The blood in their eyes smile so defiantly at their wounds. Teasing and following laughter to its death. Dancing in the joys of casual violence and polite discussions of their senseless acts. Screaming songs of big time and champagne into the dreams of open sores that lurk and scheme in the shadows of clouds of smoke. Begging for slow rides in silent ambulances to well stocked morgues where rhythm and blues oozes out of muted loudspeakers. Wholesale genocide at discount prices. America love it or leave it. Bloated egos with small minds baptizing murder in the name of God and everything we hold sacred. Mickey Mouse… Donald Duck… forever let us wave our banners High High High… Sitting here in the midst of falling leaves overwhelmed by this symphony of freedom. Letting go… Letting go… of others who want to claim all of this as their own. A rat makes its presence known keeping all… things real. Screeching… and scurrying to nowhere fast. Trapped in its own greed and grandiose visions of self-destruction. Women caressing jagged tears while kissing their frustrations with stolen moments. Their pain exploding into the darkness of shall I try this one more time. Cocaine has become the law and order of Big business and corruption riding through the streets on the frowns of rookie cops who relieve their frustration in the cold blooded antics of shoot to kill. My Country… sweet land of napalm and unwritten poems of Soprano saxophones crying for those tears that are stuck in reverse and the latest cable t.v. channel. And I hear the voice of nature whisper the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it. Love the children in the beginning to save them from the end. Somewhere I Hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing. The voice across the waters Standing in the dark. Mintons was a Shrine to the Diaspora. Mink speaking in the tongues of his ancestors denouncing the frail mediocrity of you people didn’t come from anything. Somewhere I hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing. It is paying in the hip hop walks of young boys who hit strange notes with hands on triggers. Bam… Bam… Bam… Max roach picks up the beat. Rhythms from the bush. Passionate and vital information. Intense stares into the memories… of Warriors… lovers of children and the protection of women who now seek protection in the distant and foreign fears of dying at the hands of desperate choices. Bird lives. Bird lives… in the death to all you hip ofay Lies lost in the darkness of oversized berets. Sucking my blood with your well publicized and try juvenile poetry. I play for the gods. I play for Allah. I play for all those souls… lost in your pretentious smiles and cool jazz as I continue my journey home. You stole my father. You stole my mother. And now you try to deny this one last tribute to God. You will not rejoice in my death. You can’t kill bop… the brotherhood is strong. Get ‘em Junior. Get ‘em Junior. Up jumps Miles bobbing and weaving. Sticking and moving. Going against traffic on a one way street. Loving… all the women in the crowd and in their dreams. Miles… the warm afterglow of an African Sunset. Someday my Prince will come. Someday my Prince will come. Miles turning his back on guaranteed death and low life insinuations perpetuated the perverted fantasies of the founding Fathers of these United States of… Fuck you mothafuckas! Fuck you mothafuckas!... Miles was our gators and lizards. He was our silk shirts and hickey freemans. He was our cool slow walks into the wind. He was our delicious smile on the face of extreme and bitter rejections. Get ‘em Junior. Get ‘em Junior. That sound… What is that sound? So clean. So fluid. Emotions so hot in the passing of Summer into Autumn. The magnificence of awakening to something so rare… so new. Images dreaming softly in slow dances that wrap themselves so tightly around our doubts. I touch your face. You touch mine. He is so tender with our needs. So strong in our desire to be free. The definitions of his statement colors the skyline. He was that one last feeling of logic before needle punctured the vein. He was the music the morning after the resurrection of pain and prayers in the twisted honor and slight applause of demons and folk heroes stabbing us in the back. He was a love Supreme. He was a love Supreme. And I hear the voice of Nature whisper, the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it. Somewhere I hear a revival. Somewhere I hear bop playing… in the faces of Southern old men full of Northern pain. It is Dizzy, Sonny, Jackie, Philly Joe, Kenny, Charlie Clifford and many many more if you listen to the laughter of the children in the Projects and their sense of rhythm to survive. Bop is learning how to be yourself to feel the beauty inside. No more slick street games in the anticipation of growing… and pushing… pushing… forward coming into full expression. Long way from home. So close to love. The spirit wants to move. My mind frozen in worthless flesh. Back from the dead by Allah’s mercy. Leaving the Devil standing in the pain, leaving the pain alone. I give my salaams to the right and left. Good has become a kind and loving companion. Bad was only a test of faith. I now find strength in the humility of this moment. This eternal moment of peace to all… of those who come to understand that bop is love… and love… is all… you are and ever will be. And I hear the voice of nature whisper, the victory is yours if you want it. The victory is yours if you want it!
4.
Heartbeat 02:19
When the heart beats the spirit flows When the heart beats the river flows Raised by fire Heat is heard
5.
IF WE ONLY KNEW WHAT WE COULD DO WE’D STOP FUSSIN AND FIGHTIN AND FEELIN BLUE IF WE ONLY KNEW THAT WE HAVE JUICE CAUSE OF AN AFRICAN CONNECTION THAT WE CAN’T CUT LOOSE IF THE LIGHT WAS ON IN OUR MINDS WE WOULDN’T DIS OURSELVES SO MUCH ALL THE TIME WE’D STOP AND REALIZE WITHOUT DISGUISE WE GOT THE POWER TO CHANGE WHAT’S BEFORE OUR EYES WHERE THERE IS POVERTY AND MISERY WE’D BRING HOPE JOY LOVE AND SECURITY THERE WOULDN’T BE NO NEED TO LOCK YOUR DOORS AT NIGHT NO ONE LIVES IN THE DARK CAUSE EVERYONE SEES THE LIGHT IF WE ONLY KNEW JUST HOW BAD WE ARE WE’D MAKE THE SUN DISAPPEAR CAUSE WE’RE THE BRIGHTEST STAR IF YOU FEEL THE STRENGTH HELP THOSE WHO ARE WEAK THEN WE’LL BE STEPPIN IN THE RHYTHM THAT MALCOLM SPEAKS SO YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE A CHICKEN AND YOUR BUTT WAS MADE FOR KICKIN YOU BEEN RUNNIN AROUND WITH YOUR HEAD HANGIN DOWN LOOKIN FOR CHICKEN FEED IN THIS CITY OF GREED OPEN UP YOUR EYES DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN FLY LIKE AN EAGLE TO THE SKY MUCH HIGHER THAN HIGH WHERE YOU DON’T NEED NO CRACK SMACK OR PADDY WACK AND ALLTHE BONES FROM THAT DOG YOU CAN GIVE THEM RIGHT BACK IF WE ONLY KNEW WHAT WE COULD DO WE’D STOP FUSSIN AND FIGHTIN AND FEELIN BLUE JUST LIKE WE CUT OUR HAIR IN AN AFRICAN STYLE WE SHOW A RICH ROYAL TREASURE EVERY TIME WE SMILE NOW SOME TIME AGO WE JUST DIDN’T KNOW THAT WE HAD THE POWER TO MAKE THE WHOLE THING GO MOTIVATOR EDUCATOR WE’RE A POWER GENERATOR WE NEED TO OWN THE JOINT INSTEAD OF WORKING AS A WAITER IF WE ONLY KNEW HOW STRONG OUR WILL NO MATTER WHAT’S BEEN DONE OUR SOUL CAN’T BE KILLED LIKE THE SUN AND THE MOON AND ALL THE STARS ABOVE IT’S A NATURAL THING FOR US TO SHARE OUR LOVE WE’RE A HEALING FORCE IN A WORLD OF PAIN TRYING TO USE COMMON SENSE WHERE LIFE IS INSANE IF WE COULD RECOGNIZE JUST WHO WE BE WE’D TAKE CONTROL OF OUR LIVES AND LIVE WITH DIGNITY
6.
Young Love 06:31
Intro (Malik B) If your tryin to get it than I got it . Monopoly your property the product Overcome the obstacles the object Publicizing houses in the projects Another young man died yesterday. His bloodstained presence slammed against our Sunrises. How and when will we begin to cherish the welcome of his smile. A manchild submerged in the Purple liquid of night. They fall aimlessly through the cracks of darkness. The full moon becomes a partner, a silent partner in shutting down bars, Shutting down Cities. Shutting down dreams of Daddy walking and talking while holding your hand, Our children cry out to us from their fears… From their suicides… From their innocence and loneliness being betrayed by lazy pimps and limp smiles. The Opera is in full form. The drama unfolds… The violin is both tragic and comforting. The piano light and inspiring. The crescendos between light and darkness are truly stunning. This could have been a true love story full of twists and turns of pain and triumph of the game… begins to evolve… from shoe shines to stickups from stickups to b and e from b and e to quiet hustles from quiet hustles to residing in that comfort zone between High Crimes and Misdemeanors. New songs from Old radios were crippled poems lounge in digital wheelchairs whistling in the dark while spitting acrobatic words at Boombox musicians who scratch and sample the wax from the Devil’s ears while conducting bling bling concertos that howl… at the moon. In all… those projects. In all… those quick glimpses of death. In all those sudden and unwanted intrusions lurking inside your paranoia… begins to open wide to receive your transition from Champagne and free base to crack and old English just like that. Where is the glory? What was the glamour? Who were the police? What happened in the shootouts? Why were so many bullets left in the wind?... In the Walls… In the chests of 23 year old young men standing in the wrong places at the wrong time. Their last breath of manhood… simply pleading… Don’t let me die… Don’t let me die… Please… Don’t let me die…. Outro (Malik B) Yeah This was a drug plot eyes red blood shot this what the thugs drop overdose of bloodclot Im so thirsty I just quench it with some controversy Heard the story of a god who always promise mercy This Allan’s gift Post a grave yard shift Took your last breath now your laying all stiff Listen young blood hatin me some young love I was made to formulate into a young stud Why you in the club acting like a dumb scrub Used to jump I did anything I want cause Watching channel hope cause I got the antidote While you place it I Just slice it like a cantaloupe
7.
Black Rage 06:48
Grenades in their eyes Death is their prize Peace will arise Destroy the lies There are bombs standing on the corners of the cities Waiting to explode at the slightest touch Baggy shadow street boys stand cocked Ready to fire Their eyes are grenades And the pin is about to be pulled BOOM! The brother went off Pressure pulled the trigger And the brother became a nigger No one could figure out how it happened What went wrong He had a chance Somebody even loved him Told him he was better than most But the brother went off Chains rattled inside his brain And his sky was filled with clouds That didn’t even bring rain Just the illusion that something was coming So he became a gun That he could hide in a jacket And make believe he had an erection all the time He could penetrate anything His tongue was a curse His attitude was a bullet And he’d shoot you down Without a second thought (Chorus) So he became G.I. JOE Killing his family not the enemy A human gun Made and manufactured In the united snakes of America There are bombs standing On the corners of the cities Waiting to explode at the slightest touch Baggy shadow street boys stand cocked Ready to fire Their eyes are grenades They are warriors Looking for a rite of passage They are young lions Enchanted by the sound of their roar They are diamonds Treated like worthless stones They are rivers With nowhere to run They are dreams unfulfilled Desires buried in the remains Of an abandoned soul They are the beauty of Spring Blinded by the snow storms of winter Soon they will see their beauty Their strength. Their love And like the rivers flow into the sea They will Unite as one Then our voice will be more powerful than a gun And when we speak We’ll get things done
8.
(Background/Intro Vocal): Wind it up lose control Let your body feel your Soul A red velvet tapestry Of where we are Or where we should be The rhythm of who we are Who we want to see Ourselves As In our soul like the Vibration of an Internal meter Guiding us through life Live stand and lay And lie So we lie to ourselves In our dances And in our walks We lie to ourselves In our smiles And in our Talks And today's yesterdays are the Same Like the hamster We spin On the continuous Wheel of the anti boogie The soul reflection The mirror of What we need to be But yet it’s us Right there in Afro conk Braids Sheen styles of smiles So look within Yourselves Ladies and gentlemen And tie up Your sneakers And dance to this rhythm Right now Soul reflection Wind it up Let your body feel And you will be alright Wind it up lose control Let your body feel your Soul The last poets in the house Umar Recites: Abiodun recites: Stepping into tomorrow Surrounded by the visions of today Be the mirror of your soul Look inside the core Of your existence Smell the roses You planted years ago Wash in the sweat Of your labor And breathe the funk Of your lust Be like a bird Fly above the ruins Of your mistakes Dance away from the demons Who try to box you in Let your love be the key To your freedom
9.
Don’t know what I’d without you woman You make the sun rise every morning You and your sister moon Help me make it through the night I’m never lonely Knowing you’re there You make everything alright Your love has made me stronger My feelings last much longer Than just a moment Even when you’re gone I feel you all around me The things we do The food we share Nourishes my soul And battles my fears Don’t know what I’d do Without you woman You’re my spring water fountain Giving me strength to climb the mountain Washing my soul With your refreshing touch In this world I need you so much You be my flower I’ll be your tree You’ll last year round And I’ll protect you and me Don’t know what I’d do Without you woman What is the sun without the moon What is a bowl without a spoon What is fire without air How could I live if you’re not there Don’t know what I’d do If I didn’t have you My life would be blue And my smile would not be true
10.
Time in becomes time out. Group anxieties become personal doubt. Expressing ourselves in dot dots and dashes. Pure cocaine and false eyelashes. Living inside worlds that seem to lie. Living inside excuses that pass us by. Living inside loneliness becomes a high. Living gets mixed up with wanting to die. A daily question of going insane while tormenting one another trying to ease the strain. Dreaming of tomorrows we’d like to know. Repressing our thoughts while trying to grow. The heart and soul are not involved. Idle chatter becomes reality while problems go unsolved. Prearranged. Prefabricated and preconditioned. We’re baptized, advertised and posthumously mentioned. Weaned and groomed for the glory of applause. Living off the mercy of unwritten laws. Shell shocked patrons making peace with God, while admiring the acrobatics of a junky’s nod. Turned into robots through the power of suggestion. We seek an answer and become the question. Afraid we might die before we live. Blessed with life but then afraid to give. We want to be amorous, glamorous and larger than life. Our cheap illusions become high priced strife. Losing ourselves in times of despair. Becoming self defeatists of unusual flair. We rush toward the beginning that might be the end. We sit in the darkness and try to pretend. Pointing fingers while our insides bleed. Committing suicide to fulfill a need. Highly intelligent in a very low way. We speak of existing but have nothing to say. We touch religion and make it seem like hell. But then we touch unholy dreams and wish them well. Faith is replaced with apathy and grief. Indifference is made acceptable and then a belief. Our left eyes all glitter while our right are blind. We submit to this madness and hope it is kind. Distraught women seeking compassion while turning tricks in high Roman fashion. Finding love at the expense of losing their cool. Looking for happiness but finding a fool. Their moments of trust become deceitful charms. One night stands in strangers’ arms. Carousing with disaster in very high places while cutting off noses to spite their faces. While the men play games of power and glory. Tattered remnants of an old war story. Outside themselves inside their heads, top secret discussions on waterbeds. Men without neither rhyme nor reason. Lost in the depths of mental treason. Abstract victims of the American dream. Victims of a disguised but well planned scheme, Victims of a subtle but dangerous game. Rugged individualism with a psychotic name. We confuse the normal and exort the extreme. We make war a reality and call peace a dream. American contradictions in Black and White. We illuminate contradiction and call in the lights. America provides you with fortune and fame. While stealing your soul for its own acclaim. With the English language at its command. It perpetuates illusion throughout the land. Running big games in tiny print, before you’ve got it, it’s already spent. Making sacrificial lambs of the Middle Class. Indulging in rhetoric with its head up it lulls you to sleep with the six o’clock news and then wakes you up and spoon feeds you the blues. But from the darkness of ourselves we can find a brighter day. Understanding and truth must show the way. To understand that every man’s color will not be his heart. To go inside yourself is where it must start. To learn to be considerate. To learn to be humane. To learn to use power and not become vain. To understand you can be strong and not crude. You can be outspoken and not be rude. To revile the tyrant. To protect the weak. To insure the innocent their right to be meek. To look on the sea and understand its motion. To understand tenderness and give it devotion. To understand courtesy and to make it a pact, to understand what love is… and make it a fact! Because we all must struggle. We all must try. Because somewhere in the future we all must die. But to leave a legacy that will long unfurl. That ours too was a struggle for a better World.
11.
Love 07:44
Loving kisses and loving sighs. To have love’s pleasure bring tears to my eyes. Love at first sight is so very rare. Love may come late but it always comes fair. Tears that humble. Tears that smile. Tears that comfort and then beguile. Where are the drugs? Where is the sex? Where is the pleasure when there’s nothing next? Some love to love. Some love to hate. Some find love but then it’s too late… Games and lies where love should be. Someone does it to you and then you do it to me. Perversions, distortions inside the head. When illusion dictates love is dead. Love is not paranoia, love in not insecure. When a man becomes a friend is when a women becomes sure. Love in the touch of a woman’s hand, the respect for that touch is what makes a man. The thought of love on its way to you. The anticipation of what to do. That funny little feeling that comes inside. Emotions run wild but then try to hide. Is she coming or is she not. Affection needs tenderness and they both need a lot. Why is it so hard to be at ease. Why can’t I be humble and just try to please. Selfish desires that lead into doubt. Sacrifice brings joy but love brings you out. Soft morning clouds rush to cover the Moon, like an orgasm with a future that comes too soon. So when the thought of quitting begins to lose your mind, put love before pain and leave the sorrow behind. One night I was truly seeking, I was standing inside the rain. As love passed by it whispered, time to leave the pain. I’m here whenever you need me, I am the beckoning call. I can be your rise to glory or the Madness before the fall. I cried out, Love what do you want from me? You’ve got to tell me now. Love just smiled and answered, must I also tell you how. To find that love again, the love you needed most, The only friend you had when everyone was playing ghost. Two star-crossed lovers caught up in that infamous strain. Love becomes the struggle that tries to keep them sane. In the glorious midst of nature, they try reaching out one night. She learns how to kiss the darkness, he learns how to set his sight, Love becomes the morning that shines so radiant and bright, it becomes the hope and promise that once was a lonely night. Where is that true beginning? Where has it all gone? Why has love become a memory that just sadly lingers on. Hard laughter disguising softer fears. Love becomes entangled while deception cheers. Love that moment you can’t understand. It’s when love is asking for a helping hand. Intelligence is vital, love takes reason. Passion without wisdom is romantic treason. Love is the rain that greens the leaves, it’s the part of death that never grieves. The love of money cane become the love of greed. The love of denial can become the love of need. Love is a women to deep in thought. A moment so precious it can’t be bought. That first kiss will always remain the same, if not in principle at least in name. Love is exciting. Love is bold. Love grows gracefully but never grows old. Love is being alone but never lonely. It’s your truly and yours only. It’s when you think you should but you know you won’t. It’s when they think you’re convinced but then you don’t. Love plus patience can become understanding. When love becomes too promiscuous it becomes too demanding. Waiting on love can become the love of time. Being impatient with love can lead to serious crime. Love is to be considerate. Love is to be kind. It’s a wise old gesture from a childish mind. To never take advantage. To never accuse. To never mistrust. To never abuse. Love is to be honored. Love is to be shared. Love is to be tried but never dared. Love is to desire. Love is to yearn. To be able to give and ask for nothing in return. And then to be able to speak words so true, I love you… and I love you too!
12.
Juju Jimi 06:08
An easy Sunrise precedes a touch of Madness. Touching the miracles. Touching the sleep. Touching the sound. Lingering lyrics falling graciously upon tear filled eyelids. Foot pedal and sly smile all moving in the same direction, the same rhythm, the same motion of Congo Square and primitive string instruments defying the burdens of slavery. Little Richard and Otis Redding and Sam Cooke and James Brown all saw and felt the passion of this genius of rare humility trying to get out to Sea. The laughter of idiots bleeding in his ears. The Mother Nile pleases in more ways than one. The Music in his stride has put his demons to sleep, he hopes. A White mist encircles the innocence of his Harlem Baptism. The Village calls. London beckons. So kind. So warm. So devouring… Ju Ju Jimi. Jimi. Jimi. Ju Ju Ju ju. Jimi… Ju Ju Ju Ju Jimmi Ju Ju. Yes! He was the Voo Doo child this is where he lived this is where he thrived. In the frayed and fragile wires connected to dangling dimly lit neon signs unconsciously flickering one last tribute to a Miles David solo over rain drenched vomit from the bowels of broken promises and dreams deferred. He kept turning on the Rhythm and blues. They kept trying to turn it off. The loneliness of trusted friends dropping your name carelessly upon the Wind. Staring into the reflections of Jimi God!... Jimi Prophet! Jimi visionary of pointless sights… Pointless reasons… Pointless memories… teetering and rotting Roman columns peeking through lively Magnolia Trees whispering Charlie Patton. Son House. And the spirit of Robert Johnson and his serpentine wailing of the Mississippi blues bent over Sunscorched Morning abandoned by god and devil inside your mind… your sound… Your Music… creating art forms faster than the speed of deceit. Where is the deception Jimi? What does it look like? What land does it frequent? What fragrance does it indulge in? What flower does it wear in its lapel? Where is the deception Jimi? Ooooh say can you see… By the dawns early light…And the rockets red flare. The bombs bursting in air. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the MACHINE… Guns Jimi. And the guns. And the guns. And the guns. And the violence of charred and burning flesh of children amusing themselves in the shadows of drunken and addicted stupors you climb stairs to find yourself in their despair. No more lust! No more lust! No more lurid decisions and business contracts in the thrusts of darkened rooms and phony orgasms of pretending to be you… are the FOXY LADY and I am the WILD THING will you please take your loneliness out of me. I’m tired of playing this game. He kept turning on the Rhythm and blues. They kept trying to turn in off. One night I danced with the real Atlanta in a Juke joint on the Northside. My Henessy took her Red Bull to new heights in the music of the Saints and to a BAND OF GYPSIES. There is a dance that the Poet dances. In the eyes… In the eyes of demons. In the eyes of children soothe his soul with kind gestures and beaming smiles they release their dreams to his words. They trust his jagged edges and sharp turns into funeral dirges and poetry slams for control freaks on the other side of pop culture there is a disease that festers on the pitter patter of busy feet of drug boys running through their night visions and day dreams bedazzled by slight of hands scribbling on jail house walls in small letters and close encounters with death and their illusions of power being reduced to its most common denominator. Where is the deception Jimi? What does it look like? What land does it frequent? What fragrance does it indulge in? What flower does it wear in its lapel? Where is the deception Jimi? No Jimi. No!... Don’t look back. Don’t look back Jimi. Be careful. Watchout! Watchout! Don’t Jimi! Don’t Jimi!... Don’t look back. NO… NO… NO… Keep going forward. Don’t look back. Please… don’t look back Jimi… No Jimi. No Jimi. No… No… It’s too late! Here comes that second glance. Here comes that act of denial. And the guitars on fire. And the static from the ELECTRIC LADY. No Jimi. Don't look back. Here comes their entourages of schizophrenia. Here comes their depression. Their heavy handed Baroque counterpoints. And the fingers... crisscrossing, freefalling and tip toeing between the forces of good and evil. Ju ju ju ju jimi jimi juju Back to the Forest Jimi back to the Forest. Juju jimi juju juju Back to where the Twin Rivers meet. Juju Jimi jimi jimi juju Back to the healing jimi jimi ju juju Back to the way. Back to the way. Our way. Juju juju Jimi jimi jimi juju juju juju Jimi Are you experienced jimi are you experienced jimi Are you experienced!....Purple haze are in my brain... losing self to lose this pain. Embracing the truth and wanting to fly.. Scuse... me beauty while I kiss your SKY!....
13.
America is a terrorist Killing the natives of the land Killing and stealing Have always been apart of America’s master plan To control the earth and everything on it America’s a terrorist Killing the buffalo that roam the plains Killing and slaughtering animals was turned into a game Giving blankets contaminated with small pox To the natives who were here The beginning of germ warfare The beginning of white fear No respect for the land the trees or the air we breathe And Christianity was an excuse To bring others to their knees America’s a terrorist with a slave system in place To take away the humanity of a darker race Put people in chains Then beat them with whips Made them give up their names Those who survived the slave ships America’s a terrorist Chewing tobacco and eating swine Being mean and nasty to those who treated him kind Take a pregnant Black woman Cut her belly open and let the fetus fall out Stomp the baby in the ground To instill fear is what that was all about Gang up on a Black man Hang him from a tree Cut him down then set him on fire For everyone to see America’s a terrorist With a Howdy Doody grin Using the bible to keep others in check While America commits all the sin Thou shall not kill That’s not part of the American dream Because to kill is a thrill They love to show on your TV screen Romance the gun just for fun Drop a bomb just for charm This is the American way And all of this talk about equality justice and peace Spewing out of the mouths of theses governmental beast But every time Blacks tried to fine a way to do for self American terrorist weren’t having it And fear is all Black folks felt Rosewood was a town where Blacks tried hard to thrive White folks burned it down and many Blacks lost their lives Now there was town in Oklahoma called Black Wall Street Blacks had homes a bank lots of money And stood strong on their own two feet But now you see the Whites near by were jealous And just couldn’t stand seeing Blacks do so well So they drop not one but two bombs on the town And created a living hell America’s a terrorist Feeding off racism and greed Not caring not sharing But enjoying watching people bleed Every time Jack Johnson fought and beat a White boy in the ring White mobs would kill Blacks at random Because a Black man was boxing’s king And all the wars we fought To try to win respect at home But when the war was over Blacks where never treated like they belong But rather the subjects of experiments At Tuskegee and other places For over four hundred years Blacks have lived in fears of the vicious cruelty of the racist Tried to march for justice And the civil right to be treated fair Attacked by dogs and fire hoses Beaten by police Forced to live a life of total despair Bombed a church in Birmingham While the children were in Sunday school Took the lives of four little girls Yes this terrorist was just that cruel American terrorism is like a virus That’s home grown and spreads across the planet too Selling guns and chemical weapons Gift wrapped in red white and blue Soldiers boys selling guns For hard drugs in exchange It should be obvious by now that this country is deranged Yet we stand and pledge allegiance To a flag that brings lots of grief And singing that war song every day Is Americas only belief America’s a terrorist And no one wants to admit Pointing the finger at others is the ironic part of it Dropped a bomb in Philadelphia To wipe out an organization named MOVE Killed unarmed women and children Because the police had something to prove And all the Black Panthers trying to help their community Wiped out by the FBI for trying to create Black unity Put drugs in the hood Set folks up for no good Kept unemployment high Education is laced with lies Turned the people against each other Made money more sacred than your mother Caused an avalanche of grief By trigger happy police Locked the Black man up in jail Made him think he was born to fail And no place are you safe If you have a darker face Henry Dumas, Amadou Diallo Michael Griffin Yusef Hawkins Anthony Baez Clifford Glover, James Bird just to name a few died at the hands of American terrorist No terrorism here ain’t nothing new Now AIDS has become an epidemic All over the world where Black people live An evil virus created by mad scientist For people who only have love to give The CIA The FBI the Michigan militia the KKK And the police from coast to coast Are the real American terrorist And the government is the host So now America is ready to engage in world war 111 Because what goes around has come around But you can’t kill what you can’t see Abiodun (after 9-11)
14.
Toxic Times 03:54
THESE ARE TOXIC TIMES SHROUDED BY A VAIL OF CHEMICAL WASTE WE ARE BUYING WATER TO STAY ALIVE AIR WILL BE SOLD IN CONTAINERS VERY SOON AND IT WON’T BE FRESH DEVILS ARE STANDING BEHIND THE PULPIT PREACHING THE GOSPEL OF SINNERS INTEGRITY IS AN UNWANTED STRANGER IN OUR MIDST CONVERSATIONS HAVE BECOME A TEXT OR A TWEET THE NEWS IS THE BLUES ADVERTISING PAIN AND MISFORTUNE EVEN WHEN THE FORECAST IS SUNNY IT’S STILL A CLOUDY DAY EVEN THOUGH THE TEMPERATURE RISES THERE’S STILL A CHILL IN THE AIR THESE ARE TOXIC TIMES BLACK GIRLS ARE DISAPPEARING NO ONE KNOWS WHERE TO SEARCH BLACK BOYS ARE BEING SHOT DOWN PROTESTERS ARE BEING LOCKED UP SEX HAS BECOME A PERVERSION NOT EVEN A DOG WOULD PERFORM CHILDREN ARE BEING MOLESTED ELDERS ARE BEING EXECUTED DISEASES ARE BEING DEVELOPED IN LABORATORIES PUBLIC SCHOOLS ARE PRISONS FOR A CREATIVE MIND A HEALER IS AN ENEMY OF THE STATE SICKNESS IS PROFITABLE OUTPATIENTS ROAM THE STREETS HOME GROWN TERRORISTS SHOOT AND STAB PEOPLE AT WILL AND SOMETIMES BLOW THINGS UP THESE ARE TOXIC TIMES THE WHITE HOUSE HAS BECOME A CIRCUS TENT A CLOWN IS IN CHARGE MASTURBATING IN PUBLIC MOTHER NATURE IS UPSET HURLING TORNADOES AND HARRICANES AT THE PEOPLE AND THE LAND FLATTENING THEIR HOUSES FLOODING THEIR TOWNS THESE ARE TOXIC TIMES THEY SAY THERE’S A GLOBAL WARMING THE HOMES OF THE POLAR BEARS ARE MELTING THE WEATHER IS WACKY NO RHYME OR REASON YOU CAN HARDLY TELL THE SEASON FIRES ACROSS AMERICA ARE RAGING TREES AND HOUSES ARE BLAZING THE SMELL OF DEATH IS IN THE AIR SOLDIERS ARE FIGHTING A GHOST CHILDREN ARE DYING FROM STARVATION THE RICH GET RICHER IS STILL THE SITUATION THERE IS REALLY ONLY ONE SOLUTION IT’S TIME FOR A COMPLETE REVOLUTION PUT YOUR MIND BODY AND SOUL IN ORDER THAT’S THE ONLY WAY TO STOP THIS SLAUGHTER ABIODUN 4-9-17

about

On a winter day just outside Philadelphia The Last Poets and Jamaaladeen Tacuma gathered at the Ropeadope Room for an interview in anticipation of their new release, Transcending Toxic Times. The mood was light, a casual gathering over soul food with the label, the producer, and the poets themselves. We cued up the album, brought the sound up and walked through the final recording. It was the first time all three had heard the finished album, and the interview was soon put on hold as three men sat, transfixed and intent, leaning on every note and word as they walked through their memories and even their purpose. Dare we say tears were shed, and as we spoke with cameras rolling it soon came out that THIS was the definitive Last Poets album.

50 years ago Abiodun Oyewole was in the middle of it: vocally challenging both the oppressors and the oppressed. Looking for truth to be spoken at any cost, mourning the loss of Malcolm and Martin among many others named and unnamed in THE struggle of the time. A struggle that is more relevant today than it ever was as African Americans continue to press the nation for truth and equality. Dun met Umar Bin Hassan at a Black Arts event in Ohio, and Umar made the trip to New York to join the group. Baba Donn Babatunde showed up later, adding percussion to the poetry.

The history is strong, much has been written and is easily found. But the spirit of these men in their common creative interaction is the real story. 50 years of perseverance, of bearing witness to the most atrocious of crimes, 50 years of personal challenges and yet still and adherence to the higher principles of love, or respect, and of kindness to your fellow human.

Enter Jamaaladeen Tacuma. It takes someone who understand the essence of The Last Poets better than the poets themselves. A man who knows the history from the inside, but has a foot in the music world as well. Tacuma’s bass playing is refined, yet just as swinging as if it were not. But it is his role as producer here that elevates this album above all others. A knowledge of what people want to hear, an understanding of what the message is and how it MUST be delivered, and the skill and friends to blend the two. This is not poetry set to music, nor is it music made for poets. This is a seamless transfiguration of the groove, the words, and the essential human elements that live between the notes and the words.

Transcending Toxic Times is a broad work of human emotion: Anger, scorn, frustration, challenge, beauty, sorrow, love, and joy are all present. The spoken word is rhythmic, melodic at times. The baselines and the groove are irresistible, and the message is unavoidable.

On that winter day we witnessed the realization of four great artists: that their individual and collective contributions had transcended each of them and ALL of them. That they were in the presence of something definitive and transcendent.

credits

released May 10, 2019

Abiodun Oyewole | Poet
Umar Bin Hassan | Poet
Baba Donn Babatunde | Poet, Percussion

Wadud Ahmad | Poet We Are The Last Poets, Soul Reflection
Ursula Rucker | Poet Don't Know What I'd Do
Malik B | MC Young Love

Jamaaladeen Tacuma | Bass
Richard Tucker | Electric & Acoustic Guitar
Yoichi Uzeki | Keys, Viola String Arrangement
Khary Abdul Shaheed | Drums

Guest Musicians:
Terry Adkins | Tenor Saxophone | Black Rage
Daud El Bakara | Trumpet | Love
Franz Niedermayer | Viola | Don't Know What I'd Do
Lady Alma | Vocals | Toxic Times
Wolfgang Puschnig | Saxophone | Toxic Times
Jake Morelli | Electric Guitar, Drums | Young Love
Tim Motzer | Electric Guitar | JuJu Jimi

Produced by Jamaaladeen Tacuma for Jam ALL Productions
Associate Producer - Rahima Tacuma
Co Producer - Jake Morelli on Young Love

Recorded by:
Tim Motzer | 1K Studio (Philly),
June Lopez | Traveling Colours Music Studio (Philly)
Jake Morelli | JMoTone Studios (Philly) - Young Love
Jamaaladeen Tacuma | TSE Studios (Philly, NYC, Seoul, Korea)

Mixed by:
June Lopez | Traveling Colours Music Studio (Philly)
Jamaaladeen Tacuma | Sound Genetics Recording Studio (Philly) -

Don’t Know What I’d Do
Jake Morelli | JMoTone Studios (Philly) - Young Love
Gregg Mann | Iconoclash Studios - (NYC) Soul Reflections

Mastered by
Gregg Mann | Iconoclash Studios (NYC)
Jamaaladeen Tacuma | Sound Genetics Recording Studio (Philly)

Cover Art | Sound Evidence
Photography | Sound Evidence

Packaging Design | Niko Marks | Kaya Marks

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The Last Poets New York, New York

This Wind You Hear Is The Birth Of Memory. When The Moment Hatches In Time’s Womb, There Will Be No Art Talk. The Only Poem You Will Hear Will Be The Spear Point Pivoted Into The Punctured Marrow Of The Villain, And The Timeless Native Son Dancing Like Crazy To Retrieved Rhythms Of Desire Faded Into Memory. Therefore, We Are The Last Poets Of The World. ... more

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