Monday, May 31, 2010

Parable of Trinkets & Gadgets



Parable of Trinkets & Gadgets

On the roadside a man was selling trinkets and gadgets of every kind, rocks, shells, skins,
electronic equipment, giant screen televisions, Ipads, Ipods,
blackberries, redberries,
even bodies and the souls of men were for sale.

Stopping by was a fleet of Mercedes full of kings, prime ministers and presidents for
life. They fought each other on the roadside for the precious rocks and
metals, animal skins, even wigs and huge plastic containers of bleaching
cream, a precious mineral for their wives--their body guards pointing
AK47s at each other to get first choice at the items from the world of
make believe and conspicuous consumption.

One king only wanted high tech gadgets, although his kingdom was in drought and famine, had
no clean water, but a dungeon full of political prisoners. A prime
minister wanted precious animal skins for his many wives. A president
for life wanted rocks and precious metals although his country was full
of people with HIV/AIDS. There were no clinics, no drugs,no clean water,
no clean needles, no doctors, no nurses in his nation. The doctors and
nurses all went abroad to Europe where they could earn better wages.

Another prime minister bought virgins for his harem , so he could entertain
foreign guests while they plundered his land and make electronic money
transfers to Europe and America, one and the same, thank you God for
this precious knowledge.

Business was so brisk there was a traffic jam on the road, mainly caused by the fleet of Mercedes
competing for parking space along the road. Of course some of them
double parked on the single lane road.

The bodyguards pulled their weapons on each other to secure parking space. If one Mercedes
accidentally hit another, the guards would shoot at each playfully. A
king would wave his hand out the window and they would stop shooting
into the air.

When the vendors quickly sold out trinkets and gadgets, the VIPs were on their way, the fleet of cars leaving in a
cloud of dust to their respective nations or to the nearest airport.
--Marvin X
5/31/10

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Sunday, May 30, 2010

Comments from the People

Subject: The Wisdom of Plato Negro:
Comments from the people


A man said The Wisdom of Plato Negro is for the forty something up. No persons who haven't lived a few years can appreciate the things Marvin X says in The Wisdom of Plato Negro. You need to be at least forty to understand, and even then, this is not a book to read in one setting, even if it is easy reading. It is a book to read in a relaxed situation, and then only read one or two of the parables at a time. They must be carefully digested, each one.

Think about them, what was the real meaning? Again, if you haven't lived a few years, there's no way you can appreciate some of the things he says. For example, the Parable of the Real Woman. A young man who hasn't had many experiences with women cannot possibly understand this parable. If a woman comes to his house and cleans it out of love, a young man cannot appreciate this. He will tell her thanks, then go get a flashy woman who is never going to clean his house, mainly because she doesn't know how. But the dude will go for her because she is cute, but the real woman he rejects, the one with common sense and dignity, who may not be a beauty queen.
--Anon

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Friday, May 28, 2010

Parable of the Man Who Could Write



Parable of the Man Who Could Write

Preface

Brother, you always amaze me. The way you can turn out a piece every day of the year, 356 days, or however many there are, you are always on the case, sometimes three or four pieces if there is a hot subject. I mean all over the wide wide world web. And be on Da corner, too. Fantastic!

You know, I like those Westerns--I was born and raised up in that age--in which there is always some white cat (tall and rugged) who is handy with a gun, you know, the fastest gun in the West, especially in those Spaghetti Westerns out of Italy in which Clint Eastwood became so famous.

Well, if it wasn't the fastest hand it was the man with the biggest balls in town who just couldn't be stared down or the man in which bullets just passed him by without putting holes in his garments.

Well, Brother Marvin, you got the fastest pen or fingers (as it would be in our computer age) in the West. You have no peer in that regard. You are the Great One of the Internet. You have no match: none can stand up to the work you do daily. You are omnipresent, like a god. In your case a Black God whose nose is still in tact....

Loving you madly,
Rudy


Rudolph Lewis, Editor
ChickenBones: A Journal

Parable of the Man Who Could Write

There was a Negro who could write. People were amazed he could write, put books together quicker than you can say Jackie Robinson! But their doubts quickly subsided once they perused his books. Some people were in total shock at his flair for the pen. "Man, you can really write," one person said. This person didn't know the Reno Gazzette called him, "The writer's writer," meaning he excelled in multiple genres, journalism, poetry, drama, fiction, non-fiction, technical writing. He was so good at writing checks, he was charged with sixteen counts of forgery! He beat the case by writing a statement that each of the sixteen people had given him permission to cash their checks, which they signed.

The Last Poets, his buddies from the Harlem Black Arts Movement of the 60s, swear he writes a book a month. Well, he wrote his memoir of his buddy Eldridge Cleaver in three weeks while on national tour for another book How to Recover from the Addiction to White Supremacy. He was in Houston, Texas at his daughter's house when, after a conversation with her about Cleaver, he decided to pen the Cleaver memoir, My Friend the Devil. Even though his friends and comrades in the liberation movement long considered Cleaver the devil incarnate, they were upset when he labeled Cleaver Satan. His delay was out of respect to Kathleen and her children.

Actually he officiated a Cleaver Memorial service in Oakland. So why shouldn't he have the final say on his friend, the man he introduced to Huey Newton and Bobby Seale, after being the first person Cleaver hooked up with upon his release from Soledad prison in 1966? Along with playwright Ed Bullins, singer Willie Dale and X's companion Ethna X. Wyatt (Hurriyah Asar), they organized the Black House, a political cultural center in San Francisco. The Black House was funded with Cleaver's royalties from his bestseller Soul on Ice.

But as per the man who could write, another brother said, "Man, I was planning to write a book, but after reading your book, I don't need to write. You said everything I wanted to say the way I wanted to say it!"

Well, thank you very much, said the man who could write. I am honored you realize I really know how to write, that I can construct a sentence, a paragraph, and a page or two, even though I flunked English grammar and can't spell a lick, but I can write a book or two. And I do indeed have a point of view. I may ramble a little here and there, but I know how to focus, how to argue a point and come to a conclusion.

On May 29, 1944, it was at least a hundred and ten degrees that Monday morning when he came out of his mother's womb down in the Central Valley town of Fowler, a raising growing community where his mother was born as well, who attended a nearly all white high school, with a few Japanese farmer's children.

Of course many of the Japanese farmers and their families were put into concentration camps around the time of his birth. World War II was ending, the atomic bomb was dropped shortly after he turned a year old.
Wikapedia says:

"During the final stages of World War II in 1945, the United States conducted two atomic bombings against the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan.

By executive order of President Harry S. Truman the U.S. dropped the nuclear weapon "Little Boy" on the city of Hiroshima on Monday, August 6, 1945, followed by the detonation of "Fat Man" over Nagasaki on August 9. These are the only use of nuclear weapons in war."


Therefore, should we not worry about the white man using nuclear weapons, rather than Iran, North Korea, Pakistan, India and Israel(oh, they white too!)?

The man who could write was thus a war baby. He remembers when his uncles came home from WWII, Clarence and Stanley, his mother's brothers. Clarence would say nothing about the war. He became associate editor of the family newspaper Fresno Voice. Stanley showed him pictures of his war buddies. He told of seeing his buddies heads shot off. When his parents separated, Stanley became his surrogate father. Uncle Stan told him he had to eat some pussy to be a man. He ain't mastered that lesson yet, not completely and totally! lol

His parents took he and his brother Ollie, a year older, to the drive in theatre to see Lena Horne in Stormy Weather, circa 1944. He remembers Stormy Weather, also the newsreel of Palestinian refugees storming across that bridge into Jordan.

Imagine, a Negro, Ralph Bunche, Undersecretary of the United Nations, helped establish the state of Israel. Years later, the man who could write heard a radio broadcast by Elijah Muhmamad saying, "Ralph Bunche is a Negro we don't need." There's a plethora of Negroes we don't need these days. They should be recycled into aluminum cans.

For the first years of his life, whenever the movie theatre showed newsreels of Palestinian refugees, his little baby mind couldn't figure out why so many people were crossing that bridge. It horrified him to see so much such suffering, even though he was four years old at best when the Zionist entity was finally established, 1948.

His parents explained nothing, so he just sat eating popcorn and watching people running for their lives because the Nazis had crucified the Jews in Germany. But what did this have to do with Palestinians, how was Hitler connected with Palestinians? Why didn't they give the Jews land in Germany? The Palestinians didn't put them in the oven? Why are you throwing Palestinians out of their homes and replacing them with those who say they are God's chosen people? Jesus said, "You are of the synagogue of Satan! If you were Abraham's children you would do the works of Abraham! You are a liar and murderer and abide not in the truth. If God were your father you would love me, but you seek to kill me because I tell you the truth!"

And then came the Koren war, 1950. He read comic books and newspapers with cartoons depicting human waves of Asians with big smiles getting gunned down by the Americans. The cartoons didn't show the Americans getting slaughtered.

One day he heard a brother running through the housing projects where he lived with his grandmother, shouting, "The war is over in Korea, the war is over everybody." Over a half century later, the war ain't over, US troops are still stationed in South Korea and Japan. The imperialists and their running dogs are fanning the flames of war as we write.

The man who could write was a born writer. His earliest memories are sitting atop his father's desk pecking on the typewriter. The photograph is lost. But he remembers sitting there pecking and watching his dad lay out the type for his newspaper The Fresno Voice. He was two, three or four. It took him a long time to understand how his dad could lay the type spelling the words backwards.

For a Gemini, writing comes natural. He loves communication, observation and studying people, looking at their walk, dress, eyes, smile, voice, language.

Now some of his observation skills came from his grandmother, especially after his parents moved from Fresno to Oakland. Grandma's hands were precious in his life, even more than his mother's. He loved his grandmother like a hog loves slop, like a Negro loves pork chops! He read his first black book at Granny's, her old raggedy copy of Booker T. Washington's Up From Slavery.

His mother was busy with six children and wrestling with his dad. Mom eventually broke up with his dad and later hooked up with another man. The man who could write was all in his mama's business, til she had to put him out in his senior year in high school. She rented him a room since he was way out of control, attacking her new man with a knife.

Mom was only trying to have a life, just as he was, but he was in her business, as if she didn't have a right to her life!

I love you Mom for putting me out--children need to stay out of their moma's business, especially boys suffering that Oedipus complex! Get yo motherfucking ass out yo mama's bizness! Yo mama got a right to fuck whomever she want to fuck, big time gangsta ass nigguh, juvenile delinquent. That's yo mama's pussy, not yours, big time! Get you a life, nigguh!

When his dad moved to Oakland from Fresno, after fiduciary crimes in real estate, he became a florist on Seventh Street in West Oakland, so the budding writer grew up with the Scott brothers, Paul Cobb, Leon Teasley, Roy Overalls, Curtis and Oscar Simmons, Alvis and Billy Ray Ward, Penneywell, and others, some of whom became violent gangsters, including his brother Ollie.

After a lifetime of violence, pimping, drug dealing, and long prison time, only now is he enjoying his brother's love, although his brother tells him after a life of crime and prison, he don't know how to love, to accept love. His brother often meets him downtown at his Academy of Da Corner, 14th and Broadway. At Da Corner, he and his brother meet the few childhood friends still alive, Paul Cobb, Willie Reems, Freddie Boone, Ralph Scott, et al.

In childhood, the budding writer loved Jackie Adams, from the second grade to junior high at Lowell. But she had brothers cock blocking, so he never got to her. At Lowell he was on the basketball team, along with Joe Ellis, who went on to play for the Warriors. He fell in love with Doris Elliott, a cheer leader, especially after she rocked his world by sticking her tongue in his mouth. He's never been quite the same.

For many years, Dad's florist shop was at 7th and Campbell, down the block from Campbell Village, the notorious housing projects in West Oakland. And they're still notorious, except that a white woman, as Paul Cobb noted, can jog pass the projects at night without fear. If the blacks curse her it's a terrorist threat, if they attack her it's a hate crime that can qualify for the death penalty. But it's not a terrorist threat when blacks disrespect each other, and black on black homicide doesn't qualify for the death penalty. Why?

Granny used to sit in the window of the living quarters in back of the shop. There was a window in his bedroom that looked out onto Seventh Street, though the window was on Campbell. From the window one could see half way down the block on Seventh, from Campbell Street to the Lincoln Theatre, in between were a bar, cafe and clubs, enough activity for Granny to have an eye view of action never scene in her little country world of the dirty South (Oklahoma) and in Central California, although there was a little activity in Fresno's Chinatown, with clubs and gambling houses for the mainly agricultural workers, grape cutters, cotton pickers and choppers, watermelon pitchers, mostly black and Mexican.

Many nights Granny would send his uncle and mother to rescue his grandfather from El Gato Negro, a bar and gambling house on G Street. After a time, his uncle Stan would come out with the boy's grandfather, Johnny Murrill, stumbling drunk and broke again. His mother couldn't understand how or why her father could work all week in the hot fields then mess off his money on the weekends drinking and gambling. But isn't this the ritual of many men throughout the world, the wage slaves who must medicate themselves rather than fight the oppressor, even beat their wives and girlfriends but never approach the oppressive boss who is pimping them to death.

From her seat in the window on Campbell and 7th Street, Granny would sit for hours late nights, especially on the weekends, watching Negroes on Seventh Street "acting a fool," she said. Sometimes she would let her grandson watch the high Negro drama, the bumper to bumper cars cruising pass, 7th Street wall to wall with Negroes, dressed clean as a mosquito's tweeter, in and out of clubs, cafes, restaurants, the Lincoln Theatre watching all black movies, this was Nigguh Heaven! No matter the segregation, Negroes were in their world, doing their thing without the presence of the white man. When the police came, the boy saw them get their asses whupped, sometimes in broad daylight.

Granny had to force him out the window and into bed, especially after 2am when the clubs closed and activity slowed or Negroes slipped into the after hours clubs. Now Slim Jenkins was at the other end of Seventh, toward the Army base and Navy Supply Center. At Slim's was the very best jazz and shows, including Josephine Baker, Earl Father Hines and an array of others from the black world.

Seventh Street was thus Harlem of the West, although across the Bay was Fillmore Street, but more blacks lived in Oakland, so it was more intense than San Francisco, although his dad would often drive the family across the bridge to Frisco to the "black belt" district of Fillmore. And there it was the same, Negroes "acting a fool," having fun, laughing, shouting, cussing, fighting, loving, hating, stabbing, getting busted by the police.

On Seventh Street the military police were out in full force, intervening fights with Negro civilians and those in uniform, usually over women in the clubs, or AWOL soldiers.

Aside from elementary school writings that astounded his classmates, such as a story based on his reading of Earl Stanley Gardner mysteries and watching Dragnet on TV and absorbing the vocabulary, the budding writer had stories in the Children's Section of the Oakland Tribune.
--Marvin X
5/30/10

Comments on the Parable of the Negro as Terrorist

From: Marvin X Jackmon
To: Lionel Mandy <lmandy@csulb.edu

Sent: Thu, May 27, 2010 11:58:38 AM
Subject: Parable of the Negro as Terrorist

Mandy, what an awesome statement you made, yet how true. The tragedy of your statement is that is has far flung implications for the social psychology of our community. I was recently attacked and had the mike snatched from my hand at Oakland's Laney College for, among other things, saying the lesbians and gays are misdirected with their focus on their sexuality as opposed to their humanity, since we were brought over here as human beings regarded as property, not for our sexuality, so how can that be our focus? But lesbians are now en vogue because of what? In war the men are destroyed and the women taken as booty. So our women are now booty to each other, donning the persona of the man in many cases, yet ignorant of the tragic reality that their sexuality is directly related to the destruction of their men.
--Marvin X

From: Lionel Mandy
To: Marvin X Jackmon
Sent: Thu, May 27, 2010 11:42:42 AM
Subject: Parable of the Negro as Terrorist

Greetings Marvin from socal! How are you?

We have just successfully graduated a new class of mentally incarcerated students at CSULB, and are now preparing for the next class. It is just as true that mental incarceration takes place in our institutions of lower learning as it is that our freedom fighters are trained in the penitentiary.

Be well.

Lionel Mandy

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Parable of the Man who talked to no one

Parable of the Man Who Talked to No One


I'm the dope man. I got the best dope in town. I challenge anyone to test my dope, yes, my thirty hitter. When some brothers heard me say I had a thirty hitter book, one of them flashed on his past life on dope.

He said once an African brother told him he had some twenty hitter dope. The brother had no knowledge of dope so it didn't mean anything to him until he let a dope fiend friend test it. The dope fiend went into an epileptic seizure. The other brothers present didn't try to help the dope fiend having the seizure but stepped over him to get the dope that caused the seizure in their friend. The dope fiend's mantra is "Give me the dope that killed my buddy."

So yes, I have a thirty hitter book of conscious knowledge. You can't call me on the phone for my dope. I don't have no phone. If you don't know me, I don't want to know you cause I got the best dope in town and it sells itself. If you ain't no hundred dollar nigguh, I don't want to fuck with you. Why do I want to fuck with a two dollar nigguh when I got hunid dollar dope? Don't come near me wit yo two dollar dope money. See Joe, Willie, Sam, Betty, Petra with the two dollar nigguh dope package.

One hit and you butt naked, in the middle of the street foaming at the mouth. Bells ringing in yo ears. Now see if that happens with your two dollar book, five, ten, twenty or thirty dollar book!

Read one parable and your life is blown, you realize you've been a sucker your whole life, a trick.
Read the Parable of the Real Woman, Parable of the Woman in the Box, Parable of the Pit Bull, Parable of the Gangsta, Parable of the Heart, any of them will spring your mind and rock your world!

Don't call me because I have no phone and you have nothing to say except bullshit of the highest order. You want to tell me you want to write a book but people tell me that every day of the week and not one of you have listened to my advice. Write one page a day, after thirty days get back to me with your thirty pages. Not one of you "nigguhs" have gotten back to me, so leave me the fuck alone in my, yes, negrocities, since I'm the "real" Negro, and you are, what, the fake?

Leave me alone, at least I am productive and creative, can you say the same?
--Marvin X
5/27/10

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Parable of the Man Who Fell


Parable of the Man Who Fell


He fell once and vowed to never fall again. He suffered a rotor cuff injury that has lasted for months, years, since he refused an operation of questionable success rate. So he suffered with pain in his arm, though he vowed to never fall again, no matter what, the slippery kitchen floor after mopping, or any other possible accident.

He knew to fall could be fatal at worse, long suffering at the least. Each day he said to himself, I must not fall, no matter what.

I cannot fall, and yet it happened, one day he was coming back from the store and seeing some dogs running loose, he freaked.

As he crossed the street he was focused on the dogs and forgot the curb, so he hit the curb and hit the ground, spilling his bag of eggs, links, and liquor--thankfully, his liquor didn't break, nor did the eggs, but his body was hurt, hands, shoulder, yes, the same one with the rotor cuff injury.

Fear caused his injury. His friend had been attacked by a pit bull and had his face transformed, so he had a mortal fear of suffering a similar injury from a dog. He had a fear of dogs anyway, no matter his friend's injury. Of course dogs came into the hood with gentrification and the hip hop generation with their pit bulls, sagging pants, gold teeth, insane raps, beats and nursery rhymes.

But no excuses, he simply fell and busted his ass. So he warned all elders to watch their steps, their fears and illusions, for the dogs may have been quite harmless, yet in his mind they were a big thing.
--Marvin X
5/27/10

Parable of the Negro as Terrorist









Parable of the Negro as Terrorist

In the end the Negro will be the terrorist!
--Amiri Baraka

American Muslim terrorists are recruited in US prisons.
--Charles Colson, Christian Prison Ministries

Terrorism is the consequence of political ostracism, not religious fanaticism. It is fermented
not in the mosques of Egypt or the madrassas of Pakistan but in the solitary confinement
cells, torture chambers, and the environment of fear wielded by dictatorial regimes.
--Ayman Al Amir, journalist

The weapons of today are not guns but consciousness.
--Fidel Castro

As the people on the lowest level of American society, it must be expected and accepted that the so-called Negro, aka North American African, African American, has every right to make revolution, to seize power from the hands of the oppressor, that 1-10 % of the ruling class who own 90% of the wealth.

The so-called Negro is the outsider, the rejected and despised who feels no loyalty whatsoever to the United Snakes of America. He gives a tinkers damn about terrorists coming to destroy America. He reacted with glee on 9/11 as the chickens came home to roost! We recorded the response of the masses on 9/11 in Newark, New Jersey, downtown at Broad and Market. Their point of view has never been seen or heard--an agent provocateur seized the video tapes.

In the depths of his prison cell, why shouldn't he listen to Muslim inmates teaching him fundamental Islam, yes, that radical version that instructs him to give his life to fight oppression, that persecution is worse than slaughter? After all, he is indeed slaughtered in the streets of the hood, a death lighter than a feather. In life he is treated worse than a dog, a horse, for America would never treat a dog or horse as she treats the so-called Negro.

Yes, he has a black President who is afraid to say the word black, to openly address any black issues, fearing the right wing and left wing pseudo liberals will cry partiality , so he languishes in the same squalor he has for centuries, jobless, homeless, mentally depressed, diseased, miseducated, incarcerated, separated and alienated (even when he's in the house) from his woman and children.

The so-called Negro thus has the human and divine right to revolt, to make radical changes in the status quo, yes, by any means necessary. In the process of standing up, of shedding the persona of the stunted man, the mentally destabilized, he shall be called terrorist.

But one man's terrorist is another's freedom fighter. Was not George Washington and his buddies considered terrorists by the Mother country England? How did Batista describe Fidel Castro? Was not freedom fighter Nelson Mandela imprisoned for being a terrorist? The freedom fighters Hamas and Hezbollah, the Viet Cong, Black Panthers? Who did J. Edgar Hoover say was a threat to the national security of the United States? Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Elijah Muhammad, SNCC, CORE, NAACP or any leader or potential leader or freedom fighter.

What does such a label matter to the oppressed, life is more than a label, it is the existential reality that matters. The only thing that matters is how the freedom fighters view themselves and how the oppressed masses view them, not the state sponsored intellectuals, reactionary artists, pharonic loving entertainers, those buffoons, coons, minstrels, the black bourgeoisie, especially the elected politicians who bathe in corruption and enslavement to lobbyists of the most servile kind, the religious sycophants and other collaborators with oppression.

What matters is who feeds the poor when hungry, who will give them a dollar for a hamburger, a cup of coffee; who educates them with conscious literature that makes them thirst for more; who gives them medical care when their feet are sore, blood pressure high, or have a tooth ache; who clothes them when naked, who counsels them when there is partner violence; who teaches them how to focus their anger on the oppressor rather than each other, especially their mate.

Yeah, beat your boss! I made the mistake of asking for the boss at a Communist book store in San Francisco. The comrades laughed and said, "Boss? We killed the boss. That's what the revolution was about. We are the boss!"

Yes, those who fight the exploiter of their labor shall be called terrorists by the robbers, who rob with the backing of police and military, with the blessing of the religious swine and educated elite, the media jackanapes who perpetuate the world of make believe to keep the oppressed addicted to conspicuous consumption, drunk on trinkets, gadgets, animal skins, rocks and dope. Dr. Nathan Hare tells us no amount of such illusions and diversions will satisfy the social angst and shattered cultural strivings of the oppressed. Only through the process of revolution can the oppressed regain their mental equilibrium or sanity, their mental health, the precursor to their physical health, economic, spiritual and political health.

Rise up, so-called negro, throw the chains off your brains! You can call me joe, willie, sam, but I don't give a damn about you, Babylon the Great!
--Marvin X
5/27/10

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Parable of I Shot the Sheriff

!
Parable of I Shot the Sheriff


Jamaica is caught up in the drama of drugs, guns and politics, much like Mexico and America, the ultimate destination for drugs and the transport point of guns that is not a "drug war" but the every day, business as usual filthy capitalist swine globalism. Just as in Mexico, the Jamaican drug war in Kingston cannot be separated from politics. The party in power apparently has been long involved in narcotics trafficking, and probably the opposition party as well.

Similarly, in the US, there are politicians known for having their hands in the cookie jar of the drug cartels. The assassination of journalist Chauncey Bailey was supposedly because he was researching the involvement of then Mayor Jerry Brown (now running for governor of Cali) and the Oakland Police Department in the drug trade. Jerry Brown's Internet records as mayor disappeared when he departed to become Calif attorney general. Ironically, the present mayor Ron Dellums asked the attorney general to investigate the investigation of Chauncey's assassination. We say the investigator of the investigation needs to be investigated. Supposedly, the OPD were working in tandem with Oakland's Mexican d rug gangs to eliminate black drug dealers and replace them with members of the Mexican cartel. The Muslims were used to launder drugs, money and jewelry seized by the OPD, then ordered to whack Chauncey. Well, the chief adviser and mentor of the young Muslim brothers was a police officer who was also in charge of the crime scene, who also lead a raid on the Muslim compound less than 24 hours after the assassination, seizing the murder weapon and getting a suspect to confess.

Dudus Coke, aka Da Prez


Meanwhile, back in Jamaica, Kingston is under seize with police and soldiers supposedly looking for the drug kingpin who's vowed not to be t aken alive, fearing the fate of his father who was burned alive in jail while awaiting extradition to the US. Someone feared he might sing like a little black bird.

His son vows he won't be a black bird, and apparently he has an army of the poor to protect him since he is considered their Robin Hood, feeding, schooling and burying the poor, a de facto governor of the underclass in this highly stratified society of upper class mulattoes and underclass dark skinned Africans.

In the police/army siege of a Kingston neighborhood, 44 people have died so far, and Robin Hood is nowhere to be found. I shot the sheriff, but I didn't get the deputy!
--Marvin X
5/26/10

P.S. Happy birthday Ancestor Miles Dewey Davis!

Monday, May 24, 2010

Parable of the Negro


Parable of the Negro

M There are insulting rumors buzzing around that PN is a real N ! AB
M replies to AB: I rather be a real N than a fake N!

Marvin X loves being a Negro or so called Negro, since Elijah taught us there is no such thing as a Negro, he is a fictional being in the mythology of white supremacy. The Negro is in reality a Divine being, a being of supreme spiritual consciousness, the Master Builder, who laid the corner stone, the stone the builders rejected, the black stone.

He was like Hiram Biff, knocked in the head and left in a shallow grave of ignorance, deaf, dumb and blind, without knowledge of self and kind.

But his uncle came to him in the wilderness of North America and wakened him to knowledge of self and kind, otherwise known as Supreme Wisdom. We give praise to Marcus Garvey, Noble Drew Ali, Master Fard Muhammad, Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., for the spiritual awakening of the so called Negro, aka Aboriginal Asiatic Black Man, the Maker, Owner, Father and God of the planet earth.

This is essential wisdom, black studies 101. If you don't know this, you know nothing of black history and mythology, which are one, history and mythology are essentially one story. The myth cannot exist without the history and the history cannot exist without the myth.

If you cannot accept the mythology of Elijah Muhammad and the mythology of Sun Ra, which are very similar, and both emanated from Chicago and Detroit, then you obviously accept Western mythology and/or African mythology, though neither are your primal mythology.

At this point you will have problems purchasing Marvin X's one hundred dollar book The Wisdom of Plato Negro, Parables/fables. You will dismiss him as a Negro, although he is far from being a Negro, in fact, he has been called the most free black man in non-free America!

So no matter how much you want to make him a Negro, and no matter how much he desires to be categorized as a Negro, since he cherishes the classical Negro culture of the 20s through the 60s, when black people had class, dignity and respect among themselves (no matter what the white man thought of them)yes, in the depths of segregation, yet there was Harlem, Fillmore,
Seventh Street, black restaurants, hotels, movie houses, clubs. Today you are Black, African American, Pan African, but you have nothing, Harlem is gone, Fillmore, Seventh Street, and elsewhere. Yet you so black , so African. In Oakland every black club has been closed down by the shake down police gang. Gentrification has eaten your asses alive, with blacks collaborating of course, yes, just as they did during slavery. So call me the so-called Negro.

Marvin X is the highest representation of Aboriginal black culture in the world. Why else would Dr. Nathan Hare call him still the undisputed king of Black Consciousness? Reader, do you sense a little of Muhammad Ali's bravado in Marvin X?

--Marvin X, aka Plato Negro
5/26/10
www.parablesandfablesofmarvinx.blogspot.com

Academy of Da Corner Reader's Theatre performing The Wisdom of Plato Negro and poetry by Marvin X

Academy of Da Corner Reader's Theatre
segment of a performance at the
Oakland African American Museum Library
Saturday, May 15, 2010

Video and editing by Ken Johnson

Featuring Phavia Khujichagulia
reading Parable of the Green Revolution

Rasheedah Sabreen singing original lyrics

Marvin X reading Dreamtime
from Land of My Daughters, poems, 2005

The event celebrated the release of his latest book
The Wisdom of Plato Negro, Parables/fables
311 pages
$100.00
Black Bird Press
1222 Dwight Way, Berkeley CA 94702
jmarvinx@yahoo.com

Now available for tour dates nationwide
Contact his agent:
Muhammida El Muhajir
Sun in Leo Productions
718-496-2305

Parable of the White Woman

Parable of the White Woman


The white woman is the skunk of the planet earth.
--Elijah Muhammad

The white woman is the white man in drag.
--Dr. Nathan Hare


A brother told Plato Negro his son was hooked up with a white woman. Plato Negro asked the father what did his son know about the white woman--he don't even have a clue who the white woman is, but he shall find out. They have been taking Negroes out since Othello and before.

A young brother hooked up with a white woman to have sex. He went over his sister's house to have sex but his sister was not home. She had told her neighbors if they hear any noise from her apartment, please call the police since she was a frequent victim of domestic violence.

When the brother's sister didn't answer the door, he and the white woman broke into the house to have sex. Hearing the noise, the neighbors called the police. When they arrived, the white woman immediately cried rape since she was facing other criminal charges and didn't want a breaking and entering charge.

The young brother went to prison for ten years behind the fake rape charge. After doing ten years, and upon his release, he had to register as a sex offender.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Parable of the Father Who Lost Two Sons


Parable of the Man
Who Lost Two Sons



One son was physically dead, the other son was spiritually dead. He loved them both so it was crushing to lose both in the war with white supremacy America, but he did, as many other parents lost children, especially sons. His friend, Dr. Salat (RIP) lost two sons as well, one had life in prison, the other in and out of prison, so basically he lost two sons. This grieved him unto death, even more so because he had had a most beautiful relationship with his father, who used to dress him as he dressed himself and drive him around in the latest model cars, introducing him to his father's women who treated the son as a royal child, blessing him with money and other gifts.

But the man who lost two sons grieved, not only for the son physically departed, but the son still alive but spiritually dead (in the father's mind), the son who avoided his father at every turn, yet he could never equal his father in many ways, just as his father could not equal his father no matter how hard he tried. For the father's father was a great man in his own right, and there were people who constantly reminded the son how great his father was, a man of the people.

So the son of the son knew he could not outdo his father, no matter what he accomplished, even though he was a master builder himself. His son was a Christian who managed the construction of his church's family center. The preachers told the father that the family center was his son's, not theirs, since the son had managed the laying of every brick.

His son was thus a master builder, yet he could not out build the father, just as the father could not out build his father. It was crystal clear to the father that he could not out do his father. His father was a Race Man, a man of the people. He was a social man who mixed with the people, while the son had no intention to be a social animal, who was at best a nerd who lived a reclusive life, only coming out to the public on occasion to perform, speak or when he appeared on the street to teach at his Academy of Da Corner, 14th and Broadway, Oakland.

So the son of the son avoided his father at every turn, even when he came to the family compound, which was rare, he would not come to his father's house, but went to his sister's house, rather than his father's house in the rear, even though the father's door was open and the father could hear his son's voice in the back yard.

You might say the father should have reached out to his son, but he had tried to reach out to his son on many occasions, but the son had issues of abandonment and emotional abuse, so he avoided the father like the plague, or he would speak, embrace, but there would be no conversation.


Maybe there was hatred of the father induced by the mother!

You might say why didn't the father walk out his door to greet his son in the backyard, but the father was in traumatized as well. Only now was he beginning to heal from the transition of his son. Having his grandson in the front house helped his healing. He could see the spirit of his son in his grandson, even his physical appearance, and especially his intelligence.

The father relented and went into his daughter's house to greet his son who welcomed him with open arms. His son's wife had died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, leaving the son to raise two children, a twin boy and girl.

He greeted his granddaughter as well, who questioned him about his new book The Wisdom of Plato Negro, Parables/fables.

She didn't understand the symbolic meaning of the Parable of the Elephant. You can be the elephant, granddaughter, he said, you run track but can be treated as an elephant, standing on one leg, representing yourself as a track star, but yet you can be regarded as the elephant, doing tricks for the glorification of your trainer. The father turned to his son to co-sign his remarks to his granddaughter. His son co-signed.

Of course the father loved his son who was his namesake and a good husband and father, especially now that he was raising his children alone. The son had always been a leader, even while playing football in college, he was captain of the defense. The father had watched his son sack many quarterbacks. He tried out for the 49rs, but gave up football after he was cut. He worked as a computer program manager and was a deacon at his church. So the father was proud of his son's intelligence and spirituality, although he had problems with his religiosity, but the father never pushed religion on his children. His three daughters had evolved beyond religiosity to spirituality. He prayed his son would one day expand his spiritual consciousness.
--Marvin X
5/22/10

Parable of Sun Ra

Parable of Sun Ra

Happy birthday to my most precious ancestor, friend, mentor, teacher, comrade, associate, Sun Ra. I miss him so much yet he has never nor never shall leave my life, my heart, my soul.

I am Sun Ra in living flesh and art. There is nothing else to say. All that I am of theatre is due to Sun Ra, all that I am to philosophy is due to Sun Ra, all that I am as an man and beyond man is due to Sun Ra.

May Ra be praised! There is no way in heaven or earth you can understand Marvin X unless you understand the Ra influence.
--Marvin X
5/22/10


In celebration of his time on
Planet Earth, we invite you to re tune
yourself to the universe and explore
the unknown.

It's what Sun Ra would have
wanted.

http://www.jazzonthetube.com/videos/sun-ra/happy-birthday-sun-ra.html

- Lester Perkins
Jazz on the Tub

Parable of a Dying White Man



Parable of a Dying White Man

He was the agent for the sale of my archives. My daughter said he was an arrogant bastard, dad, just like you! Only difference, he was a rich arrogant bastard. He was highly intelligent, like you dad, my daughter Nefertiti said.

He had a book store with an excellent collection of black literature, one of the best on the West coast or East coast, thousands of volumes. But Peter was steeped in world literature, but well read in black literature. He sold my archives to the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley. Among other black authors, he'd also sold the archives of Eldridge Cleaver and Ishmael Reed. He was in the process of selling the archives of Joyce Carol Thomas, another black author.

Peter became a friend, even though he was a white supremest. Yes, he helped me more than anyone in obtaining several thousand dollars at a time when I needed several thousand dollars.
But when I came to him for help publishing my book How To Recover From the Addiction to White Supremacy, he told me he would not help me because he and his friends were not trying to recover, actually, they loved white supremacy and would bomb the world to keep white supremacy.

On another occasion he said he would help me if there was a way to make me part of "the family." He tried to find a way, sincerely he did, but it didn't work out, so I never made it into his family to get the help needed.

When he read my monograph Mythology of Pussy, he said it was not for black people, but for him (meaning white people). In other words, the nature or the subject matter was beyond black people since it dealt with patriarchal mythology, the essence of white supremacy oppression and domination.

During his perusal of Mythology, he told me to shut up and let him finish. I found this ironic since a friend in Philly allowed a white woman to read the monograph and she also told him to shut up and let her finish, even told him to leave her house if he wasn't going to be quiet. He left her house but peeked through the window to see her still absorbing the Mythology and emailing her friends to read it.

But pancreatic cancer is taking my friend out. He knows the show is over. He seems very bitter that God has cursed him, yet he knows God is the one with the power here, no matter how much money he has or had.

He used to brag about how much money he had. "I just went to New York and purchased the archives of a friend for $200,000. I didn't need the stuff, but I wanted to help my friend.

You know a check came to my book store the other day for $45,000.00. I don't know where it is, but it'll show up. I'm not worried about it."

And so my friend is going down slow. And I confess I love him because he helped me like no other person on this earth. And, yes, as my daughter Nefertiti said, he is an arrogant/intelligent bastard, very much like myself.

--Marvin X
5/21/10

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Order Now the Works of Marvin X







Black Bird Press Books
1222 Dwight Way, Berkeley CA 94702




The Works of Marvin X


















Order Now!


Quite extraordinary! Who else in America publishes two and three books a year? Who else within the Black Community engages our folks daily to liberate themselves in real and cyberspace? Congratulations! on your wondrous achievements.
--Rudolph Lewis, Editor, Chickenbones.com, A Journal

The Wisdom of Plato Negro, Parables/fables
Volumes I and II, 2010
by Marvin X


Black Bird Press
1222 Dwight Way Berkeley CA 94702
570 pages, 2010
$100.00


He's the USA's Rumi!
--Bob Holman, Bowery Poetry Club, NYC

Marvin X is Plato teaching on the streets of Oakland.
--Ishmael Reed

Jeremiah, I presume.
Rudolph Lewis, Found Editor Chickenbones: A Journal

Is Marvin X a parable or fable? We doubt a Marvin X exists!
We double doubt there is a Plato Negro!
--Amiri Baraka



He is a Master Teacher in many fields of thought—religion and psychology, Sociology and anthropology, history and politics, literature and the humanities.

He is a needed Counselor, for he knows himself, on the deepest of personal levels and he reveals that self to us, that we might be his beneficiaries…. If you want to reshape (clean up, raise) your consciousness, this is a book to savor, to read again and again—to pass onto a friend or lover.


….Malcolm X ain’t got nothing on Marvin X. Still Marvin has been ignored and silenced like Malcolm would be ignored and silenced if he had lived on into the Now.

Marvin’s one of the most extraordinary, exciting black intellectuals living today—writing, publishing, performing with Sun Ra’s Musicians (Live in Philly at Warm Daddies, available on DVD from BPP), reciting, filming, producing conferences (Kings and Queens of Black Consciousness, San Francisco Black Radical Book Fair); he’s ever engaging, challenging the respectable and the comfortable. He like Malcolm, dares to say things fearlessly, in the open (in earshot of the white man) that so many Negroes feel, think and speak on the corner, in the barbershops and urban streets of black America….

Rudolph Lewis, Editor, ChickenBones: A Journal





…People who know Marvin X already know him as a peripatetic, outspoken, irreverent, poetic “crazy nigger,” whose pen is continually and forever out-of-control. As a professional psychologist, I hasten to invoke the disclaimer that that is in no way a diagnosis or clinical impression of mine. I have never actually subjected this brother to serious psychoanalytical scrutiny and have no wish to place him on the couch, if only because I know of no existing psycho-diagnostic instrumentality of pathology of normalcy that could properly evaluate Marvin completely.

Dr. Nathan Hare, Black Think Tank, San Francisco




Mythology of Pussy and Dick, toward Healthy Psychosocial Sexuality by Marvin X, 416 pages, $49.95

Monday, May 17, 2010

Marvin X Jet.mp4

Parable of the Tour


Parable of the Tour
The poet on tour must stay focused because he cannot get hung up at any point, in any town or in transit. The rule is simple: not only must you get in the pussy but you must get out the pussy. Don't be like R. Kelly and end up in the closet with a 9mm. No, be on focus and understand you must stay on your Ps and Qs at every point. You have a schedule, planes to catch, trains to board, so you cannot get caught up at any point.

Baby girl might look good, and the pussy might be good but you can't get stuck in the pussy and miss your flight. What you look like with your dick in your hand and heart racing?

So stay focused. Get up early, travel light, and don't travel with fools and square ass nigguhs. Nigguhs want to keep earphones in their ears while on the New York subway. Naw, nigguh, you better be aware of your surroundings and check out everything moving. You miss a stop and your appointment is blown, forget it! In New York ain't none of that Cali bullshit bout arriving an hour late, or five minutes late, naw, nigguh, be on time or forget it with that Cali bullshit.

You can't get caught up tripping with a punk ass nigguh in some ignut dirty south town, in the Big H or ATL, naw, let them ignut dirty south nigguhs go. You got to be in DC in the morning. DC is bad enough, south enough. Want some sweet tea and dirty rice?

Don't trip in DC, you got to be in Philly, yeah, the funky Philly Dog, then Newark. Oh, Lord, Red Cap said Newark and them nigguhs jumped off the train, thought the Red Cap said New York! They been in Newark ever since, never been to New York.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Rudolph Lewis
Rudolph LewisMay 12, 2010 at 2:34pm
Re: Parables, Fables, Musings of Plato Negro by Marvin X: Parable of the Reader's Theatre
Brother, you always amaze me. The way you can turn out a piece every day of the year, 356 days, or however many there are you are always on the case, sometimes three or four pieces if there is a hot subject. I mean all over the wide wide world web. And be on Da corner, too. Fantastic!

You know, I like those Westerns--I was born and raised up in that age--in which there is always some white cat (tall and rugged) who is handy with a gun, you know, the fastest gun or firearmed man in the West, especially in those Spaghetti Westerns out of Italy in which Clint Eastwood became so famous.

Well, if it wasn't the fastest hand it was the man with the biggest balls in town who just couldn't be stared down or the man in which bullets just passed him by without putting holes in his garments.

Well, Brother Marvin, you got the fastest pen or fingers (as it would be in our computer age) in the West. You have no peer in that regard. You are the Great One of the Internet. You have no match: none can stand up to the work you do daily. You are omnipresent, like a god. In nour case a Black God whose nose is still in tact.

I like this piece O Great One, this "Toward A Readers Theatre." I will try to get up on ChickenBones as fast as I can. Keep in mind I don't have your power, your energy, your speecd. So you'll have to be patient with my shortcmongs.

Loving you madly Rudy

Rudolph Lewis, Editor
ChickenBones: A Journal

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Parable of the Mike


Parable of the Mike


Oakland's Laney College black bourgeoisie administration demanded BSU leaders seize the mike from Marvin X, poet, playwright, essayist and former instructor in the Laney College theatre department. Seizing the mike was better than having me arrested by campus police as the administration did back in 1981 when I taught theatre.

Marvin X was invited to Laney by BSU students to celebrate Malcolm X. The theme was Malcolm X Beyond Militancy. BSU leaders briefed Marvin on what they wanted him to address. They wanted him to speak on student apathy, disunity, lack of radical consciousness. They begged him to "wake the students up with something strong that will make them think."

Marvin took the mike and tried to honor his hosts. He first cited the theme Malcolm X Beyond Militancy. He said you can be militant about anything, a skateboard, a football game, but it ain't revolutionary. Malcolm was a revolutionary who called for radical change, this is beyond militant.
If students are not trying to be revolutionary and talk about change and seizing power, then they should not use the name Malcolm X, they should keep Malcolm out of their mouths!

Your lackadaisical , passive attitude will get you out of Laney College because budget cuts are coming after you. And if you don't demand your rights to the budget, you will not be here. So continue partying and bullshitting, Marvin X said, quoting his comrades from the Black Arts Movement, the Last Poets. Yes, just keep partying and bullshitting and you will not be here. Already, you black brothers are lucky to be here. For every one of you here, four of your brothers are in prison, so you should take seriously what your mission is here.

You can try to get an edumakation, but you better try to do what Huey, Bobby, myself and others did at Merritt College back in the day. We studied on our own, studied black consciousness and other subjects. We didn't wait for teachers to tell us shit. We were self directed.

Now I know most of only care about pussy and dick matters. Who's fucking whom and related matters. You brothers think your girl's pussy is yours, but brother, check it out, you don't have a pusssy! Do you bleed five days a month, brother? Then you don't have a pussy. She has a pussy and she can do what she wants with it. (Applause from women)

Now you gays and lesbians think it's all about your sexuality, but you weren't brought on slave ships because you were gay or lesbian. It was because you were human beings regarded as property, so get that straight. It ain't about your sexuality but your humanity! (Slight boos from gays and lesbians).

Just know you are not at Laney College for pussy and dick games, but to help liberate your people!

About this time a BSU brother told Marvin the faculty supervisor demanded he take the mike, so Marvin X gave it to him, ending with As-Salaam-Alaikum!

Parable of the Reader's Theatre



Parable of the Reader's Theatre

We're looking good. I have some thoughts on the Reader's Theatre, but the very concept of theatre is a communal experience or ritual. There is no way the individual can survive in theatre, even the greatest "one man show" is far from a one man show--the "one man show" needs the technical crew, light man, sound man, director, stage manager, costume, make up, house man, promotion team, advance man, bookkeeper, etc. So there is no one man show.

Toward A Reader's Theatre
in memory of Quentin Easter,
co-founder Lorraine Hansberry Theatre, SF

This is a peripatetic theatre, a way to teach literacy and literature. It is a restoration of the oral tradition, as ancient as the Nile River and the mighty waters of the Congo. The Academy of da Corner Reader's Theatre is classic guerrilla theatre, on the move, striking here, there, unannounced. It is theatre of the people, dealing with critical issues, life and death matters of the heart, soul and body, offering radical solutions always, revolutionary solutions, no Miller lite here. No soft shoe, no shuffle. This is raw dope, uncut, paramedic theatre. We went there in the Black Arts Theatre, Black Educational Theatre and Recovery Theatre, especially. People cried like they were at their mama's funeral, crocodile tears. No suit and tie theatre, this is butt naked drama, no sittin still but run out to the street screaming at the reality of their lives in the mirror.

This is surgery for the broken hearted and broken minds. There must be detox and recovery from addiction to colonialism and neo-colonialism. It is theatre of action, of healing, recovery and discovery. Who are you and what is your purpose? Why are you breathing precious air, drinking precious water? What is love? What is the self? What is communal? What is time? What is history? What is infinite? What are the possibilities of life?

What are these roles we play as sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, lovers, husbands, wives, elders, ancestors? What is the music and dance in the silence of the wind? The actor must prepare himself/herself before appearing on stage. There is a prepping, a meditation, a oneness with the wind. This is not theatre of ego. It is theatre as healer, as doctor in the house, but the doctor must heal himself/herself. Don't come on stage sick to death with ego. The people don't want to see ego, they want to see themselves to heal themselves, don't make them sicker than they already are. To heal is to show compassion, love and patience.

In short, this Reader's Theatre is a continuation of our most ancient dramatic tradition, from that Nile Valley Osirian drama of resurrection through the revolutionary black arts, to recovery theatre of the present era. We shall perform in public and secret, in the city and in the country, in the woods, in the forest, among the trees, hills and quiet waters, but also on the street corner, in the ally, jail, prison, dope house, hoe house, your mama's house!

We are the guerrilla, ever on the move, jabbing, stabbing, hitting, running, appearing, disappearing, the shadow, the ghost, the mirror on the wall.

--Marvin X
5/12/10

Monday, May 10, 2010

Parable of Stormy Weather




Parable of Stormy Weather





Stormy Weather was the little boy's favorite song. He remembers going to the drive-in theatre in his dad's Model T Ford to watch the all black movie starring Lena Horne. The movie came out in 1943 and he came out in 1944, so he had to be two or three years old when he saw it.

His dad was a Race Man who claimed he knew Lena back in Indiana. Dad told him many fish stories. But who knows, maybe he did know Lena. He said he met Marcus Garvey in Los Angeles, or saw him there. Dad was born in 1900, fought in World War I, in the Calvary . He was a bugler who rallied the troops. He had pictures in the all black Calvary.

The little boy's mom was a farm girl who grew up in Fowler, a nearly all white town nine miles south of Fresno in the Central Valley. Mom was one of the few blacks in her high school year book. But no doubt she learned black consciousness from the man she married when she was twenty and he was forty. Together they operated a real estate business and published the Fresno Voice, the black newspaper in the valley.

The boy was his parents second child, the first being Oliver, named after his dad, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jackmon, or Owendell.

The little boy remembers all those black people on the screen at the drive-in, a contrast to the usual movie about cowboys killing Indians or Native Americans. Even though his maternal grandmother had Native American blood, he "naturally' cheered while the white man slaughtered his people.

His dad got too slick with other people's money in his real estate business, so the family moved to Oakland and opened a flower shop on 7th Street in West Oakland. His mom worked as a clerk-typist at the Naval Supply Center by the Army base at the end of 7th Street.

By this time he was five, six or seven years old, but Stormy Weather was still blasting from the juke box in clubs, cafes, barber shops and night clubs up and down 7th Street. He listened to the music while selling black newspapers such as the Chicago Defender, Pittsburg Courier and the Black Dispatch, along with Jet and Ebony magazines. His mom was the Cub Scout Den Mother, so the Cub Scouts sold periodicals to raise money.

The boy loved selling because he got a chance to hear the blues and jazz blasting inside the clubs, cafes, beauty and barber shops. Some times his brother Ollie would be with him, but usually Olllie had his own running buddies, so he might be with Leon Teasley, Curtis Simmons, John Jackson or Robert Scott, even though Robert was really Ollie's friend.

Don't know why
ain't no sun up in the sky
stormy weather
since my man and I
ain't together
keeps rainin all the time
keeps rainin all the time....

--Marvin X
5/10/10

Don't miss the Academy of Da Corner Reader's Theatre performing material from Marvin X's latest book The Wisdom of Plato Negro, Parables and Fables. The benefit for Black Bird Press happens on Saturday, May 15, 2pm, at the African American Museum Library, 14th and Martin Luther King, Jr., downtown Oakland.

Participants include Rasheedah Sabreen, Augusta Collins, Ayodele Nzingha, Alona Clifton, Ramona Massey, Geoffrey Grier, Wanda Sabir, Reginald James, Malcolm Shabazz Hoover, Charlie Walker, Paradise, Mechelle LaChaux, Baron Cope, J. Vern Cromartie, James Moore, Jr., Fuad Satterfield, Lumakonda, Ramal Lamar, Timothy Reed, James W. Sweeney, Ptah Allah El, Eugene Allen, Elliott Bey, Linda Johnson, Gregory Fields, Ken Johnson, Gene Hazzard, Adam Turner, Khalid Wajjib, Freddie Boone. Admission free, give a donation. The book is $100.00.

Order from:
Black Bird Press
1222 Dwight Way
Berkeley CA 94702

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Parable of Mother Coretta Scott King




Parable of Mother Coretta Scott King

I remember sitting in the pew of Riverside Church at the memorial for Dr. Betty Shabazz, listening and looking at Myrlie Evers-Williams and Coretta Scott King standing at the podium. I wondered at the great suffering they had endured as a result of America assassinating their husbands, Malcolm, Medgar and Martin.

The combined tragedies of Shakespeare, Macbeth, Othello, King Lear and Hamlet, cannot match the tragic dramas of these grand men and women, and especially the life of Coretta Scott King, who always maintained an aura of classic dignity and graciousness, in spite of her suffering. She established her own legacy as a chairperson of world peace and builder of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Non-violence.

In her and her late husband's honor, why can't every North American African send one dollar to make the King Center solvent and independent rather than allow the US Park Service to assume management? After all, it was the USA who killed her husband and kept both of them under surveillance for simply being the very best citizens America produced.

Coretta set the example of how we must continue the drum beat for justice, no matter what, even when our husband, wives and friends may be slain along the way. As Coretta did, we must rise above pain and personal suffering to continue resistance.

Even under the best circumstance, we know the struggle of single mothers is difficult, so we can only applaud Coretta for maintaining herself and assuming the persona of mother, father and warrior woman of her people. How blessed we are when the Lord uses us for His glory and not for our own, as He did with His servant, Mrs. Coretta Scott King. May she rest in peace with her king and the King of Kings.

Note:

In the deep structure of the Coretta Scott King story is, of course, the primordial myth of Osiris , the savior hero hacked to death by his evil, jealous brother, Seth. Coretta is the suffering Isis, and she not only represents the joint suffering of her sisters Betty Shabazz and Myrlie Evers-Williams, but all black women who have endangered husbands and sons, and are for the most part helpless to protect them from the ravages of white supremacy in America, an evil, racist society that seeks their crucifixion at every turn, by homicide, suicide, drug abuse, castration or incarceration.

The black woman, at the present hour, is searching for the loss parts of her man's soul, the part destroyed by the evil white supremacy society, so jealous and envious of black men and boys.

According to the myth, she will eventually discover his loss vital parts and revive him and herself by giving birth to his son, Horus/Heru, the avenger of his father's crucifixion.
--Marvin X
2/8/06
revised 5/9/10

Bay Area folks don't miss the black consciousness read-in/teach-in Saturday, May 15, 2pm, at the African American Museum
Library, 14th and Martin Luther King, Jr., downtown Oakland. The people
will read from the parables and fables of Marvin X, The Wisdom of Plato
Negro. Funds benefit Black Bird Press. The book is $l00.00, but the
event is free, donations accepted.

To order the book:
Black Bird Press
1222 Dwight Way
Berkeley CA 94702

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Parable of the Religious Haters



Parable of the Religious Haters

There are haters in the hood. They hate you because they hate themselves, so their hatred of you is self hatred. Their actions to block you at every turn should be called hate crimes, including most of the homicides by black on black persons, but only when a black kills a white is it declared a hate crime, so the killing of one black by another is nothing, of no consequence, as we see in the freedom of the man who killed Malcolm X, one of our greatest revolutionary heroes, but blacks quietly accept his release from prison because most of them hated Malcolm X as much as the white man, simply because they were taught to hate self and kind.

Much of the hatred in America and the hood is religious based. If one is not a certain kind of Christian, one is hated. If you are a white Christian, there are perks for you, even in heaven. You know there will be a white God, Jesus or whatever awaiting your entry to the pearly gates. Peter will allow you inside on the basis of your white face and white angels will be waiting on you hand and foot.

If you are black, do not think of going to white heaven, even though you are a Christian who said the sinner’s prayer, accepted the grace of Jesus Christ, yet you are black, so you are damned to hell, sorry! You can say you are a Christian but you can still be lynched, assassinated or whatever. Sorry!

If we could figure out a way to make you part of the white Christian family, we might be able to save you.

Bill Moyers asked liberation theologist Dr. James Cone how can blacks still believe in God, how can they still love God after our sojourn in America? Rev. Cone answered, “The question is not how we can love God, but how can we love you!”

Of course, 11am Sunday morning is still the most segregated hour in America. Clearly, there are two differing mythologies on heaven, a black one and a white one. To believe otherwise is to believe in the tooth fairy, to believe all the white racist science and knowledge taught in the schools, universities and colleges across this land, information that has put many blacks, along with whites, in mental institutions and therapy for the remainder of their lives.

But black Christians are full of hatred as well. Even though they understand very little about the racist King James version of the Holy Bible, they are willing to kill over it, especially if you are not a member of their church or sect, cult, storefront temple with ten members all family related!

Let us move from beating up Christians to those holier than thou Muslims who claim Muhammad of Arabia as their prophet, and no prophets after him, even though Chiekh Anta Diop, Dr. Ben, Drusillia Houston, J.A. Rogers and others have debunked this mythology. But the Negro Muslims are more Arab than Arabs in their addiction to racist Arab mythology that claims Muhammad as the founder of Islam, while he merely transferred ancient African teachings down to the present era, knowledge he had gleaned from the Africans, Jew, Christians and most importantly, the aboriginal Arabians!

It is a historical fact that the fundamental ideals of Islam were in Arabia a thousand years before Muhammad, especially when African and Arabia were one and the same, culturally (including linguistically), politically, economically, from the Nile to the Persian Gulf, from Saba to Jerusalem.

The Canaanites and Egyptians were brothers long before Abraham wandered into Jerusalem to give birth to the Hebrews and later the Arabs through their black mother Hajar, the Egyptian maid of Sarah, Abraham’s wife!

Thus the three great Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity and Islam) are African, as Dr. Ben taught us so many long years ago. I heard him lecture in Harlem when I came there underground as a draft resister to the war in Vietnam, 1968!

Long live Dr. Ben. Isn’t it ironic that after his attacks on Islam, mainly its racism and role in the slave trade, he could find no “black institutions, “including Harlem’s Schomberg Library and the numerous Negro colleges and universities to donate his 25,000 volume library, so he gave it to the Nation of Islam.


Muslims are supposedly those who submit to the One God, Allah. There is an interesting section of notes in the Yusef Ali translation of the Holy Qur’an entitled Egyptian Religion and its steps toward Islam. This chronology traces the rebellion of Akhenaton and his concept of the One God, including the reactionary behavior of the Amen priests who attempted to erase all evidence of his regime from Egyptian history, thankfully we are still blessed with his hymn to the Sun, one of the earliest adorations to the One God or monotheism.

His hymn to the Sun presents an aboriginal declaration to so-called monotheism, yet thousands of years before Islam, Judaism and Christianity—not actually monotheism but Trinitarian belief, established in the Council of Nicia, 332 A.D.

This only indicates man was created Muslim, one in submission to the Oneness of Creation. Did primitive man make a Shahada? No, he had enough common sense (that is not too common these days) that man lives in submission to the Supreme Being, that man is in God and God is in man!

Man is in the Sun, Moon and Stars, and the Sun, Moon and Stars are within man. Man is in the oceans, rivers, lakes, mountains, trees, fish, cows, horses, bees, ants, horses, fly, snakes and all that is vital and real with the energy of Creation.

Religion, whether Christian, Islamic, Tradition African, Jewish, Rasta, is a feeble attempt to arrive at simple Spirituality, that we are in God and God is in us!

Religion is a simple minded attempt to configure a sacred tradition for those believers so the priest craft can wield power over the ignorant believers, making them willing to kill to maintain a tradition of wretched ignorance and dogmatic religiosity.

It is a selfish maneuver of the powerful to enslave the less powerful. It will not wash in the present era of pervasive information. The priests/preachers/ministers/imams in all religions have been revealed as fakes, frauds and charlatans of the most servile kind, not to mention their sexual excesses that are an abomination before the Lord!

Of course they reject the Shaman who reveals all to those willing to hear all, willing to stand naked in the hall of truth before the god of all truth, who is willing to have his turn on the scale of balance between the feather and the lie! Somebody say Ache! Somebody say hallelujah! Somebody say Amen and Amin!

Negroes in their sick desire to latch onto anything given to them by teachers other than their own kind such as Elijah Muhammad, Noble Drew Ali and others, will kiss and suck the Arab Muslim theology hook, line and sinker, becoming more Arab than the Arab, claiming they are Sunni Muslims while the Sunni Muslim hate their asses with a passion only equaled by white American racist Christians. One o’clock Friday is the most racist hour in Islam, just as 11am Sunday is the most racist hour in Christianity!

Despite the fact that all Islamic nations have their own traditions, on saints, savior, Mahdis, Messiahs, prophets, holy cities, shrines, the Negro is too drunk with Arab myth/ritual to even consider African Islamic tradition, too stupid to understand African Sufi Islam, such as the tradition of the holy city of Tuba in Senegal and the holy warrior Bamba who fought French colonialism.

But the Negro American Muslim, especially those Sunni Negroes, will kiss Saudi Arabia into the sunset, exchanging Jesus for another Arab named Muhammad, while Muhammad acknowledged his supreme debt to the African Bilal Ibn Rahab, the first convert to Islam and the Muezzin. Muhammad said he heard Bilal's footsteps ahead of his in paradise. Seems Negroes should praise Bilal as their prophet.

But no, Negro Muslims are too sick with Arabism to give praise to Bilal. Warithdin tried until his Saudi Arabian benefactors checked him with their pocketbook! For a moment Wartithdin called his followers Bilalian, but this was too Afrocentric for the Arab racists, who at this moment could free Palestine except for their sycophantic, symbiotic relationship with Zionism and American imperialism. Thus oil politics delays the liberation of Palestine.

They will allow the Palestinians to live in squalor another hundred years rather than liberate them with their oil power, for to do so would ignite the Arab masses existing in worse conditions than the Palestinians within the quisling Arab regimes.

We support Hamas and Hezbollah because they have demonstrated their sincere desire to free themselves by any means necessary. If Shia Iran supports them rather than the quisling Sunni governments in Egypt, Jordan, Sudan, and the Persian Gulf regimes, too bad.

I'd rather be a Shia than a punk ass Sunni claiming to represent prophet Muhammad when we know the prophet liberated oppressive peoples, he didn't collaborate with oppressor regimes. There is no excuse for over a billion Muslims claiming belief in Allah to allow a few million Zionists Jews and their American benefactors to oppress their brothers and sisters in occupied Palestine. Muslims have no right to sleep until Palestine is liberated!

--Marvin X

5/9/10