Finding the Right Words

What Matters Most
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

As most of you know, Rosa Parks, an icon of the Southern Protest Movement, died last night. She was 92. All day today, I thought about what I could say that would encapsulate how I felt about this woman. It just seemed as if no words would suffice; that was however before I read the tribute postings on The Detroit Free Press' website.

As I read each of the poignant and intimately written postings, I found my words. Sure, I can be verbose at times, but in light of everything that Rosa Parks stood for, I felt that simplicity was best. In this case, minimalism would win. It is a widely known fact that Mrs. Parks was humble in her greatness; that she felt that what she did way back in 1955 was not some grand gesture, but more of something that just had to be done. As I considered the sad truth that we, not just African-Americans, but the entire world population, had lost a revered, loved, and honored citizen of the human race; a person who single-handedly changed our world, not to mention the world's perception of African-American women, I found my words, and I began to type...

"Thank you, Mrs. Parks...from an entire generation."

As I stated, simplicity was required.

Catharsis...

photo by the Associated Press (copyright 2005)

South of Paradise, Home of the Dispossessed
Written by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

-for the children of New Orleans

Remember the summer exodus
of southern heartbreak and diasporas
moving across the nation;
fleeing from rotting corpses, left to decay
in sewage and oil,
beneath a merciless Louisiana sun;
will families once solidified by community,
now split like breached levees
continue to be embraced with open arms
when the collective flood of evacuees
reach an impasse,
when America, forgets;

New Orleans,
will TV record your fate,
will AP photos document your future,
will the winds of change
blow cold, once altruism
is replaced with indifference-
the skeletal hand of charity
and humanism, methodically drawn in retreat;

Will hunger pangs and dehydration,
and shrieks for help
receive any remembrance
as the bones of drowned children
lost in the tidal surge of a swollen lake
crumble to dust;
will memorials for the dispossessed
be erected when the migration
marks an anniversary;
who’ll honor the disaster,
will scores of visitors flock
to the convention center,
to stand, or genuflect
where the poor were left to die;

Remember New Orleans;
its tree lined boulevards,
its putrid smell,
its pulsing jazz,
its people,
their joi d’ vivre,
their mulatto and Creole faces
contorted, in anguish,
forced from their homes;
who’ll remember their exodus,
mothered by hurricane,
inseminated by civic disparity,
the offspring is relocation,
people, moved from shelter to refuge,
sleeping for the first time
under unfamiliar skies
and unrecognizable stars,
Africans in Utah,
Nebraska,
Montana,
Oklahoma;
who’ll call them home,
remind them that red sunsets
never fell across their rooftops;
that the thick, grey looming shadow
of a chemical plant’s smoke trail,
cancerously rained down on them;
who’ll tell them that airborne carcinogens
aren’t tolerable as long as a government check
arrives at the end of the month,
discuss years of ecological ruin,
remind them, of the smell of poverty,
an inescapable odor trapped in memory’s grasp,
still, pungently, afflicting senses;

Remember New Orleans,
its orphaned children
scattered into the four winds,
lost in the wilderness,
adopted like human pets
only to be left behind
when they’re of no use,
when philanthropy withers,
when other children need bread and clothes,
who’ll champion their cause then;
will we still write songs about the bayou,
sing to the low moon over the Mississippi,
and dream, of the Crescent City
submerged under 20 feet of water;
what’ll become of compassion then,
when the attention is drawn elsewhere
and the city, is finally
and truly, left to fend for itself;

Where will the press conferences be held,
will we hear the sound bites
over the echoed screams of single mothers
who sift through the mud soaked remnants
of their lives;
when a son learns his daddy
was washed away with the flood;
when the ghastly sounds of the funeral dirge
rise, and hover above the city,
will we remember;

When empathy dries and tears subside,
will anybody count the hours
brown toxins spewed
into the poorest parts of the city;
who’ll speak of the death
that swept over them
as whispers of convenient resignation
and the guise of compassion
recount impoverished suffering;
who’ll worry about the affliction
fostered by the middle class, and sustained
by the continued poisoning of neighbors,
the slow extermination of strangers;
will they remember
that the rich and the poor
never intersected before this,
their lives too polarized;
abject poverty on the left,
needless excess on the right,
in-between them, a gulf that can’t be filled;
will they see this city,
New Orleans, as an oasis of corruption and greed,
proof of the lasting power of Jim Crow,
where the poor live deep in the barrel of shot gun homes,
cursed, like the wandering dead,
while in comparison, the affluent live like gods;
both divided by race, class, and education,
essential ingredients for the roux,
used to make a lethal gumbo of disproportion,
fed to the victims of gentrification
staining a nation when it boils over the top;
but who’s hands are marked,
who’ll clean up years of brewing antagonism;
a community displaced, or a society
that cares as long as the cameras are rolling;

Remember New Orleans,
its disease infested bowels,
its squalid ghettos,
its abandoned homes,
its deserted avenues, left to the dead,
will anybody recall the families, pulled apart,
stretched across a nation,
separated, given little, if any hope,
children and parents both
clinging to a myth of tomorrow;
will the fabric of the American dream
be ripped by society’s eventual indifference,
will the wounds on the feet of trekking masses
of dispossessed Southerners fester, and rot,
will their bodies succumb to the infection,
crippling them, for generations to come?

Who’ll remember?



Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Myth of Tomorrow?

photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)

The Myth of Tomorrow
Lyrics by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
Arrangement by L. J. Knight, Jr. and V. S. Major

Sleep precious children sleep,
our lives in the next world ain't far ahead,
Rest little children, rest your weary souls
for the Lord's a comin' soon
to take our spirits home.

Remember the land of our mother,
sweet land of our mother
take our spirits home

Remember the bend of the river,
to the bend of the river
take our spirits home

Dream precious children dream,
close your eyes and believe in sweet deliverance
Pray pretty children, kneel before the Lord
for salvations train's arrivin'
so climb on board.

Believe in the life everlasting
true life everlasting
take our spirits home

Believe in our life's redemption
our redemption is a coming
take our spirits home

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning [ARTICLE]

photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)

Week One
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

This past week has been something close to a nightmare, as I am sure is the case for all natives of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama who are presently living abroad. Each time I turn on the television, access the web, or listen to the radio, I am constantly overcome by a feeling of helplessness and loss. I, like many, have cried several times this week, and this article is my catharsis; my attempt to heal myself through the only thing that I seem to be able to control...my words. 

Many of my friends and their families were affected by this storm. Many of them have lost their homes, their possessions, even their loved ones. Being from Louisiana doesn't give me the right to claim this as 'my tragedy' or the tragedy of my people for that matter, but there is something about this event...something overwhelming.

Though I’m from Baton Rouge, I know those people in New Orleans, many of them have stood right next to me as I participated in the Mardi Gras, Bayou Classic, New Year's, Essence Festival, and Super Bowl festivities, or visited their homes on innumerable occasions. I can see their faces each time I look at an Associated Press image that is shown repeatedly. I always say to myself 'I know them,' they are not random strangers in some photograph on in some video footage, they are my former neighbors; and in some ways, it is my tragedy, and their tragedy, and everyone's tragedy. But here I sit, in Jacksonville, reduced to relying on third party communication; sickened by the network news coverage, but at the same time totally dependent upon it as the only source of information. 

As a former student and now teacher of journalism, it is hard to sit through the bold computer graphics, intentionally somber music, and asinine editorial commentary, just to see one glimpse of the 'city of my father', to find out if the areas where friends of mine once and presently reside are inundated with water. But as I have found, even the networks have had difficulty understanding, let alone covering the immensity of this event. And their difficulty only pales in comparison to mine. They have satellite phones and video communication links, whereas I have my Sprint cell phone, that most of the time just doesn't seem to be able to connect me with people in the 225, 504, or 985 area code regions. They are able to speak with the governor, the mayor, and even the president, but I can't speak to people that mean more to me than an elected official. The pensive waiting game feels like an eternity. 

For example, over the last week I've tried to get in touch with two of my dearest New Orleans-born friends who now live in Baton Rouge and their parents, who undoubtedly lost their home out in New Orleans East. I call, get no answer; call again, still get no answer; the lack of communication becoming a rhythmic exchange between me and nothingness. But each day as I try to reach them, I have to ask myself, what do I plan to tell them? How can I convey sentiments over a telephone, especially when I'm safe, dry, still have all of my possessions, aren't worrying about the safety of any immediate family members or what tomorrow will or may bring? Each time I dial, and that now ubiquitous operator voice comes on to tell me that the circuits are busy as a result of the storm, I painfully avoid the inevitable.

We cannot begin to understand what it's like to experience what many of them are at present experiencing. Over the past week, I have somewhat come to find out details of the event that are not being presented in the press. Details that have come to my attention thanks largely to the network of Louisianans who can't reach anyone by phone because of poor communications, but must rely on some unreliable, yet essential version of the old telephone game. One person finds out some piece of information, then that person communicates it to another person, who then does the same thing, and so on. 

Over the past seven days, I have been informed of suicides, phone calls from flooding attics, people braving the elements on their roofs, lost homes, mass migrations, people paddling through flood ravaged streets, arduous two day treks from one side of the city to the other, and a lost niece, who was recently discovered in Texas after being missing for more than a week. It has been somewhat nightmarish, but hopeful, because each day also brings signs that things are going to be okay, for example, a good friend, who now lives in Richmond, told me on Saturday that most of his family is safe, and that the signs of relief and aid, amidst the firestorm of criticism seem to be materializing.

After 9/11 I felt a deep feeling of sadness and loss that punctured the fabric of my day to day life, but this is different, this was 'home.' And though I am not from New Orleans, my father is, and my friends are, and I have slept, ate, played, danced, written, cried, laughed and smiled in the Crescent City. It IS my home, and now it is a virtual ghost town, left for dead, its vibrancy gone, and its people's joi d'vivre dried up in the humid Louisiana heat. It pains me to consider that things will never be the same way again, that the city of New Orleans, and the American Gulf Coast, will never be able to recover from this. 

I think, in some ways, that this mass exodus of New Orleanians is in some way a form of tragic irony. There is a saying that has been uttered by scores, upon scores of that city's residents...'I was born here, and I am going to die here'. Thankfully, for the thousands who were able to escape the grip of death and despair, for now at least, that axiom did not come true. But for now, we can only pray that the life that awaits the evacuees and the victims in Mississippi and Alabama will be one filled with hope and fortitude, for it is often said that in the face of great adversity, we human beings are often at our best. I only hope that the creator of that great maxim is right.

The Reclamation of Faith

photo by R. Gutshall

Larry Knight as David Keaton in the play The Exonerated written by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, and directed by Al Letson at Player's By The Sea in August 2005.

A Life Supreme Show Review [ARTICLE]

Poetry Show Review
By Janice Mather, The Tribune (Nassau, Bahamas)

For lovers of lyrics and fans of thoughtful rhythms, A Life Supreme proved to be the most satisfying poetry event of the season. Visiting artist Larry Knight, and his smooth spoken word works, many of which came from his CD, also entitled A Life Supreme, lived up to every bit of promise the album had suggested.

Knight’s delivery – confident, impassioned, and powerful – was flawless, from the first note of The Myth of Tomorrow to the final poem, which evoked an encouraging message of spreading wings preparing to take powerful flight. Mirrors Beauty Therapy and Spa, where the show was held Sunday night, may seem like an unlikely venue for the summer’s first solid show. But, with a commanding voice that needed no microphone, and words that demanded – and received – complete silence from listeners, Knight transformed an ordinary room into the wide crossroads of an old Southern road, painting word-pictures of a piano-playing, soul-singing queen – and of hose and dog-controlled civil rights uprisings, and lynched black boys “slung from southern trees/rhythmically swinging/like macabre metronomes.”

Before Knight took to the stage on Sunday evening, home-grown poets set the pace in an open-mic segment with a level of quality that would have suggested that performers had been scheduled. Bodine Johnson, a comedian-style poet, got the audience grinning with rhymes about a hypocritical church deacon whose sins find him out, while Nadine Thomas-Brown bent genre boundaries, straddling poetry and reggae with rhythmic chat. Carlton Watson mused on the shoddy state of “black love”, then spanned the globe with world-commentary poetry that questioned why Rwanda’s genocide has been largely forgotten while 9/11 remains pre-eminent in many minds.

Then the lights dipped, and, from the back of the room, a sonorous song reminiscent of old spirituals began the performance. Taking listeners whirling through the American South, Knight used words to pay homage to musical greats Nina Simone and Miles Davis and to evoke painful pictures of activism and Civil Rights struggles. Interspersing spoken lyrics with bouts of song, he tackled the haunting lines of Strange Fruit, which bitterly describes lynching, then later teased listeners with just a few lines of Eyes on the Prize.

Between power-packed spoken – and sung – word spat out with a fervour often only seen in the Sunday morning performances of many a Baptist preacher, Knight also spoke of love, and of growing up in Louisiana, assuring audiences that while his work is strongly grounded in the US South, his themes are no stranger to the Bahamian shores, or to anywhere.

Speaking about the poem On Being Black in America, he told the audience “The title could be erased and it could be applicable in the Bahamas... Because I’ve been here for two weeks and I’ve seen a lot of stuff . . .”

Knight, who said in an earlier interview that he expected his material to be applicable to Bahamian audiences despite its very Black-American content, wove local references into Chaos in E Minor, a powerful rant that contrasts classics like John Coltrane and Nina Simone with the contemporary “roar of an audience as they sit/ waiting, with guts churning, hearts racing, palms sweating/ for announcer to sing ‘ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present for your listening enjoyment this evening, the one, the only/ Brittany Spears.” The original version then describes a young, undiscovered black girl, in contrast, singing somewhere in a house in Jacksonville; for the Nassau audience, it was aptly – and successfully – adapted to “a young girl in Fox Hill stands in a bathroom and sings heavenly into a hairbrush”. As well as describing classic Black American musicians, Knight broke out with a recollection of “Ray Munnings making Nassau a little bit funkier, singing ‘Nassau’s got rhythm, Nassau’s got soul!’”

“I know the fourth verse too,” Knight laughed, to approving whoops and claps from the audience.

“[I wanted] just to connect with the audience and to let them know that no matter where the piece was written, it’s still applicable wherever it’s being performed,” explained Knight, after the show. “It was just to give the audience the opportunity connect, and establish that link.”

Even without tangibly reaching out to Bahamians with familiar names, his content and strong delivery guaranteed that the audience would relate. If the applause was anything to judge by, the audience was pleased with the power-packed performance that combined fury at the past, passion for positive fights, Miles Davis-style ear play, lyrical story time, and old-style spirituals with new-time commentary. Only one question remained after the show: when next?

That remains to be seen. But, says Knight, “Definitely, I will be back.” And, if word spreads, it’s likely that next time will be another well-attended treat for ears, heart, and mind.

Published Wednesday, June 20, 2005 by The Tribune

Bahamian Literary Minds and the American in Transit

(from left) Michael C. Pintard, performance poet, storyteller, author, and motivational speaker; Bodine Johnson, Island 102.9 FM radio personality and poet; Dr. Carlton Watson, professor of physics at the College of the Bahamas and poet; Janice Lynn Mather, Tribune reporter and poet; Larry Knight, (the American); and Nadine Thomas-Brown, Nassau Guardian reporter/columnist and poet at the A Life Supreme show in Nassau, Bahamas in July 2005.

A Life Supreme Review [ARTICLE]

Poetry: Louisiana Native’s Sound on A Life Supreme
By Janice Mather, The Tribune (Nassau, Bahamas)

Expect lyrical twisting and turning and conscious speech spoken in confident tones at this weekend’s poetry event featuring American artist Larry Knight.

Knight, a Louisiana native, hits the local spoken word scene Sunday night with his show A Life Supreme. He brings an American-South-inspired sound that, he says, will provide Bahamians with something new.

“I want people to feel something that they’ve never felt before,” says Knight, who is also a teacher, photographer and avid jazz fan. He is visiting the Bahamas until early next week.

Providing emotions and sensations never experienced before may not be easy; many poetry fans are familiar with expressions of hope and oppression, ancestry and lost ancestry, violence and a struggle for cultural meaning, themes that are evident in the spoken word tracks on Knight’s latest album, also entitled A Life Supreme, which presents poetry and music from his longer upcoming album entitled Affinity.

What he does bring is the perspective of a 1970s and 1980s product, tackling poignant memories of the civil rights movement, making sense of a past he experienced second-hand but still struggles to come to terms with. That’s clear on his album, a 12-track trip from slave ships to current day beer-clutching head bobbing Saturday night partying. And while the sentiments he expresses may be familiar, he offsets carefully crafted poetics with background sounds that range from mellow music to beats as sultry and deliberate as a slow-walking woman, to wailing sirens, rioting crowds and the haunting bark of police dogs.

A Life Supreme starts out with Knight’s pure speech, which he uses to paint a verbal picture of a guitar-playing griot singing into the Southern air. Music eases its way into the album with the evocative ‘Motherless Child’ before the auditory journey continues with the heady beat that backs ‘A Blue Southern Night,’ a spoken performance that’s humid and divine. Again, Knight uses tongue as paintbrush, and paintbrush as pen to spin a narrative.

By the time Knight reaches ‘Chaos in E Minor,’ where he laments “the raspy vocals of Nina Simone overpowered by the low tech drone of some / pre-manufactured studio siren / a 21st century diva wailing against the background beats of an old-school sample / a form of recycled culture, instantly packaged for the masses”, the ear has been lulled, wooed, won over and entirely hooked.

“It’s not only an American thing,” says Knight, of his work. He tackles emotional topics with a controlled tone of voice and deliberate words, doling out rhymes skillfully but sparingly, pauses poignantly interjected into the performance.

“I was a product of the ‘70s and the ‘80s, I didn’t go through the civil rights movement… but I’ve taken my blindness away and (am) seeing what it would have been like to be in that position,” says Knight. He is hoping Bahamian audiences will, through his work, do the same.

“The 17th (of July) is going to be my first experience with a Bahamian audience, and an international audience,” says Knight. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat nervous about how it’s going to be received.”

The poet, who has performed in Louisiana, Georgia, New York, Washington DC and Florida, decided to try his work out in Nassau after talking with a friend at Mirrors Therapy and Spa on Solider Road, where the show will be held. And if his album keeps its promise, that show will be a treat for those of any background.

Published Wednesday, July 13, 2005 by The Tribune

The Comfort of Presence

Oblivion's Love Affair (Haiku)
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

our lives are moments
dissolving into nothing
glad you are with me

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Don't Believe the Hype...PLEASE! [ARTICLE]

The Internal Filter
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The 2004 Presidential election will perhaps be remembered as one of the most polarizing events in our nation’s history. The contest between incumbent President George W. Bush and Massachusetts Senator John Kerry has divided the country and created an atmosphere of bitterness, contempt, and guileful attempts to sway the opinions of voters. It seems that with all of the attack ads, talking points, and scathing reports from both Liberals and Conservatives about potential Election Day misconduct, it would seem that the one group of individuals that could provide some semblance of open-mindedness would be our youth. However, it has become increasingly obvious that this once venerable group of free thinkers has now become an assemblage that only soak up what is created by an ‘independent’ media that at times seems to be on a relentless campaign to convert and recruit. The end result of this constant barrage of political information is clusters of teenagers who are virtually unable to filter what they see and hear. In essence, these young people ingest rhetoric created by a political candidate’s press team to spin an agenda. And it is that agenda that is duly articulated to everyone; friends, peers, family members, and teachers. An agenda that spawns an ideology that in most cases is ill conceived simply because no internal filtration process is used to differentiate between fact and fiction. It would seem that any person living in a world as technologically advanced that ours, would take every single opportunity to use that technology to research the information that is being disseminated by our elected officials. For example, when Senator Kerry told voters that President Bush only gave tax breaks to the wealthy, it would seem logical that any person who has access to the myriad of reputable research materials would want to confirm that information before he or she subscribes to the purported ‘fact’.

Now that the election of 2004 is a distant memory, and we citizens seek to embrace the policies of the Bush administration’s second term, we are left asking questions that seemingly have no answers. Even now as the bitter divide that reared its ugly little head in 2004 has appeared to have subsided, we still see people being affected by what can only be regarded as mis-information that is disseminated to the masses. Why are American citizens so willing to give in to what is served to them through both the print and electronic media? Several answers can be 'suggested'; one, they are unwilling to find out the truth for themselves; two, they do not possess the means; or three, they simply don’t care. Sure, it's hard to believe that in this day and age, when so much 'stuff' seems to be taking place all over the world at any given second, that there are people who do not take any opportunity to dig deeper into what is truth in an attempt to separate it from what can only be characterized as a falsehood. For example, I wonder just how many ‘scholars’ of the Fox News network took the time to find out about the backgrounds of some of the Watergate characters who so viciously branded W. Mark Felt as a traitor? I found it odd that some Americans took the word of Gordon Liddy and Charles Colson, two individuals involved in the Democratic Party headquarter break-in as well as innumerable Constitutional violations. These patriotic, yet ignorant citizens, could be found on blog sites, and call-in shows all across the country screaming for Felt’s blood, simply because two individuals who were complicit in the crime said that he behaved ‘un-American-like’. And when the news polls came out, asking whether or not Felt should be regarded as a traitor, many people answered with a resounding ‘yes’.

The point is, why do so many Americans, in this age of access, place so much trust in the internet, television, and radio, instead of using other means to verify and support their beliefs? I feel that we've lost a bit of that which made us a great nation, and that my fellow Americans is the both the determination to seek the truth and to filter out the nonsense and embrace facts. I only hope that in the coming years leading up to the 2008 Presidential Election that we can somehow restore our internal filters and look weel beyond that which is ceremoniously fed to us in the new troughs of the 21st century...24 hour cable news networks and internet blog sites (insert irony). Perhaps we should use the next two or three years to try to reinvigorate our desire to eliminate our apathetic attitudes to things that are being fed to us like lobotomized bovines. And that doesn't mean that we should take the position of Coporation for Public Broadcasting chair Kenneth Tomlinson who along with members of the CPB want to 'change' public broadcasting's tried and true legacy of free speech. Attempting to use a sword to cut out the splinter of that which affects us today is asinine, let alone dangerous.

Simply put, I feel that the powers that be should employ tatics that will seek to unite and form a political coalesence, rather than deepening the divides that already exist. However, it is safe to assume that we adults will ultimately do everything within our power to selfishly think of ourselves and never consider that which is most important..the futures of countless children who will live in this world long after we have expired. Quite honestly, the only way to restore that which needs restoring is to start teaching our children, who are quite impressionable, to acquire facts and evidence through meticulous, not superficial, research, before they make a decision. And if not, if we have grown tired of the 'same ole same', well, there’s always 2012!

Death Before Dishonor?

photo by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Reclamation
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
and mechanized Metro card readers
play in the vacuum;
the neighborhood has changed since the early days,
now young punks run rampant
through cavernous underground tunnels
with reckless abandon,
dodging transit cops and rival crews,
tagging everything,
stealing anything;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion and opportunity drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains;
ain’t nothing sacred anymore?

Standing on the platform
like some predator waiting for prey,
is a middle aged man,
hairline slightly fading into oblivion,
face worn from city life,
his breathing, white and furious;
air exiting the confines of his chest
in short slow successions…
first the inhale (long and labored)
then the exhale (slow and reluctant);
in the silence
the repetition plays like an organic metronome,
moving back and forth,
in and out,
rhythmically,
until a hush settles
and he is calm-
though possessing the presence of life
he’s devoid of humanity;
instead the primal urge to fight,
the instinctual impetus to clash with an aggressor
the code kill or be killed
plays in his mind like a symphony;
he thought, this was how it was on his block…
no remorse,
no thinking(too late),
just action;
he could hear the number 3 train
pulling around the last dark turn,
the rush of air growing,
thoughts of future actions comforting;

On the platform, near the MTA map,
tracing their fingers along the number 3 line
in search of a final stop, three teens;
who they were didn’t matter
this was vengeance,
for all the beatings his son was given,
for the stolen bike,
the looks of intimidation,
the community;
they were the enemy.

He remembered the first time
he moved into the building,
new wife, a son,
first home;
life then was good…
the prelude to a perfect story
regrettably and progressively
mixed together with years of tragedy:
apartment broken into,
wallet stolen,
wife harassed in the elevator,
child threatened;
he thought, people shouldn’t have to live like prisoners
in their own home,
shouldn’t have to open windows to smell freedom;
fear was a part of the lease,
etched into the fine print of their landlord’s
agreement to provide them with the basics of inner city life-
bad plumbing, broken elevators, drug traffic,
violent crime, terror;
but not anymore,
he was going to do something about it,
settle the score,
make things even;
take back his neighborhood,
restore its glory.

His nose pressed firmly against the bicep
of his outstretched arm, long and lean,
like a missile ready to strike at the suddenness of a command;
his brown muscles twitched and strained,
their woven cords lay beneath the ink-stained flesh bearing a picture:
one heart, two roses, thorns piercing, blood drawn, and a name…ROSALITA;
one eye squinted, lids tightly closed, lashes intertwined;
one eye open,
carefully, premeditatedly
looking across the barrel
through a sight
at a target in a jersey;
his finger wrapped around a trigger,
death set within his eyes-
the roar of blood through veins,
deafening.

The number 3,
like some silver earthworm
boring through an underground labyrinth
snaked through darkness,
only two sounds existed -
his heart and the train,
each syncopated
within the vacuum
like some terrible combination of sound,
each servicing the next;
hand muscles tightened,
life moved in slow motion,
his targets seemed to freeze,
their bodies swaying in suspended animation,
rocking back and forth;
their arms appeared to levitate offensively
to surrender, or to attack,
thoughts of his wife and child shuffled through his mind
like a slide show projected by insanity, or conviction;
and then, he thought of the code: kill or be killed,
their characters, inscribed upon the absence of reason
formed new logic,
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action;
his finger tightened,
ropes of bicep muscles flexed and reacted,
and he looked across the length of the barrel
grit his teeth
and thought, Bernie Goetz ain’t got nothin’ on me!
then fired…
short bursts from a pistol erupted like a volcano,
the lava flow hot;
four bullets slicing through space,
then the echo of death
the sound of pierced flesh
the gurgle of blood
the thud of corpses,
the end;
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action,
and vengeance.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
mechanized Metro card readers
and pissed off vigilantes
play in the vacuum;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains…

ain’t there anything sacred anymore?

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

A Life Supreme Ad (#1) [ADVERTISMENT]

designed by Ryan P. Knight

"...his performance shows a range of talents from vocalist to profound writer." -Liz Valentine, Entertaining U Newspaper

After two years of waiting, literary and spoken word fans alike can now experience the newest works by writer and performer Larry Knight as he returns with a collection of poems and music taken from the forthcoming album 'Affinity."

This collection of 12 tracks entitled "A Life Supreme," including poems such as 'Overcome,' 'Chaos in E Minor,' and 'Saturday,' was released in conjunction with a feature of the same title. It contains original music by Ryan P. Knight, a young, talented musician; Ryan Sinclair, an accomplished percussionist; and Kandace Jacobs and brother Brandon, two brilliant classically trainied vocalists. Each artist lends their individual talents to the overall project and creates a cohesion that is hard to find on most projects of this type.

Fans of Larry Knight will enjoy the seemless fluidity of the tracks as they move between themes such as race, music, oppression, and hope. Produced by Knight, James Hardeman, and Ryan P. Knight, the entire collection sounds as crisp, clear, and dynamic as a live performance.

In addition, listeners are also treated to exclusive liner notes that include the full text of three poems featured on the CD. This well designed package is a collectors item that is reminiscent of the old LPs of the Blue Note jazz era.

For the low price of $10 (plus shipping fee), fans, as well as newcomers, are sure to enjoy.

To purchase go to www.paypal.com and send $10 (plus $4 shipping charge) to ljk93@aol.com. The signed CD will be shipped out after the order has been received.

Those wishing to purhase the CD may also go to www.ebay.com.

For more information send an email to ljk93@aol.com or call (904) 728-1369.

Griot 3 and the Legend

(from left) Larry Knight, Al Letson, Russell Simmons,
and David Pugh at Hotel Edison in New York City.

In Love and War...

Our Quiet Conflict
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The opening salvo was a quiet one.

There were no warning signs, no open declarations,
or speeches, just the sound of nothing;
Ours is a civil war of wordlessness,
you play the north, and I play a southern fool
enslaved by my roots, unwilling to abolish my antiquated ways,
waiting, pensively for you to free me;

The boundaries, clearly marked, grow faded;
each passing day a new skirmish,
casualties add up; wounds are made,
then heal, then are made again-
a cycle of hostility in words and glances;

Politics seem pointless, conversation becomes banter;
fortified walls penetrable
collateral damage incalculable;
we never talk, we just sit
staring across a vacuum
that has consumed our will to make peace;

We spent years forging a war,
both knowing that a victor would claim no glory,
just a realized understanding of human hearts,
how they hurt, bleed;
our negotiations less than courteous,
our conferences, brutal;
no parade marched in cadence,
rockets did not explode in celebration,
only silence when you breached my last defense.

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Coming Soon in Fall 2005 [ADVERTISMENT]

A collection of poems written by poet, actor,
spoken word artist, and teacher Larry Knight.

Rocking the Vote '70

Birthright
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

This is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
the genesis of sovereignty;
this is for the moment,
a lifetime spent in anticipation,
hands raw from pensive waiting,
sweat beads forming at the corner of brows
burned by high noon sun,
nostrils opening to bring more air to lungs
choking in silent nervousness;
the air smelling sweeter than the day before,
like freedom,
like a great expanse of space, opened
for no one else,
and at the edge, is the thing so longed for,
spent sleepless nights pining for,
went days in starvation and
left the confines of enchainment
to head North for
because the sustenance from what
was truly craved was more promising than a few
granules of nutrients that burn away
days after they are consumed;

this is for the recognition
that life was connected to this,
everything ever loved depending
on this very moment;
for deliverance,
its flavor,
a sweet ripened taste
born from desire,
cultivated by longing,
harvested in one singular action
that will define,
shape,
matter to the ages,
encapsulate the very essence of being an American
in voices speaking in absolute terms;

this is for the boycotter
and the slave,
their resistance emboldening,
their spirits, speaking through history’s misery,
summoning lessons of self-determination
within a choice;
this is for the future which lies ahead,
each splinter of time
connected to what has been
and what will ultimately be
a legacy to the world
born in the acquisition of liberty,
flowing through veins
through communities
through us;

this is for the revolution
within the vote;
for that first scribbled ‘X’
that signified new beginnings,
for promise and hope,
things to come…
this is for ‘54 and ‘64,
the lives of unborn men and women;
for little southern girls
not yet conceived
killed
in the basement of an Alabama church;
this is for Mississippi’s past and future;

for unwritten history,
souls still stirring
in the depths of the sea,
lost in transportation
never to return home;
for breaking free
the sought glimmer of Eden
in the eyes of a few who escaped
years before;
this is for scarred backs
unhealed welts,
for diasporas,
lost children,
families divided;

this is the symbol
of a culmination of things-
the coalescence of thoughts
born in societal ostracism
enacted in this moment
when bronze hands touch quill
and make a mark;
a custodian’s ballot
affecting an embittered nation,
rocking New Jersey to its core;
when a slave’s son
sought firmament
in the power of an action;
this is for 135 years of possibilities
birthed from legislation
granting rights;
this is for that moment
when an inconceivable idea
manifested itself
on a spring day,
beneath sun and sky
and heaven;
contemplations of tomorrow
bearing change;
this is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
for us.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Griot Ad #1

designed by Larry Knight

Gods and Legends (Part 1)

photo by Francis Wolff (courtesy of Blue Note Records)

God's Acknowledgement
by Larry Knight

What was it like to listen to Trane?
The Village Vanguard, New York, 1965;
it was a rainy night,
the smoke trails from burning cigarettes
formed grey spiral columns in the air,
the delicate flicker of votive candles
created shadows on eager faces,
and the quiet chatter of voices
mixed with the sound of ice cubes
striking the insides of drinking glasses in the semi-darkness,
when suddenly
and without preface
Jimmy began to play
this sonic boom in four chord progression:
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
then Elvin added percussive soul,
and McCoy added gentle serenity,
and then the sound of God's acknowledgement
slowly drifted in,
melodious chords of poly-rhythmic intensity,
the sheer absolutism of love-
it was glorious, pure, and perfect in its own simplicity
because it was all emanating from the inner depths of one man,
a saint, master of spirituality,
architect of the hierarchy of jazz,
also known as ‘the new thing’,
the messenger of universality,
the philosopher of impressionism-
he was the emperor of the blue note-
a saxophone deity pulling atoms from the farthest corners of the galaxy
to form a raging comet of intense freedom
streaking through the cosmos
crossing the ocean of our dreams
to arrive on the soft shores of our most tender moments-
he was a super colossus standing among the planets
reaching far into interstellar space
to capture the sound of God in each note
formed by breath pushed from lungs,
pushed through teeth,
pushed into the consciousness of humanity-
moving in sentimental moods
guiding us on wild exploits through love movements
while chanting softly in four syllables,
'a love supreme,
a love supreme,
a love supreme'
finally delivering us
like cradled children in infancy
into a rebirth-
and then, like a deafening explosion,
the piercing shriek of a howling whirlwind
plays soundtrack to the dissolving sun
melting into the earth
casting an effusion of brilliant shades of purple
on a canvas only he and God can see
while three apostles,
with drums, with bass, with piano,
all explode in unison as he, Coltrane, stands center stage
reaches out, seizes us,
and pulls us into his soul,
as he nurtures us
as he carries us on his seraphic wings
as he guides us towards heaven
to kneel in reverence
to the universe
to the sky
to the oceans
to the four winds of the earth
to the rock and the tree
to Buddha
to Allah
and to God...
...and the Vanguard became our heaven,
our sanctuary for resolutions-
he was the messenger,
and to listen to him
to explore with him,
to venture to the beyond with him
simply meant
that you had to be willing to die with him.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Desolation

photo by Larry Knight

Deities and Demons

When The Revolution Stopped On The Dime
by Larry Knight

Lost in the madness of our society
are the children of our time,
withering away, becoming cultural zombies
while their consciousness is dying
amongst 21st century egotism
that places value on material things
that tarnish as time moves on;

And as life continues its circuits of evolution,
they seem to grow more disaffected by the limitations
that they impose upon themselves,
and struggle to make sense of the senselessness
that exists within a world
that they claim to be apart of,
but in truth, are nowhere near.

Worshipping the idols created by media deities
who issue proclamations of 'in' and 'out',
they flock in hordes to marketplace sanctuaries
that provide them with their only source of spiritual sustenance-
a commercially pre-packaged lifestyle
that costs more than their souls are willing to pay.

And while the vicious campaigns are aimed
at the pockets of urban dwellers,
they are continuously branded by irons
that serve to enlist their service
in a global conspiracy to create mindless auction block creatures,
vessels of enslavement,
enslaved by the very thing that they sacrifice their lives for.

When did self-indulgence
mysteriously mask itself as individuality,
when did being cool
suddenly mean missing the message,
and when did the voices
of past leaders of the movement
suddenly become silent screams
of convoluted nightmares
that exist as testaments to the end of the struggle for change,
and the birth of the era of complacency?

And now they crawl upon the backs of the revolutionaries,
dig their nails into the flesh of those dedicated to change,
ask for the system's recognition,
but accept its reluctance;
our children are being seized by time
and its minion, apathy,
as they both drag them from their youth,
gnaw at the fibers of their being,
and transform them into ghosts
kissed by the curse of forever.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Nature Divine

photo by Larry Knight