Never Thought...

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Mortal Man


Never Thought...


By: Mike Cooley

When you can’t find nobody else to speak to you can speak through the music. Help other people feel your pain, your struggle, your passion. You know, what you live and die for, your values in life
You know what I mean?
— Busta Rhymes (Music for Life) off of Hi-Tek's Hi Technology II album
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I've been making beats since 17 or 18 years old. That's when I got my first drum machine and started expressing myself through beats. It's my main passion and probably how I best express myself. I started making because I rapped and over time I grew tired of rapping over my favorite rapper's and producer's instrumentals so I got a drum machine and got into making my own.


A few weeks ago a Jesse, who was a rapper and a close friend to my brother was killed. It was senseless violence. I was upset and I was hurt. I felt like I had to do something with this pain so I made a beat so that I along with my brother who is a rapper as well could make a tribute song for Jesse. Near the end of the song there's a synth that comes in and that particular part is where I envision Jesse's voice coming in laying his verse. That's my way of paying homage to him.

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I was sitting in the house for days just pissed off, Jesse had just turned 21, he has a baby on the way, he just got married so it hurt, I was hurt. I knew sitting around the house drinking or smoking wasn't going to do anything so I decided to make that beat and I did feel a lot better after releasing my pain, using my music as an outlet. 

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All of this took place right around the same time that the Mortal Man project was released so I was like "this timing is right on point, like this project was made with me in mind!"


A lot of times when I'm dealing with situations like this I don't talk about it. I feel like talking about it is just going to make me think about it and feel worse about it so I try to avoid those feelings. Bringing up issues that you are trying to push down is tough but sometimes I do feel better after talking about them... dealing with and releasing that pain does help.

Never Thought
— Mike Cooley
I made it for my little brothers who had just lost a great friend to senseless violence. His name was Jesse. The plan is they’ll rap on the 2 empty verses and then when the beat switches and the instrumental starts going crazy that’s like Jesse’s verse. They all used to cipher together at parties. Since he’s not here to rap I put the synth lead in there to represent him.
— Never Thought...
 
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Mike Cooley

Never Thought...

DJ + Rapper + Beat Maker + Music LOVER

Maschinist. Trunk Bound Regime extremist

instagram: @atrunkboundcooley

tumblr: liquorandbeats

email: trunkboundregime@gmail.com

be sure to leave comments below to keep the conversation going, offer words of encouragement or to share your story.

Acceptance

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Mortal Man

Acceptance

by: Randle B. Moore III

The stigma surrounding being a black, gay, male in America has changed drastically over the last ten years, yet we still have a very long way to go. Unfortunately in 2017 young, black, gay men are STILL faced with stigma from their families, friends, church members, co-workers and others (society in general) that they interact with on a daily basis.

People who identify as LBGT+ are commonly disowned by family members and friends, treated as outcasts or black sheep which can lead to depression and a sense of "mental" solitary confinement, both of which contributes to a higher suicide rate in the LGBT+ community.

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Individuals who are NOT among the LGBTQ+ community often austercize, demean, condemn and criticize individuals just for wanting to be comfortable in their own skin. I wanted to engage in this photo essay to let more people know how stigma contributes to death. Death of a whole community of people who want nothing more than any other human, which is to just want to be happy... "like all of you!" 

 

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If there are any questions on how SPECIFICALLY stigma and silence on this particular matter equals DEATH for our marginalized  community, please feel free to reach me at: randlemoore@equitashealth.com 

 

 
 
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Randle B. Moore III

Acceptance

I’ll be happy to share more personal and intimate situations and circumstances that have a negative impact on society at large! 

 

Thanks for allowing me the opportunity to be a voice  on behalf of a whole community of people who are still afraid to even exit the closet because they don’t want your SHIT! 

facebook: Randle B Moore III

email: randlemoore@equitashealth.com

 

I Had a Life Taken Away From Me

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Mortal Man

I had a life taken away from me

By Leroy Bean

 

“Looking at my phone with a blank stare

as it mirrors my sentiments 

With a blank note pad

Cursor 

Just blinking at me

Waiting for the right words to be thought

To be said

To be written down

But the music it plays

Drowned out in the background 

Echoing almost

Like my thoughts 

Not quite able to make them out

But I feel them

An idea

Growing outside the boundaries of my mind

Controlling me 

Forcing ocean storms from my eyes

Stone petrified for long moments at a time

But the scary thing is 

You can't hear someone else's thoughts

And society doesn't value expression enough

And the idea

Of suicide 

is solitary confinement 

Surrounded by walls of your demons

thoughts of escaping suffering 

An idea that can barely be expressed

Just a feeling

And we underestimate feeling too much 

With the strength it can give you

And the weakness it can infect you with

But with enough

Love 

And 

Compassion

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It can become the cure to someone's day 

Or lifetime

Their breath 

and existence 

We miss yours already

I remember your smile 

Your goofy laugh

Your innocence when we played as kids 

I wish 

my reach extended past the limits of time

To reclaim the memories 

To experience the feeling again

I just seen you

I had faith

Between our eye contact 

That space

There was a connection 

Your face 

It told me something 

I felt something

A glimpse of those memories again

The world of oblivion we lived in

Ignorant to the demons that could tear us down 

They were just monsters under the bed

Under our consciousness

 

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Some of us become aware the hard way

We get scared

Cornered by our fears

Distracted from people who love us 

Standing in the peripheral 

We are here for you

Speak to me 

It's okay 

Express yourself

Cry and flood away your trauma

Please continue to check in on the people you say you love and care for

Dive deep into introspective conversation 

Don't be afraid of the darkness in the abyss when you get there

You are life

And light

You are love 

And Mark 

I hope you still feel

That we love you.”

 

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system.

I’ve always been the type of person to think a lot; always confined to my own mind. Being a male, I locked my emotions and fears and feelings and unhappiness all up there with me. It drove me crazy. At the age of 22, for the FIRST time in my life I had somewhat of a “heart to heart” with my dad about how our disfunctional relationship has been affecting my life and the life of his other two sons. The conversation wasn’t really equally open on both ends. I realized I couldn’t force my Dad to change his mindset, but I could fix mine. It’s been over a year since I started chipping away at this wall of masculinity. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve had to struggled with in my life so far. To realize that I had an unhealthy relationship with MYSELF and I had to start over. To realize that I had been living in a prison this entire time, but only I could let myself out. To realize that I had been crippling myself rather than making myself stronger. I was suffering...

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This poem is about my first close encounter with DEATH since the beginning of the destruction of my masculinity control system. He was a childhood friend of mine. Our Mom’s were friends, so we were really close. We had lost touch over the last few years; felt like forever. One random day a few months ago, I stopped in Third Perk Coffeehouse and I happened to see his dad across the street. He comes to talk, tells me how he has been, and that is son is on his way over. I was excited, I hadn’t seen him in years! When I saw him I was happy. I couldn’t wait to link back up when we had more time, to talk to him - and share what I’ve learned - and hear what he’s learned - and discuss music - and share my poetry with him - and find out what new talents he has developed! 

So many more things I wanted our friendship to experience, but I guess there was only time for that one. 

I gave him my number because my phone was dead at the time. I heard he had been through some things, so I really wanted him to hit me up. I’m big on sharing wisdom and communicating. Maybe some of my experiences could help him.

About a month goes by, I wake up to a phone call from my mom, telling me that he had committed suicide the night before. The disbelief that fell over me was overwhelming. All I could do was cry...and wonder why. 

Why couldn’t he express what he was going through to get help? What was holding him back?

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After hours of asking myself unhealthy questions, I decided to write this poem about how I genuinely felt. I had a week before the funeral to find a way to process these new emotions I now have the ability to, sadly, only recognize. I found that it was easy to distract myself and have fun and feel better. But there were these moments... between breaths, where the world seemed to slow down and the background noise was low and distorted... I would drift off into a montage of thought about him and memories that we shared, hopeing he really found something more peaceful, his family and realizing that, per usual, I can’t open my mouth and say any of this. Just stuck in my mind. The farthest I got was, “...I had a friend commit suicide.”

 Then remained silent long enough for the recipient of my awkward sorrow to feel uncomfortable and say “I’m sorry to hear that.” because I didn’t give them enough communication to adequately give me the response I needed. 

The day of the funeral arrived. I’m happy with the connections and impact he made while here in our reality. Stuck in my mind, not really able to speak much. His mother asked me to do a poem, luckily I had started writing this poem before she had even asked. I thought I would let that speak for itself and for me. Still, I was incomplete. Until the end of the funeral when I released everything haunting my body thru tears, in my mother’s arms, and comforted by my women. An intimate embrace that felt so healing. Something a lot of men have never experienced, including myself until now. Vulnerability seems to be more haunting than the thing that makes you feel vulnerable in the first place. 

It wasn’t until a few days after the funeral where I sat down with my woman and fully expressed myself and talked about the descriptions of my emotions and thoughts 

with another human being. It felt freeing! After 23 years, it only took me a week and some change to express some serious mental trauma. I’m doing better but the effects of masculinity still has its holds on me. But we must acknowledge our fears and trauma and demons, in order to get passed them.

 
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Leroy Bean

I Had a Life Taken From Me

Leroy is a author, spoken word artist and member of Underdog Academy.

Author of The Love and Theory of Womanology, "book and CD available on amazon."

host of Underdog Academy's Broken English 101 podcast available at: soundcloud.com/be101ua

instagram: @hxc24_ & @underdogacademy

twitter: @HXC24

facebook: Leroy Da'Vaughn Bean & Underdog Academy

snapchat: @xCaptainPlanet

tumblr: hyerpoetry.tumblr.com

and also at uapoetry.com

A Man Is Not A Boy

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Mortal Man

A Man is Not a Boy

by George Webb

A man is not a boy he makes things happen. He understands that struggles are temporary even when he can not see the light at the end of the tunnel. Fun doesn't come before the bills being paid. A man puts his business before his wants - he knows winters coming. Too many men are in the clubs obsessed with looking rich with fifty cents in their pockets. When are we going to be responsible? Michael Jackson told us years ago how to fix the problem; "you start with the man in the mirror."

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A man doesn't point his finger at anyone, he stands on his own. Women love a responsible man, a God fearing man, a man that keeps a job more than eight months. A man that keeps a roof over his head. It's not the sex that counts - but the little things. Men lead by example. Spiritually we are the head of the household. Who is going to start leading today? Stop waiting until New Year's Eve parties to get it right. Who is going to make a change today? So men do yourself and the world a favor, do your families a favor and stop making excuses. A man is not a boy he makes things happen.

 

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I wrote this piece to encourage our men. Even though the world is war torn it doesn't give us the right to ignore our responsibilities. We have to carry ourselves the correct way, take care of our families. Be firm in our convictions. Don't just talk the talk, BE the talk. Everyone goes through hard times it's a part of life. I know what it feels like to take a step forward only to be knocked three steps back. It's not easy and was never meant to be. The world is trying to break us. We must take a stand and overcome every obstacle. That all starts with us. We can move mountains together if we work together. 

 
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George Webb

A Man Is Not A Boy

twitter: @georgeadamwebb

instagram: @corporategeorge

facebook: George A Webb & corporategeorge

snapchat: @followmymoves

 

Survivor's Guilt

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Mortal Man

Survivor's Guilt

Dan Tres Omi

Maybe cause I’m dreamer and sleep is the cousin of death Really stuck in the scheme of, wondering when I’mma rest.
— Kendrick Lamar on "Sing About Me" on his "Good Kid, M.A.A.D. City" album

We called him “Conejo” which means “rabbit” in Spanish. He was dark skinned and lean. His muscles only came out when he sprung into action. He was fast and could jump high. I recall watching him touch the top of the rim at the basketball courts at P.S. 100 in the Soundview section of the Bronx. He was nice with the hands. Conejo was way better at everything than we all were. He could run fast, play football, baseball, swim fast, outbox anyone, and slick talk his way out of everything.

If one of us got into a fight, he would coach us through it and we would win. Today, when I watch a youtube video of how to do a particular acrobatic move for Capoeira or Breakdancing, I imagine Conejo doing this in 2017. Back in the late eighties, he was that guy. If you needed tips on how to jump higher or lift more weights, you went to Conejo. He was very encouraging. You wanted Conejo in your corner when you were down. He had the right words to tell you. When I would strike out at baseball, he would not berate me. Conejo would tell me what I needed to work on and even offered to help me out.

When I learned of his suicide my entire world was shaken. It took me several weeks to get over the shock. Each morning I woke up, I expected to see him doing calisthenics outside like he did every morning. How could a brother who we all looked up to take his own life? At thirteen - it was the first time I came to grips with my mortality. He was too young to have children or to have a bigger impact on our community. I felt that it was all a waste. So after the shock, I felt betrayed. It was selfish but I was just a teenager and I still had much to learn.

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Fast forward to my enlistment in the U.S. Navy. I came home on liberty one weekend and ran into a long time homie, Running Man Johnny. "He was always running to and from somewhere, hence the name." That day was no exception. When I jumped out of the gypsy cab with my sea bag and a hug box of presents Running Man Johnny offered to help out. I did not want to waste his time because I knew that if he helped me up my mother would have forced him to stay and eat. I hugged him and thanked him. I told him we could link up the next day and catch up. He agreed and ran off. I never saw him again. He was murdered a few hours later. As my brother and I dj'ed the night away in his bedroom Running Man Johnny was shot several floors below our window. We heard the gunshots. Running Man Johnny was killed by someone who he fought and beat the night before. While his name was given to him for always running to his destinations, he never ran from a fight. He was survived by a daughter who never got to know his long hugs. When I was a fresh faced teenager who wanted to just get his dance on and meet girls in other projects Running Man Johnny was my wing man who made sure none of the hardrocks jumped me. He saved my life in so many ways. All of my memories of him were good ones. Oftentimes when I pour libations, his name passes through my lips.

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I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here.

This year an elder I knew was murdered. At 44, I never imagined that I would still lose loved ones to gun violence. I thought that once we pushed through the pain of the Crack Cocaine era in NYC that we would not lose loved ones to gun beefs or drive bys gone bad. TC Islam lived in my building when we lived in the projects in the Bronx. He was lively and always dropping jewels on us. If there was anyone that was about peace and embodied the principles of the mighty Universal Zulu Nation (UZN), it was TC Islam. He was the last person I thought would be murdered. I thought that at a certain age we old heads would grow up to brag about our children and wait for the arrival of our grandchildren. I assumed that many of us would make it to elderhood and be called OG's by the youngbloods.

When I hear a young person call me OG it stings on so many levels. I think that I don't deserve these stripes. Clearly, Conejo, Running Man Johnny, and TC Islam would be OG's. We learned so much from them. I would be a liar if I didn't say that their lessons helped shaped me. The jewels they dropped helped me navigate through life as I got older. My life would have been vastly different if I never met them. I will go so far as to say I might not have survived to be this old if it wasn't for them and others like them who are no longer here.

I cry so much. I don't think I have the strength to cry anymore for losing so many loved ones in such a senseless manner. I wonder if at times, I am a pretender when so many who were stronger than me in so many ways are no longer here. So when I hear the term “OG,” it stings.

This is Part One of Dan Tres Omi’s story. Click the links below to read the others.
 
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Dan Tres Omi

Survivor's Guilt

Son, Husband, Father, Teacher, Afro Latino B-Boy, Author, Capoeirista, T-shirt Model, Pro-Feminist, Hip Hop Diplomat

 

Keep up with Danny on social media...

instagram: @brothereromi

twitter: @DanTresOmi

podcast: Where My Killa Tape At soundcloud.com/dantresomi

medium: @DanTresOmi

 

Leave comments here to keep the conversation going, to offer words of encouragement or to share your story.

Footnotes On Loving a Broken Man

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Mortal Man

Footnotes On loving a Broken Man

by Atlas

On days, I rebuke my reflection Times, where I begin to wallow in self-doubt and pity.

Eventually, succumbing to my past failures On those nights, when I come home defeated And I feel I can’t live up to my name.

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(Please.)

Wrap your heavenly wings around my physique. Compress your flesh upon mine. And (hold on.) Cling to me like memories of the fallen remind me what an functioning heart beat feel likes,

(Be silent.)

Wipe tears that escape my pride Off my cheek bones

(And as I resist, in showing you emotion.)

While my ego attempts to engulf Whatever’s left of me in order to save face. Remembering, what the absence of my father taught me. What the absence of my grandfather taught me. Remembering what my mother taught me. That there is no safe haven for men; boys whose hair is coarse and skin sun kissed.

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That being frail is not an option, being tender is not an option. That black men; boys cannot be broken. when those words prove false. And my own esteem shatters across our living room floor When these eyelids overflow And streams of disdain pour down your back. (Squeeze me tighter.) Remind me that I’m not the sins of my father. That I am not incompetent or a failure. Or colored from the same brush Everybody will eventually paint me. Remind me, that (I too deserve love) I too am worthy of peace, vulnerability, of feeling safe.


 
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Some of my oldest memories of my childhood were me looking for affection and it was consistently met with resistance.

I wrote this because men aren’t allowed to be broken, especially me being a black man. I could go over the statistics and data of how we as black men are treated unfairly in society. However, no one really gives a fuck and at times it is extremely frustrating and infuriating.

I can only speak for me and I personally was always taught that I couldn't show ANY vulnerability or emotion. That was like a cardinal sin growing up. Some of my oldest memories of my childhood were me looking for affection and it was consistently met with resistance. When little girls fall and start crying because they scrape their knees, we stop everything to make sure they are ok. When a boy falls and start crying because they scrape their knees, we ignore him or tell him stop crying; we call him names sissy, punk, or a girl. We give negative reinforcements at an early stage that showing emotion is not a quality boys should have.

We as society promote hypermasculinity and stoicism, especially in the black community; then 15-20 years later after he's been conditioned to be a "savage" or lack empathy we complain about how he does not know how to say I love you and mean it or why he cannot properly express himself. We also chastise and vilify him for that same reason. Men are just forced “Man up,” especially when dealing with emotions.

This poem is me recognizing what has been instilled me and why it's problematic. That there are an abundance of broken men out there who want to show love and be loved, but that concept is so foreign to them. Lastly, masculinity will continue to be fragile until society is truly open with allowing it to be vulnerable.

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Atlas

Footnotes on Loving a Broken Man

Vet. Artist. Teacher. Student

 

Atlas is a spoken word artist and member of Underdog Academy.

Be sure to engage with him and follow his journey.

instagram: @atlasthepoet & @underdogacademy

twitter: @Da2KcoolJ

facebook: Kyle Flemings & Underdog Academy

and also at uapoetry.com

 

please comment on this page to keep the dialogue going.

 

 

The Vulnerability of Man

Mortal Man: Rev. Lewis

Mortal Man

The Vulnerability of Man

by Rev. Lewis

 

Mortality and legacy, 

Go hand and hand. 

But it’s vulnerability that makes a mortal man. 

Taught to be stone,  

But enough pressure will turn stone to sand. 

Show a moment of weakness. 

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Told to suck it up, be a man. 

Keep those raging waters bottled behind that damn. 

Build your walls high enough, 

and eventually you’ll stop giving a damn. 

But these walls don’t come with bridges. 

These moats will wash you away. 

And I keep my archers at the ready. 

To keep love away. 

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I wonder what my absent father thinks of me. 

Continuing your legacy of solitude, 

Hurting those closest to me. 

Maybe one day I’ll put my pride away. 

And be forced to face my own mortality. 

 
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Rev. Lewis

 

THE VULNERABILITY OF MAN

Rev. Lewis expresses himself through music, poetry and deep conversations.

Be sure to keep up with his journey.

facebook: Dionte Lewis

instagram: @reverend_lewis

"and please comments here as well."

All In A Name

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MORTAL MAN

All In A Name

by: Aaron Paschal

I'll never forget the emotions, the memories, the stillness that I felt the first time I signed my last name after my father passed away. It was like time stood still as visions of my father flashed before me. Memories of my childhood and hearing him walk through the house quoting Muhammad Ali and scenes from Superfly followed by his goofy laugh. I could see him with a basketball in his hand calling himself the "Slama' from Bama" in our driveway followed by a hook shot that always seemed to go in no matter where he shot it from as my friends and I looked on annoyed and impressed all at the same time. 

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I wonder how long I stood there at the desk signing my last name?

Funny how something I've done countless times in my life could trigger such thoughts. I'd always taken my last name for granted and even had grown accustomed to simply writing my initials up until March 18, 2012. That's the date my father passed away and left me his only son to carry on his name, his lineage, his legacy.

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While I was there at that desk signing my name on that paper I could hear my father voice calling out to me to press my teenage foot on the brakes as we worked on my first car. I could hear him telling me how foolish my uptown haircut looked. I could hear him repeat some of the same corny jokes that he told me as a child to my kids. 

I wonder how long I stood there at that desk signing my last name?

I could hear the frustrations in my father's voice as he seemed to be in and out of the hospital the final year of his life. I can remember the strength and courage he displayed as he was diagnosed with stage four cancer. I never heard him complain or ask "Why me?" He just went about his life, enjoying time with his family, soaking in the love and what I imagine the pride that he had as he looked at the people he would soon be leaving behind.

Isn't it funny how something as simple as signing your last name can remind you where that name came from? How what you do with that name extends far beyond you?

I wonder how long I stood at that desk signing my last name?

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MORTAL MAN is dedicated to the memory and legacy of my father
— Willie Frank Paschal