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Soul on Ice Notes 2

by Eldridge Cleaver

Soul Food

Folsom Prison

November 3rd, 1965

"You hear a lot of jazz about Soul Food. Take chitterlings: the ghetto blacks eat them from neessity while the black bourgeoisie has turned it into a mocking slogan. Eating chitterlings is like going slumming to them…the people in the ghetto want steaks. Beef steaks…The emphasis on Soul Food is a counter-revolutionary black bourgeoisie ideology. The main reason why Elijah Muhammad outlawed pork for Negroes had nothing to do with dietary laws. The point is that when you get all those blacks cooped up in the ghetto with beef steaks on their minds-with the weight of religious fever behind the desire to chuck-then something’s got to give. The system has made allowances for the  ghettos to obtain a little pig, but there are no provisions for the elite to give up any beef! " pg 49

Soul on Ice Notes 1

by Eldridge Cleaver

In the first part of his book “On Becoming” he discusses how he has an attraction to white women more than black women and how other black men also have this feeling. He analyzes it, tries to understand it and redefines himself. Here are some quotes/notes that I picked up from reading it:

questioning the inmates on what types of women they prefer as far as race is concerned, one of them said, “I don’t want nothing black but my cadillac” pg 26

"…a black growing up in America is indoctrinated with the white race’s standard of beauty…since they constituted the marjority the whites brainwashed the blacks by the very processes the whites employed to indoctrinate themselves with their own group standards. It intensified my frustrations to know that I was indoctrinated to see the white woman as more beautiful and desirable than my own black woman." pg 29

 ”I became a rapist. To refine my technique and modus operandi, I started out by practicing on black girls in the ghetto-in the black ghetto where dark vivcious deeds appear not as abberations or deviations from the norm, but as apart of sufficiency of the Evil of a day-and when I considered smooth enough I crossed the tracks and sought out white prey…It delighted me that I was defying and trampling upon the white man’s law, upon his system o values, and that I was defiling his women-and this point, I believe, was the most satisfying to me because I was very resentful over the historical fact of how the white man has used the black woman. I felt I was getting revenge.” pg 33

"I know that the black man’s sick attitude toward the white woman is a revolutionary sickness: it keeps him perpetually out of harmony with the system that is oppressing him…The price of hating other human beings is loving onself less." pg 38

I will be taking more notes as I read along and posting them…but take note on how much of what he says still applies to todays black men and women alike. Because in all honesty I feel the same about black man-I’m less attracted to them because of the media, because of what I am exposed to in everyday life and we have that stigma of finding the ideal “good black man” and catching a hold of him and keeping him. As if we were hunting…

acid rain jazzz

by Yazzy Boiragee

these dripped lies come in rain form and shower on our chased streets

these hot combs slick back our oppression into flattened skulls of ignint motherfuckas

these chitlins only a reminder that there are some parts of the pig we’re not meant to consume but we consume them like our blank history

there drizzles clouded fiction-the rainbow was enuf e-n-u-f when a horror story is a black horror story but not Poe’s or prose 

there drops a ferenheitn of anger- a nigga boy was killed a nigga boy was killed lets get angraaaaay and shutup about it after a couple of months of headlines

don’t forget police burtality and spousal abuse

or eldridge cleaver’s “i don’t want nuthin black but my cadillac” souls spoken drives ice down my spine

"a black growing up in america is indoctrinated with the white race’s standard of beauty"

these drip down my tv, computer, facebook, campus, books, life

it won’t stop raining…

we’re drowning in our delusions, in our bubbles that suffocate us-why do we not come up for air and see the horizons of reality

fact ain’t colored black-or rainbow

and this rain is just gonna keep on pouring til we’re dead 

Babylon Revisited

The gaunt thing
with no organs
creeps along the streets
of Europe, she will
commute, in her feathered bat stomach-gown
with no organs
with sores on her insides
even her head
a vast puschamber
of pus(sy) memories
with no organs
nothing to make babies
she will be the great witch of euro-american legend
who sucked the life
from some unknown nigger
whose name will be known
but whose substance will not ever
not even by him
who is dead in a pile of dopeskin

This bitch killed a friend of mine named Bob Thompson
a black painter, a giant, once, she reduced
to a pitiful imitation faggot
full of American holes and a monkey on his back
slapped airplanes
from the empire state building

May this bitch and her sisters, all of them,
receive my words
in all their orifices like lye mixed
cocola and alaga syrup

feel this shit, bitches, feel it, now laugh your
hysterectic laughs
while your flesh burns
and your eyes peel to red mud

Written by Amiri Baraka


He came back and shot. He shot him. When he came
back, he shot, and he fell, stumbling, past the
shadow wood, down, shot, dying, dead, to full halt.

At the bottom, bleeding, shot dead. He died then, there
after the fall, the speeding bullet, tore his face
and blood sprayed fine over the killer and the grey light.

Pictures of the dead man, are everywhere. And his spirit
sucks up the light. But he died in darkness darker than
his soul and everything tumbled blindly with him dying

down the stairs.

We have no word

on the killer, except he came back, from somewhere
to do what he did. And shot only once into his victim’s
stare, and left him quickly when the blood ran out. We know

the killer was skillful, quick and silent, and that the victim
probably knew him. Other than that, aside from the caked sourness
of the dead man’s expression, and the cool surprise in the fixture

of his hands and fingers, we know nothing.

Written by Amiri Baraka

Wise I

by Amiri Baraka

WHYS (Nobody Knows
    The Trouble I Seen)

If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won’t let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your omm bomm ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
own boom ba boom
you in deep deep


probably take you several hundred years
to get 


I don’t want a drought to feed on itself
through the tattooed holes in my belly
I don’t want a spectacular desert of
charred stems & rabbit hairs
in my throat of accumulated matter
I don t want to burn and cut through the forest
like a greedy mercenary drilling into
sugar cane of the bones

Push back the advancing sands
the polluted sewage
the dust demonsthe dying timber
the upper atmosphere of nitrogen
push back the catastrophes

Enough of the missiles
the submarines
the aircraft carriers
the biological weapons
No more sickness sadness poverty
exploitation destabilization
illiteracy and bombing
Let’s move toward peace
toward equality and justice
that’s what I want

To breathe clean air
to drink pure water to plant new crops
to soak up the rain to wash off the stink
to hold this body and soul together in peace
that’s it
Push back the catastrophers

Written by Jayne Cortez

The Bridge Poem

The Bridge Poem
by Donna Kate Rushin

I’ve had enough
I’m sick of seeing and touching
Both sides of things
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody

Can talk to anybody
Without me Right?

I explain my mother to my father my father to my little sister
My little sister to my brother my brother to the white feminists
The white feminists to the Black church folks the Black church folks
To the Ex-hippies the ex-hippies to the Black separatists the
Black separatists to the artists the artists to my friends’ parents…

I’ve got the explain myself
To everybody

I do more translating
Than the Gawdamn U.N.

Forget it
I’m sick of it

I’m sick of filling in your gaps

Sick of being your insurance against
The isolation of your self-imposed limitations
Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners
Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches
Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people

Find another connection to the rest of the world
Find something else to make you legitimate
Find some other way to be political and hip

I will not be the bridge to your womanhood
Your manhood
Your human-ness

I’m sick of reminding you not to
Close off too tight for too long

I’m sick of mediating with your worst self
On behalf you your better selves

I am sick
Of having to remind you
To breathe
Before you suffocate
Your own fool self

Forget it
Stretch or drown
Evolve or die

The bridge I must be
Is the bridge to my own power
I must translate
My own fears
My own weaknesses

I must be the bridge to nowhere
But my true self
And then
I will be useful

    -from This Bridge Called My Back
edited by: Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua

progreshun by yazzy boiragee

*my poem for the morning. Getting up to write is a really good exercise to do.

progreshun does not does succeed ussssss

who left the guns in the hood the crack in the hood the poor in the hood the beanpies in the hood

beanpies headlines incense beanpies headlines incense

brother islam tell me again how malcolm died

brother islam tell me again why you so angry

brother islam tell me again why lions are hunted in secrecy rifles and their cubs slain in the middle of the night

brotha tell me again why the grass ain’t greener on dis side

is it cause our white washed fences were dirtied up by us

who left the guns in the hood the crack in the hood the poor in the hood the bean pies in the hood the horror in the hood

every home has a horror story but it’s a black home so that story is a black story and those characters are black characters and though black is the color of evil these aren’t evils these are the misconstrued rainbows of raisin dried dreams

each and every-one each and every-one each and every-one

cut your hair-each strand for hood horror

you won’t have any hair left.

i said nigguh

negro necro necrophilly nigga negra nergino

neckneckneck wring the neck from prostitution

said wring the neck from prostitution in newark fires


the window of oppurtunity has closed on you young man

said the window of oppurtunity has closed on you young man

so sad so saaaddd

and when does the window open back up?

when does the window open back up?

when are the windows never shut in the wintertiiiiime

window window on the wall

who’s gonna fly n who’s gonna fall

window window windowofthenight

which nigga’s on the bark tonight

i think amiri wacked me in the head

said think amiri wacked me in the head

he left me for communism he left me for dead

barackabaracka barack barackobama-osama whoops

mistake me not for mixing the two

riots riots on wall street

is it for you or is it for me

riots riots on the street

who got beat?

riotsriots picket signs

pick their hearts and fuck this rhyme.

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