“Untitled”
For an unknown radius, the streets of Church Avenue are a museum filled with sculptures of policemen. Who stand guard poised to rise like mythical gargoyles that come alive during the night when the uprising begins to brew. The smell of horse manure rivals the odor of decomposed bodies buried by bullets that served as undertakers. There are people with gunpowder in their lungs screaming in an attempt to pierce the conscience of men who’ve pledged to stop the violence. I am not one to judge. Only the skies know the story. No wonder they cry crystal tears when darkness supplants the light of day. Unseen in a smog stained city that continues ablaze…

“Heels”

Fact: Heels make women taller. An apparatus that functions as a pedestal for female pedestrians who resemble princesses strutting in procession. Women deserve to be elevated above ground at heights greater than the inches of their stilettos. And to be given understanding for their rainbow emotions in the same manner in which we admire the colors emitted by their prism of pumps. I’ve come to respect a woman’s gait because her feet have experienced tougher terrain than the slopes present in her shoes. She walks tall. Strides gracefully. Even on the days where her esteem isn’t as high as she seems.

-Joekenneth Museau

“Rebel Youth”

What are rules to the rebel youth who grow with a gusto for adventure?
They’re imaginary…
Like boundaries in infinite space.
The building begins from within.
Then out of skin.
Onto pavements.
Where you pave the way.
From corner store conversations to revolutionary contemplating.
It takes training.
It requires heart to acquire an absence of fear.
This ain’t no hocus pocus.
You can become potent when potential is embraced.
And your focus causes you to become colorblind to color lines; seeing that there is no mold.
The model for the future is for you to make new.
So spark the rebellion!
Do it with cause.
The power to change your surroundings is right there in your palms.
Go out and pound the pavement.
Pulverize any paradigms and leave no standards standing.
For success isn’t intended to be the possession of a select few.
Don’t ever let them see you sweat.
Just be bold.
Be true

– Joekenneth Museau

Special thanks to Nike for allowing me to lend my talents toward a wonderful campaign for Black History Month.

Photo by Nick Onken

“Black Ivy Pt II”

Time travel has long been invented. On any canvas where words are written and thoughts are depicted through an artist’s rendition. Books are known to awaken latent photosynthesis. The growth of a garden in the mind. We can all sprout up like Ivy without degrees to prove it. Be Black in the sense that prejudice is absent in the internal classes of our development. Let us not neglect our soul’s soil. Cultivating the land within will reap to a betterment beyond the boundaries of self. And that, indeed, is worth every bit of toil…

-Joekenneth Museau

Friday, 9/28/12, 8:58 AM

It’s raining. And I’m in bed. Limbs languidly sprawled under covers from the sonic hypnosis of water flowing. The trees are having their fill and they slurp loudly. Stand stately. I’ve given thought to venturing outside just to keep them company. It would be like having tea during weekend sunrises with the person who pledged an alliance to your soul. Promising to hold their ground when every thing seems to be falling out of place…even the sky.

-Joekenneth

There’s some thing wondrous about a gradient sky. When the day clocks out of work and the Sun’s flares smudge the horizon as its eyelids sluggishly surrender to shut-eye. Leaving the moon to adorn herself in a silk white robe like a mother lovingly watching us in the unknown of the night…

-Joekenneth Museau

Nowadays, I find myself in the habit of boiling water for tea. Just like you. The whispering, creaking kettle sounds like the air from your lungs passing through the lambswool lining of your morning larynx. I leave the fire on for a while and listen to your daily dissertation detailing the benefits of drinking tea. Back then, I’d call it a myth and laugh. You would laugh too. Then we would spar with smiles. My eyes traveled the miles of your face. The plains, hills and valleys. Subdued by the divinity of its scenery. I saw this everyday. Now every sip that I take from this cup reminds me of kissing the earth, rather, kissing the warmth radiating from your cheeks. I sip slow and savor because there will always be tea for later…

-Joekenneth Museau

A package came in your name today. I guess the house is a dead letter office that offers no solace because this is still your home. And every thing—-pulseless, inanimate, unmovable—-knows you belong here.

-Joekenneth

It’s difficult for perfection to dwell in an imperfect space so love becomes our disease. Ironically. Although sonically pleasing. We’re victims of circumstance. Casualties of seasons…

-Joekenneth

My mother was a twin. Half of her still exist. I find myself clinging to my aunt like the last piece of fruit in a famine. The closest one to her DNA in the family. And yet, I hunger for a vanished love. Nothing can satiate this feeling of being famished…

-Joekenneth

Autumn’s Allure

J’adore!

My mind told my mouth to utter the first word in French I could conceive.

Seeing how her seams quietly capitulated to her curves.

And likewise the white in my eyes came to represent the color of flags

When this internal war procession loses its beat.

The solitude in surrender.

The amour in armistice.

When I let my guard down like bowing leaves

that have descended from their heights to caress her feet.

Creating a wreath beneath her soles

Because even nature recognizes a Queen.

That explains the passing swift breeze, sneaking kisses on her cheek.

I sent her messages through exhalations

Carried by the winds to tell her that the leaves

Only changed color after seeing the hazel hues in her pupils.

As they desired to camouflage themselves in a beauty beyond this life.

Beyond this plane of existence.

She exists unparalleled

And yet still remains parallel parked in my cranium

Somewhere between my baptism and the future paradise promised

in Isaiah chapter 65, verse 20 and some change

And I know…God doesn’t lie.

So, what’s before me is a preview of prophecy fulfilled.

I’ve experienced far too many cold, be darkened, loveless winters

For her not to be my heart’s salvation.

As she illuminates this inner cave like fireflies.

When the butterflies within me ascend in unison

sparking a spectrum more special than fireworks in the sky.

And it’s not even July..

My independence came to fruition as an offspring of autumn.

Intricately weaved like the tweed on her sleeves.

It was simply breathtaking.

Her scent is worth inhaling more than eons of oxygen.

The essence of vanilla.

Cappuccinos brewing in a quaint corner cafe in France.

I always dreamt of Paris in October.

Romanced over the trifles of the Effiel

But here stood lady liberty holding fire in her palms.

And the slightest touch reminded me of summer

When our love was most feverish.

You see, she is my world.

Her waist the equator.

So I traverse across hemispheres

to experience the shades of all seasons.

The warmth of her lips.

The shivers of her thighs

Clutching park benches as she waits for me tonight.

Tonight…

The trees will wallow in the bellows of her song

And the sun will feel summoned by her voice to overstay its curfew.

The moon will understand.

It has had its share of eclipses.

But things just appear most beautiful when basking in her light. 

-Joekenneth Museau

I grew up in a country where the color of my skin was referred to as a nusiance.

And you generally don’t use nouns in place of adjectives but apparently,

I’ve been wearing this noose since my mom received the news

that she’d be giving birth to a boy.

American by location.

Haitian by culture.

Melanin reeking of the blood of African slaves

traded life for synonyms for death

as eyes looked on as vultures.

I wonder if they suggested my mother to keep my umbilical cord in case

the day came where she couldn’t find my bib.

And the pressures of postpartum depression

clouded her perception so that i was viewed as

just another problem

rather than her kid.

The outcome is rather anticlimactic.

I guess.

Because, even on the cusp of 22

I’m reluctant to raise cups

although I’m prophesying the celebration of my post demise.

Decorated with a pinata possessing ambitions that I strike everyday.

Aware that its vibrations are rattling a nation like poltergeist.

-Joekenneth

We are told to “read between the lines” because deception lies in the crevices of sentences. Where the verbose pose behind words that hide their true identity like silent letters that remain unpronounced. Yes, there is chatter. As is indicative of one who feigns. Ah! But truth prevails in reticence until the others fall in between the cracks of irrelevance. -Joekenneth

The weather in NYC is beautiful. The rays from the Sun are no longer as brutal as those from yesterweek. Rather, there’s a breeze that slightly caresses ones face and tastefully ruffles my clothing like the touch from a lover. And yet, my soul isn’t bound to the elements. I’m a little bit off…Off kilter, in a state of inward imbalance. Homeostasis no longer stagnant, it manages to perform a few backflips. I don’t know how to do a backflip. Admittedly, I know the causations of this uneasiness. It’s been going on for years now. This battle that I can’t even fight. My functions are limited but I strive to provide ammunition with affection, assistance and prayer. The latter is my most powerful resource. Unlimited. It sends my pleas directly to the Source that I may be granted with an impetus beyond earthly experience. I’m blessed. She’ll be fine. And I can make this day better even if it’s all in my mind. -Jokenneth Museau

“Passion”

There are emotions and then there’s passion.

A vagabond rogue determined to defy status quo

And yet proves to be the anchor to our souls.

In the depths of us all…

Lying latent like a sleeping sniper awakened

To penetrate the bulls eye encasing

A scarlet grenade that will stimulate an explosion

Of desire through our veins.

The aftermath of varicosities,

Which when palpated reveal how internal topography

Will always guide you where you’re meant to be.

When your body rises like the sputum protruding

Out of a volcano’s beak.

As fervor reaches a fever pitch.

Realizing that you can stitch a pattern so bold

In the fabric of time

That the colors of your character

Streak vibrance across your vision.

So that you are enlightened as to the talents you’ve been given.

Now you’re sight is blinded in white.

And the elements of each day appear to be a canvas.

Eighties Hip Hop cardboard for your thoughts to dance on.

Until those choreographed convulsions convey

A feeling similar to what I felt

Completing this poem on a sunny afternoon in May.

When time stood still…

And allowed me to bask in

The fruitage of my passion.

-Joekenneth Museau for ‘The Passion Project’