NEW YORK (AP) — Undercover NYPD officers attended meetings of liberal political organizations and kept intelligence files on activists who planned protests around the country, according to interviews and documents that show how police have used counterterrorism tactics to monitor even lawful activities...
William Pleasant & Malik Sekou Osei (1958-2015): Post-post-modern revolutionary Marxist THEORY and PRACTICE
Friday, March 23, 2012
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Pavane for THE REAL BRONX BOMBER
The living air has been knocked out of us all. Comrade Louis Reyes Rivera made his transition yesterday at 9:01 PM, Friday March 2nd, 2012. A real revolutionary died. Fuck the euphemisims!
We have lost a Revolutionary Radical Poet, a Scholar of world literature and a Committed Artist of the People. He brought not only insight, but a skilled practice of the Black Arts Movement and a radical artistic standard to our journalistic and artistic expression, in other words he was responsible for bringing our aesthetics to a higher level of standard and insight.
Comrade Louis Reyes Rivera was never seduced by celebrity culture or having people live vicariously through his art. He wanted us to seek the conditions of the people, and then to encourage their resistance to barbarism. Louis' artist workshop was geared to achieving a deeper understanding of the role of art, and how to create an art of resistance, thus laying the foundation for self-determination.
Comrade Louis Reyes Rivera was more than an intellectual, he was a w/c visionary. Through family ties, he became the son-in-law of John Oliver Killens. Comrade Louis Reyes Rivera grasped a connection between culture and revolt --during and after the World War II period --through Comrade John Oliver Killens who produced "Then We Heard The Thunder," and other works that portray Black/Latino working class characters as human, and the US ascendant class actors.
Comrade Rivera posited the notion that art is the soul and sensibilities of a people, and that it has to be taken seriously, if they are to be free. This is consistent with the heart of WEB DuBois, Lukasch, Walter Benjamin, MAO, Fanon....That is to say, you cannot fight the enemy while waving his/her flag.
What should we do?
That is the quandary that challenges us now.
Comrade Rivera demanded an answer.
This is the prime directive of activistic investigation at this historical juncture. It is the question that must gnaw at any genuine COMMUNIST INTELLECTUAL-- (CLASS FOR ITSELF) cultural worker in the 21st century.
Comrade Rivera continued this tradition in his poetry, epitomize by the anti-racist poetic tract: "Why?"
Description of WHY? by Comrade Rivera:
The poem begin with the scream of a bullet as it careens towards the person of Malcolm X. Here Louis shows how an inanimate object also existed in a moral order of right and wrong and this would be Brother Louis' moral ground of all his art.
Comrade Louis was more than fearless intellectually, as an artist, teacher/professor he was scholastically prepared to defend the right of a people to socially define themselves. His art has expressed the humanity within "us" and the joys of our urban swagger. While Resistance and Self-definition (i.e., corporate-sponsored, multicultural, social identity politics , a.k.a. Afro-Coonery) were to be the centerpieces of the so-called Black Aesthetic, Comrade Louis continued teaching and organizing. He stook to his revolutionary guns.
Rivera's poetry of resistance of crowded subways, the moral dilemma of bullets killing Black revolutionaries in a rented ball room, where Detroit Red dies as "X." The great and beautiful mother and grand mother of the Bronx near Bath Gate Ave., a scroll from Boston Road speaking Spanish about getting his small butt home on time. Who, he himself became "a tough" in the neighborhood to use his fearlessness to explain the world to us all.
Who would share "Jazz in Jail" pass the great hills of Puerto Rico, eating Mary Janes hard candies in the Bronx before coming to Brooklyn with a hard fist of self-determining poems of the people and the people alone.
Who would share "Jazz in Jail" pass the great hills of Puerto Rico, eating Mary Janes hard candies in the Bronx before coming to Brooklyn with a hard fist of self-determining poems of the people and the people alone.
"Then We heard the Thunder..."
and it whispered
Louis Reyes Rivera.....
As the air
comes back in
our
chests
of memories and resistance.
[Comrade Louis Reyes Rivera was known by other poets as the "Janitor of History," not a name that I used he was a poet and essayist has been studying his craft since 1960, and teaching it since 1969. The recipient of over 20 awards or more, as well as a Lifetime Achievement Award back in 1995, and earlier a Special Congressional Recognition Award in 1988, and before that the CCNY 125th Anniversary Medal back in 1973. I know that Louis helped publish well over 200 books, including John Oliver Killens' GREAT BLACK RUSSIAN
Considered by many as a necessary bridge between the African and Latino American communities, he is a professor of Pan-African, African-American, Caribbean and Puerto Rican literature and history whose essays and poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Areyto, Boletin, The City Sun, African Voices, and in five award-winning collections: In Defense of Mumia; ALOUD: Live from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, Of Sons And Lovers, Bum Rush The Page, and his own Scattered
From 1996 until his passing, Comrade Rivera hosted a bi-monthly Jazzoetry & Open Mic @ Sistas' Place (where he also conducts his writing workshop) in Brooklyn, and has appeared in Jazz clubs and festivals with The Sun Ra All-Stars Project, Ahmed Abdullah's Diaspora, and his own band Scripture.
I remembered seeing him on Russell Simmons' DEF POETRY on HBO. And we used to be able to hear the comrade every Thursday, at 2pm, on radio station WBAI (99.5 FM), hosting his own weekly show PERSPECTIVE (From 1996 to 2009 I think) before the powers that be at WBAI (Pacifica's liberal crackahs of all colors) bumped him off without explaination. -- Comrade Sekou OSEI ]
pavane, pavan [pəˈvɑːn -ˈvæn ˈpævən] n
1. (Performing Arts / Dancing) a slow and stately dance of the 16th and 17th centuries
2. (Music / Classical Music) a piece of music composed for or in the rhythm of this dance, usually characterized by a slow stately triple time
[C16 pavan, via French from Spanish pavana, from Old Italian padovana Paduan (dance), from Padova Padua]
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Saturday, February 25, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
My Booty-Guard???
Dear Comrade William,
I am really hurt at the passing of our beautiful sister Whitney Houston. I am in profound pain. She was such an inspiration to me. Now I can't get out of bed because of my pain. She has inspired me to follow in her footsteps, so now I need for you to wire me $5 to help me get my crack thing on, my brother, to follow her grand example. Western Union. Brooklyn, New York. Okay?
Right now, I'm trying to get a part in a movie with a white action actress who saves me. She can be my "Booty-Guard" in the movie, although she's really bothersome. But I can fall in love with her anyway. Feel me? I have found my purpose in life, thanks to Whitney Houston's demise. I'll even go to church and I won't steal nothing. I swear!
I hope I get the major role in that moive, for I have been dreamimg to follow sister Houston. So, even though you're a Marxist, please "pray" for me... and hurry wire the $5 because my crack pipe broke.
GOD BLESS AMERICA, MUTHA-FUKAHS! OBAMA 2012!
PORKY CAPERS LIVES!
PORKY CAPERS LIVES!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
America mourns Princess Diana in the role of a Black crackhead?
By William PLEASANT
Today, I watched the WHITNEY HOUSTON funeral.
It was a fluke for me. I rarely watch TV anymore.
I did so today because I was in the day-room of a Maryland nursing home that had cable.
Around me sat the infirmed, demented and the proximally moribund wreckage of US monopoly capitalism.
CNN brought in the funeral broadcast live.
The old folks and invalids were, by the default of boredom and social neglect, entranced by the TV screen. They watched a herd of Black preachers and negroratti celebrities pay tribute to their ersatz Princess Diana via peasant-ghetto poetics, i.e., BLACK BAPTIST CHURCH christianate inanities.
An elderly Black lady I cared for drooled, as I cut her fourth salisbury steak of the week and spooned it to her. She broke the trance. Suddenly sitting up in her chair, in a sort of spasm, she hollered for everyone to hear on the ward:
"Hey, fuck that rich bitch. She just got some wrong narcotic.
I got it all my life. When they say I was hurtin'? Never!"
The frail lady then swallowed my spoon of ground what-not and instant mashed potatoes.
I gave her a swig of ginger ale to wash the medicaid garbage down.
"You be my son until you find Michael. Can you do that? Where Michael at?"
"I am not Michael. My name is Bill," I explained. "I am not your son. I cannot find Michael for you. I tried. I am just a Communist. I am with you. Have some more to eat."
For a long moment, she stared at me, as I held the next bite of mush to her withered lips.
Her milky death-eyes seemed to come clear as a hungry house cat.
She wanted more to eat, I assumed.
But the old woman groaned, shifted in her chair and dragged my ear close to her mouth.
She whispered: "I one of them like you, too."
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Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Now, this is what I call SARCASM!
By William PLEASANT
In August of 1865, southern Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee wrote to his former slave Jourdan Anderson, requesting that Jourdan return to a new and improved plantation. The good colonel wanted his slave back after he and his Confederate States of America had bitten the dust several months earlier.
Jourdan Anderson had by then run away from the farm, emancipated by the Union Army, and had moved to Ohio where he found a job that lavishly (in relative scale) supported himself, wife and children. Jourdan's written reply to the finger-licking good colonel was printed in the August 22, 1865 edition of the NEW YORK TRIBUNE. (Cited from The Freedmen's Book)
Below is an excerpted version of the slave's reply to his ex-master's invitation:
(Complete letter here...)
Dayton, Ohio
August 7, 1865
To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee
Sir:
I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance...
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| JOURDAN ANDERSON |
I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again...
As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars ($116,800.00 in current commodity exchange value or current economic power value of $17,200,000.00--Liberator). Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to.
Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.
Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.
Can we say more?
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