anti-mime

​Break out 

that branded voice box

and scream mute

Scream mute

Scream mute

Break out the box

Break out bust free

You bigger than Nike

You more than strategic marketing

targeting audiences

content to see you satisfied

in the white noise

beat boxing your brain

You too big to be consumed

You the coliseum in makeshift rooms

You the mute screaming 

verses but not too well

You the mute screaming

but no one can tell

how your voice pushes beyond the barrier

Pulsing sonic boom

Coliseum in makeshift room

Scream mute

Scream mute

Stop imagining boxes 

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before the sky turned blue 

​i sat at your feet

counting the hairs on your legs

(two hundred thousand twenty-four)

rather than the number of times you blinked when looking to me for answers

(once…)

one time. 

i never asked, that one time,

why your head shifted in rhythm to revolution

possibilities tilted your axis

but i couldn’t hold your world in my hands

i couldn’t God for you

i could only hide from you

and count the flutters of dazzling wings 

as you looked to me to to shift your axis

Before Thirty

Looking back
the questions I had
were more a proclamation
of autonomous
maleness

More affirmative
than outcries of “Punk!”

More nurturing than
“Hold it in. You bet’ not cry”
when you withstand hit after hit
when your body
is a faucet and an
unsuspecting wall
built to withstand hit after hit

My questions were less interrogative
than sexual inquiries
and voyeuristic requests
to witness bedroom theatrics

Less deviant than conquest
Not as fearful as religion
Inconsequential to pink polos
and Mariah Carey in headphones

Innocence does not master sports
nor does it demand a wide stride
or pants that give in to gravity

Self-awareness can’t count
the notches in chastity belts

Looking forward
the answer I have is far more curious
than wandering eyes –
Inquisition resulting in full discovery
existing lands in the dead sea
of a man’s world

Here be the island
which nurtures life
I’ll build here
with questions all around me,
certainty floating in the sea

Break.

Between our lips
exhaled cumulus
notes, strummed lyrics,
chorded conversations
wisps of “soon come”

but ’til then
a grandfather’s tree
trimmed to a communal kiss
in heated seats
cracked windows
and blue aux cords
connecting kin
cumulus clouds perfuming
pleather coats and denim

Stringed pleas for time travel
Instrumental camaraderie
Recorded ancestral cries

Play yours next
I want to listen to the future
while now is a muted song
and a poem I sing
tentatively

​”The Purg: Orientation”

Can’t believe I’m sittin here in this hell- room again; seething like country bacon in a southern diner. Refuting smiles with a creased brow and brown lips refusing to flex for common courtesy.

I ain’t here for your ‘Good morning!’
This ain’t the joy I expected to come when I cried my pillow into a cloud and prayed for warmth in my winter. 
So many faces, bumbling voices, fidgeting glances, and bowed heads holding digital mirrors that reflect the need to be anywhere but here.
I probably ain’t the only one awaiting amnesty from this lesson in being a good little correspondent for the seventh sin.
Probably ain’t the only one praying for a white collar to exorcise me from this demon of ice breaking introductions, paperwork, and communal dishonesty- 

None of us really WANT to be here. And if you do, repent and ask for salvation. You haven’t buried your faith deep enough to yield a mustard tree.

I’m here feeding the machine that digitizes human beings instead of trusting my wings so I can fly above this degradation.

Bet I’m the only one writing a poem right now, and if I’m not, then we should rebel; make a break for it; find some way to bypass this necessary hell ’cause it hasn’t been 30 minutes yet and I’m considering giving in to the final notices if it’ll lift me from Darwin’s infernal Inferno; A burning I left 3 years ago to pursue 2 more dollars that didn’t amount to a hill of dreams (only material things.)

And I know I can’t sneak to write poems all day. Ain’t no phones permitted when you work for the companies that own them. 

I know I can’t escape, in an instant, to the Gram to create stories of capitalist unrest or memes mimicking men desperate for off-days.

I’ma have to lie soon enough.

Smooth out my brow, flex my brown lips, and growl politely as I introduce myself to people I have no desire to know

Hi, my name is OneVoice, I have a cat. Oh, and I really wish money didn’t motivate me to postpone my dreams to hold on to things I really don’t need. 

Like this job. 

“From Prophet To Prophet”: Virtual Poetry Collection, A Note From The Author

It’s a poet’s response to Kendrick Lamar’s excellent album, “To Pimp A Butterfly”. It’s the inspiration. Kendrick inspired the rawness, the honesty, the self-reflection, and the consideration of the words but it’s all OneVoice. It’s all poetry. There is no dependence on the slam poet’s cadence or popular instrumentals. It is, however, a theatrical experience. It is a reason that academia should STUDY true contemporary poets and artists (I am both, they are one).

“From Prophet To Prophet” is a poet’s frustration, a poet’s revelation, a poet’s love realized in virtual format. It’s spirituality, cultural awareness, and a giant leap towards freedom. I engineered every track, co-engineered one with artistic colleague DaiTrell Ingram. The focus though, is the writing. Its the poetry. Any production used is only to complement the writing (hence, no instrumentals or over-rendering of the words).

The tracks are actually more so “acts” followed by “scenes”. I’m giving you a virtual show in your ear. And if you ever attended a Well Versed Xpressionz show at UNC-Greensboro, we never just gave you spoken word. We always gave you a story. I’m giving you a plethora of stories all focused on one overall motif: freedom.

Check out my Facebook page to get an early preview of the track listing. The first 10-20 good people that share that post will get an exclusive preview, before the official release next week, of one of my most powerful scenes from the collection: “The Sins Of White Men”. OneVoice, that is myself, ain’t holding back no more. I done told ya’ll, “Art MOVES and Poetry TALKS”. I’m gonna continue to be EXCELLENT whether anyone recognizes it or not. It’s time that ya’ll truly experienced OneVoice. Enough said.