Michael Brown (1996 – 2014)


♪♫ Who-oo-oo-oo is Mr Brown? ♪♫ ♪♫
Mr Brown is a clown who rides through town in a coffin
(Where he be found? )
In the coffin where there is three crows on top and two is laughing
Oh, what a confusion! Ooh, yeah, yeah!
What a botheration! Ooh, now, now!

Who is Mr Brown? I wanna know now! He is nowhere to be found…
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town, asking for Mr Brown
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town,
Asking for Mr Brown
I wanna know who –  is Mr Brown?
Is Mr Brown controlled by remote?
O-o-oh, calling duppy conqueror, I’m the ghost-catcher!

This is your chance, oh big, big Bill bull-bucka,
Take your chance! Prove yourself! Oh, yeah!
Down in parade, people runnin like a masquerade

The police make a raid,
But the (oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) the thing get fade

What a thing in town – crows chauffeur-driven around,
Skankin’ as if they had never known the man they call “Mr Brown”

I can’t tell you where he’s from now
From Mandeville to Slygoville, coffin runnin’ around,
Upsetting, upsetting, upsetting the town,
Asking for Mr Brown
From Mandeville to Slygoville

Singer: Bob Marley
Writer: Glen Adams
Producer:  Lee Perry
Recorded: 1970
M Brown funeral
IMAGE CREDIT: disneyscreencaps.com

‘Cause St. Paul said so – OK?

But concerning the times and the seasons, brethren, you have no need that I should write to you. For you yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so comes as a thief in the night. For when they say, “Peace and safety!” then sudden destruction comes upon them, as labor pains upon a pregnant woman. And they shall not escape.

[I Thessalonians 5:2,3 ]

“For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body.” 

[Romans 8:22,23]

Let us then go forth, with Paul of Tarsus (and all those he claimed to speak for), into the convulsing uterine shudderings of this imminent birth. Let us behold, together, in utter theological clarity this first spasm of contracting pangs as the great cervix now reaches maximum dilation. Do you hear it brothers and sisters? Do you hear the the unceasing groaning throughout every level of the fallen creation? It is horror just to listen to it for a second – he said the WHOLE CREATION groans and labors. (One wonders: does it ever STOP?) Let us tremble with the whole creation into the bloody throes of the threshold of emergence from the mother’s dark birth canal into true life, into the harsh light, into the ever-imminent Kingdom of God. The waters have broken and here it comes now – wrapped in bloody placenta and yes St. Paul – it’s ALWAYS a crisis of birth – all the time, right? Isn’t this what you meant? The poor creation – she’s not even sure if she will make it. She’s biting on a towel – oh how undignified she looks – her legs all splayed open as the new creation begins crowning… She (this present creation) now wishes now she had had the epidural. She’s grunting and sweating as she pushes the thing out…what is it? She’s whimpering and screaming at once.

PUSH now… push HARDER

1,2,3  PUUUUUSH -  here it comes !

Oh my GOD – she’s metaphorically giving birth to allegory.

 St. Paul is the midwife – but who’s the DADDY ?


Hands Up, Ferguson

Ferguson thug hopestyle

Finish the crackers – grab a smoke…
of Ferguson my muse will sing.
A call to arms – God’s fires to stoke;
let Truth and Freedom ring !

Take to the streets; avenge this wrong
and hasten the end of racist rule.
Justice, though it may tarry long
will find its target in the duel.

Young Michael Brown, like all true saints
found himself craving Swisher Sweets.
He robbed a store, whose camera paints
impartial portrait. In the streets

the thief refused to be detained
and so threw off police restraint.
Though sin escaped, the Law remained
and made a martyr of this saint.

The agitators did their thing:
inflaming thugs to smash and loot,
while racists baited hooks, to string
the press. Officials followed suit.

Angels, although not always kind,
do not display this attitude -
aware of how the police mind
responds to such ingratitude.

We ought to thank the police force
for showing mercy under stress.
The culprit chose a foolish course -
and made a God-awful mess.

Prince Michael met ignoble fate
(that ghetto-Christ, that righteous youth)
His sacrifice in vain – though great,
could not impede the march of Truth.

Ferguson, our eyes turn towards you…
are you now able to admit
while reality rewards you
that looting and lying ain’t shit?

IMAGE CREDIT: time.com

Po Biz: Imlac Resumes His Rant

“This business of a poet,” said Imlac, “is to examine, not the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances. He does not number the streaks of the tulip, or describe the different shades of the verdure of the forest. He is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such prominent and striking features as recall the original to every mind, and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which one may have remarked and another have neglected, for those characteristics which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness.

“But the knowledge of nature is only half the task of a poet; he must be acquainted likewise with all the modes of life. His character requires that he estimate the happiness and misery of every condition, observe the power of all the passions in all their combinations, and trace the changes of the human mind, as they are modified by various institutions and accidental influences of climate or custom, from the sprightliness of infancy to the despondence of decrepitude. He must divest himself of the prejudices of his age and country; he must consider right and wrong in their abstracted and invariable state; he must disregard present laws and opinions, and rise to general and transcendental truths, which will always be the same. He must, therefore, content himself with the slow progress of his name, contemn the praise of his own time, and commit his claims to the justice of posterity. He must write as the interpreter of nature and the legislator of mankind, and consider himself as presiding over the thoughts and manners of future generations, as a being superior to time and place.

Dig Sam Johnson’s screed HERE