Tuesday, May 29, 2007


Everyday at 4:00pm, my brother had to stick his middle finger up his nose. You could set your watch by it!

“A Chance Discovery”/ Poetry by A. Dacosta Brathway

A world I used to be a part of, I now despise/
As I view it with x-ray eyes…
The big slave convention in March
The slave masters watching their charge,
Go through the motions of the order
That lends itself to the broader

Perpetuating the nightmarish dream.

The gods manage from the headmaster’s chair,
The orderlies toting their cross to bear
For their supper.
On scholarship without the academics lends itself to no abrupt fix to a world with any future,
Sends the wandering slave into a drunken stupor
While the master lives, rich, on the plantation,
Preparing the next crop’s orientation.
Increased marching lines with no degree
Unprepared to be
A pillar of strength
When functioning from a deficit disorder
Which makes the problem that much broader.

There is no solution to Vertigo
Unless heavy doses of the prescribed medication are in full effect
Creating the effect of a free fall slow…
Disgraced face
When set to the pace
Of the master’s agenda.
The mindset of March in the psychological castration of a slave mentality gender.

On Inspiration

Who would have thought that
Taking a shit
Would inspire such wit
From an insane brain
As it spiraled down the drain?

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 29th, Tuesday/ The holiday is over and things are back to normal. I'm back to doing my thing... sitting at the computer and thinking about what I would be doing if I had a boatload of money. The TV is on and some program about Orange County Housewives is on. Okay, I get TV. It's entertainment. It's staged stuff. I get it but do people, like what I'm watching, really exist? Are there really people this shallow living on Earth? Last time I checked there was a war going on under the guise of protecting American's freedom.(When translated means people are dying to allow shallow people, like the ones who live in Orange County, to stumble in stupidity.) I mean this show is hard to explain. You have to see it to believe it!/ So I'm thinking/dreaming about having a boatload of money but my fear (now) is if I had all that money, would I be shallow and stupid like those people in Orange County? I have a friend who told me, a few years ago, that American society was being divided between the "haves" and the "have nots!" I usually don't pay attention to that kind of conversation but I'll be damned if he wasn't right! (I mean gas is $3.00 a freakin' gallon now!) I need a car but if I had one, I wouldn't be able to afford the gas! But, w/out a car, I can't get to the places I need to get to when I need to get to them. So my social life suffers because of that and I sit at the computer writing about this stuff while I quietly go insane while this stupid program is on the TV. I'm not even watching it but I have it on to keep me company because the computer doesn't talk. Yeah, I could change the channel but there would only be another stupid TV show on. I used to think that it was only my life that is fucked up but I realize that I have a lot of company! I'm not as alone as I once thought! (And where is Orange County anyway? Pluto?) CRAP!

Sunday, May 27, 2007

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 27th, Sunday/ It's Sunday evening on Memorial Day weekend and I'm chillin'. Yesterday was a bust. I didn't do a damned thing so you would think I would have made an entry right? Anyway, I'm watching the Tom Joyner Show and Toni Braxton is on. I'm not a fan of hers but I got to thinking about her career. She was doing Tom Joyner's show, which is not a bad thing. But I got to thinking about how big she was coming out of the gate.You know, the whole Baby Face, LA Reid thing...Then I got to thinkin' about what it must be like when you have had the big buzz in your career and then you die out. It's like you have that dream about being some "big shot" in entertainment or sports or business and before you know it, your life has passed you by. And, if you ever had it, what is it like when you don't have it anymore? If you were lucky, you made some real money and had your name up in lights... People loved you and couldn't wait to see you! Your ass got real arrogant and you wouldn't sign an autograph for some tear filled child, standing there holding your picture that was torn out of a magazine... And, you just breeze on by like, "...How dare you ask me for my autograph!" You had a posse... An entourage if you will... Body guards! If anyone touched you they would have burst into flames! And now...now time goes by and your career is a pile of rubbish. There are no more fans. No more entourage, no posse... Body guards no longer want to guard your tired ass anymore. You're doing smaller venues and the sparse crowd is asking about who you are. The irony is that you STILL think you're hot! Your arrogance turns to anger... Rage even! You demand that people take your autograph! No one can find that "bobblehead" doll they used to have of you. When you come on TV, (after years of being absent from it), viewers are like..."Look, look who's on Carson Daly! It's what's his name?) Yeah! It's sad... but what if you are like me? What if you wanted all of those things to happen? What if you would have traded, including yo' momma, ANYTHING to have experienced that lifestyle and...What if you had those dreams to never materialize... CRAP!

Friday, May 25, 2007

COMPLAINT DEPT. by Al Brathway

I'm from Brooklyn, New York and I experienced something very disturbing the other day while visiting my family. I was over to my mother’s house and I had to go to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. The drugstore was approximately three blocks away. I left the house and had to turn onto a block called Montgomery Street. That particular block was the entry to a housing development and a college, which is directly across the street. It is dark so my sense of sight has to be a little sharper. (You never know what is lurking in a dark corner in Brooklyn, and that could be in broad daylight!) So, I’m paying attention to my surroundings as I walk. I walk a few steps and just happen to look down… and BAM! There it is! Pit bull doody! I swerve around it and walk a few more steps… and PLICKOW! Rotweiller doody!
I get it. This is the thing in the ‘hood. All the kids have these dogs now. I mean it bothered me that I had to weave my way through this crap all over the sidewalk. The law is that you are supposed to clean up after your dog but the kids never do. (Most adults don’t clean up after their dogs either!) So, I walk a little further and now I am strictly watching my step and, this time, I see what just sets me off! KICK KACK KICKOW! French Poodle doody! Now, I am pissed off! What is French Poodle doody doing in the ‘hood?
I usually do not vote but I am registering and voting in the next assemblyman election. This has got to stop!

LET THEM EAT CAKE/ Reality Shows by Al Brathway

What is it with these “reality shows” and the food (or testicles or shit) they make people eat for the sake of winning some money that the government is going to take half?
Seems like all you have to do is put (whatever) on a plate in the middle of some lettuce, pour some sauce or salad dressing on it, with the promise of gold at the end of the plate, and “Voila’!”
And the people… What the hell are they thinking? The psych job people put on themselves… “It’s a delicacy!” Humph… Yeah, right! (Come to think about it, shit could pass for pâté when you shape it into a sculpture!)

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 25th, Friday/ I channel surf alot. For whatever reason, I like it better than looking at the TV Guide. Everytime I do it and hit a cooking show, I stop to watch. Now I'm not a fan of cooking shows but I always stop when I see one. There is this one guy that always captures my attention. Have you ever seen this brother named G. Garvin? I swear, he tickles all the hell out of me. I like how he does it, "na-mean?" He got this LL Cool J thing goin' on that cracks me up. A quaffed and manicured brotha who is keeping Black America fat... He's like a walking oxymoron. Whatever my opinion of the show, that brotha makes me hungry! When he gets finished w/ his thing, the food looks sooo good, it makes me want to go to a Black cookout and slap some ribs and potato salad down my throat./ I plan to watch his show this weekend because it is Memorial Day weekend. Since I'm not invited anywhere, I'll watch his show and imagine I'm eating myself silly. Maybe I'll put on some rap music and imagine that I have a bunch of "rump shakers" dancing by my imaginary pool! Maybe I'll videotape the party and market it for BET! I'll call it "Black Folk Gone Wild" and become a billionaire. Then I'll "Pimp My Ride" (a'95 Lincoln) and videotape myself standing next to a "rented" Lear Jet and act like it's mine. I'll hit the black clubs and strip joints and throw one dollar bills around. I'll get cardboard cutouts of Black celebs and act like their my friends. I'll videotape myself at a jewelry store and pretend that I'm buying some "bling!" I'll create this whole "mogul" persona and then I'll be invited to go on "Oprah" so that she can validate me! Yeah Dawg! I'm gonna be a star! CRAP!

Thursday, May 24, 2007

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 24th, Thursday/ I have always believed in GOD. There is no way the Universe can even exist w/out one. If for no other reason I cannot explain how I even came to be. Science, schmience... However, I started getting real confused when bussing came into play and I was bused way outside my 'hood to go to high school. It was the first time I ever went to school w/ white kids. It was also the first time I heard the argument about Jesus, GOD's rep, being Black or White! Personally, I didn't care what color He was and still don't but I wonder what it would be like if there were two Jesus' and they ever met, based on the difference of belief of what color Jesus was (is). Would there be a fight over turf? Would there be an argument over who they represented? Would each have a gang of diciples and stage "drive-bys" to eliminate the other? When each respective gang... uh... posse... uh...crew...uh... congragation (that's it!) hung out, would they get high to psych themselves up to ride their "low rider" carts into the territory of the other to make the hit? Would they wear bandanas or colorful robes?/ I didn't start thinking this way until I got married and my (new) bride insisted that I go to church. We church hopped looking for a "church home" so I saw how different races worshipped. I got real confused. I thought worship had no color... I grew up in the Episcopal Church. It was very structured. I had to go to class to get confirmed. I thought I was cool until my wife told me I had to be "born again!" I also noticed that my sex life was cool (freaky) until I got married and had to be born again. When I balked at the demand, I was ostrisized from her church (body)! I went Baptist but that was a disaster. The services looked like the church scene from the Blues Brothers' movie. I didn't even know the words to the hymes but, at least, I tried to lip sync anyway. (She caught me and said I wasn't trying hard enough to learn. Like lip syncing was easy!) And then there was another problem. I was into basketball so I wore sneakers all the time... (NIKE's preferably) My feet used to hurt so bad on Sundays it wasn't even funny. Eventually we got a divorce. I have mixed emotions about what happened but one good thing came out of that whole experience... My feet don't hurt anymore! CRAP!

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 23rd, Wednesday/ I was on a city bus the other day and there were some kids in the back doing what they do. It was three of them but I wasn't sure that they were all the same gender. Two of them were definitely girls but I wasn't sure of what the third one was. Anyway, they got up to get off and the one I'm not sure of had the sagging pants thing going on. Personally I have no problem w/ the style. All generations go through their stages but I really don't get the sagging pants thing. At the very least it has to be very uncomfortable to walk w/ your pants strangling your thighs while you walk. But, you also have your FULL ass hanging out in the process! My mother used to tell me to make sure my underwear was clean in case I got into an accident. Now-a-days kids have eliminated the accident part. Kind of brings a new meaning to the term ..."showing your ass!" But, like I said, each generation has their thing. Guys are always motivated by what girls think... I'm sure that has something to do w/ it. Today the "bad boy" thing is tats (tattoos), street cred, and the look of having a load of shit in your pants!/ In a way I'm jealous. In my time, all I needed was some movie money, a car, and some interesting conversation. Now I would need plenty of money, drive on rims more expensive than the car, and the ability to call a woman a bitch and a 'ho in the same sentence. ("Yeah Dawg, I can see her getting hot off of that!") I remember being embarrassed to go into a drug store to buy one condom. Today, you have to buy the box set and in different colors!/ I have to admit to being facinated w/ the whole thing. I just don't understand how it works!/ In spite of it all, they look like they are having fun. CRAP!

Tuesday, May 22, 2007


My girlfriend suffered from “penis envy” but has since solved her problem. How? No, she did not go to some doctor who prescribed some fancy prescription medicine. No, she did not go to some psychiatrist who talked her into not having it… She simply went to a sex shop and ordered a custom-made strap on to her liking and now I have “penis envy!”

TRAPPED/ Poem by A. Dacosta Brathway

Mandingo, slave dick like no other,
Circumcised 9 inch, tripod brother
Ignored the sister for the other…
Danced on the grave of your dead mother.

Confirmed black skin does not think brown,
Spouting lyrics so as not to be clowned,
Wearing that constant, perpetual frown,
Standing straight but trying to get down.

Bullshit artist running a con,
White vagina w/ pubic hair blond,
“I’m going in!” with jimmy cap on,
No DNA trace, my word is bond.

I realize I’ve sealed my fate,
My lines rehearsed to clean my slate,
When I get to the “Pearly Gate”
I hope that I don’t burn in Hate!

I am trapped in my dead skin,
I’ve shunned my race, embarrassed my kin,
I "no" not what a mess I’m in,
I wish that I were born again.

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 22nd, Tuesday/ Right now I am looking for work. I have a degree in English Literature and I have experience in basketball. I have traveled and soaked in other cultures. Yet, none of this shit counts towards me getting a job right now. I am frustrated and humiliated, yet my friends think I should do my best to maintain my sense of humor! (They must be sniffing crack! Maybe I should too...) Here is the thing about living in America that the terrorists don't understand. They think that I'm having the time of my life! They are jealous of me having the freedom to be out of work and can't pay my bills. They think that I have (had) the freedom to hobnob w/ the big boys at the World Trade Center and yuck it up everyday. They think that me and the policy makers of America meet for lunch and make decisions they don't care for. They want me to die by their hand because the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner decision (Life in Death decision handed down to the sailors who killed the Albatross was that they had to live on their boat w/out the winds and could not move!) is not a good enough punishment for me! Wanna talk about hell? Paris Hilton can get a job before me and she has no secondary education, no experience, AND a record! How is that for torture? All I've ever done is grow up Black! (Are we having thunderstorms again today?) Here is where the fracture gets compounded. I have no job which means I can't afford a car. (Maybe I'll tell you about the experiences I've had w/ cars sometime.) So, w/out money and a car means I can't have a woman... So now I can't have sex. (I can't even buy it, which is what I would be doing even if I had a girlfriend anyway!) On top of all of this, I have to worry about terrorist plots and sleeper cells as well as the normal crime that takes place on the street because I don't have a car and have to wait for a bus or train or walk! AND, how can I even get a woman riding on a bus? (Have you seen the women who ride buses these days!)She's gonna know that I don't have any money riding on a bus at high noon. And what are the terrorists going to think while they are standing there, waiting for the bus, w/ me? (They'll think that I'm dispensible or course!) CRAP!

Monday, May 21, 2007

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

May 21st, Monday/ Got up this morning w/ nothing to look forward to but that's everyday."It's another beautiful day in Zamunda." I've already been out. Had to pay a bill. I hate paying bills! Now I have to learn to hate creating them./ In keeping w/ yesterday's theme, I'm picking up writing again. It's great therapy when you don't have a girlfriend to complain about. If I had one I'd be all wrapped up in drama, drama, and more drama... That's not necessarily a bad thing but I like comedy. My life is like a sitcom sometimes. Like the time when I left LA. (This was after "homegirl" threw me out because she said I couldn't write.) I thought that in order to put my life in some semblance of order, it was time for me to marry. "Whoa!" What the hell was going on in my brain to consider that? I thought that I needed a woman in my life... A constant presence of the female persuasion... I needed to "settle down." Settle down? Shit! My life only accelerated after that! There was ALWAYS something to do after I got married. Always somewhere to go. There was always something to buy... Some sale to catch. Shit... It didn't matter whether it was something we needed or not... We had to catch that sale. "Hey, there is a half off sale at the dollar store!" We were there, bright and early to be first in line in some small strip mall in some secluded neighborhood to be first in line. (She had a thing about getting in early to avoid the crowd... at a freakin' dollar store!) And the sex! What sex? There was a twisted irony in this marriage deal. I couldn't have a lot of sex w/ my wife because she didn't want to and there was more chicks interested in having sex w/ me because I was married but I couldn't have sex w/ them because I was married, yet I wanted more sex! Thanks GOD! I never accused you of NOT having a sense of humor! (Sometimes when I hear thunder I think that GOD just screwed over somebody and is having a belly laugh!) So I'm married, horny, miserable and I had moved back East where there is such a thing called Winter. If I were back in Cali going through this situation I might could dig it but... At least out there I could look at beautiful bronze chicks, walking around enjoying the weather and I could dream. However, I was back in Washington, DC, looking at pale women, dressed in business suits, taking on the weight of the world and hating the process and I'm smack dab in the middle of this nightmare! CRAP! (More tomorrow)

Sunday, May 20, 2007

CRAP/ My Journal by Al Brathway

March 20th, Sunday/ Today is the first day of the rest of my life so I decided to blog my journal. Lately things have been going all wrong for me so I decided to do something about it. I haven't worked a regular job in 5 yrs because I don't seem to qualify for anything. Why I don't know. I altered my personality a bit. I used to just cuss people out. Now I fake like I like people. I'm thinking maybe that my aura is still transmitting my hatred. I noticed that the interviewers would have this look on their faces like I farted during the interview and decided that I was wrong for the job or something. So, I decided to write. Now, in my mind, I can write my ass off! I majored in English in college and I knew that I did not want to teach. Have you seen the American school system lately? I would be hired to do bouncer work in some school in the worst 'hood before they would let me teach. I'm 6'5, 235lbs and BLACK! No way they would hire me as a teacher! I'd get the class w/ all the "hip hop" types. Of course they would think I'm down w/ them because... well, I do dress hip hop style but I do that shit for survival purposes! I live in the 'hood! The way I look, you don't think a real estate agent is going to show me houses in the suburbs, do you? By the way, I gotta start contemplating my next move. This gentrification thing has reared its ugly head again. (I wish white folks weren't so wishy-washy!) Anyway, I started writing in college and have been (writing) ever since. The reason why I have not been successful selling anything is because the college I went to had no network thing in place. Anybody that graduated before me was so fed up w/ the school that they decided that if they made it they would not come back to help anyone out. However, they DO come back for Homecoming! Homecoming is the time when people come back to their respective alma matas to lie about how well they are doing in the outside world, knowing that they don't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Hey, I've done it! How would they check up on me? The Alumni Association at my school never sends me anything. They say they don't know where I am. (I blame that on the gentrification thing!)And, I never stop by their booth at the Homecoming football game because I don't want them poking around in my business! Besides, at the college I went to, my professors never thought I would amount to anything anyway. They would be supportive to my face but... I remember having a meeting w/ the chair of the English Department one day and she was very encouraging in the meeting. When I left I dropped my book. Her phone rang. When she answered it I overheard her say that "...that sorry ass Al Brathway just left. He won't be shit after he leaves this school!" I've been depressed ever since./ So, I write for therapy purposes. I write so much that my hands cramp up when I pick up a pen so now I have to type everything. It's a good thing I don't have a girlfriend anymore. Imagine typing a love letter? (I actually did that and my ex told me I was an asshole and broke up w/ me. I think it was because I typed the love letter!...Bitch!) I have plenty of paperwork around. Partial scripts, poetry, short stories... I even moved to Cali to live w/ some friends and become a pro. That shit didn't work out though. The chick threw me out of the house. She claimed that I couldn't write so I couldn't help them. (Funny, that bitch never wrote anything. How would she know I couldn't write? I guess you become a critic when you can't write and I never felt the need to be a critic!) I'm tired. I'll write some more shit about my life tomorrow.

Monday, May 7, 2007

NOSE HAIR UP MY ASS! by Al Brathway

I am a CEO of a company and I have a problem. The problem is nose hair. Not mine mind you. I’m talking about my employees nose hair. Let me explain. I went to the doctor to have my postrate checked. I’m okay but my doctor said that he found nose hair up my ass. He did a test and discovered that it was not my hair. What was going on?

I ordered the whole company to be checked and sure enough there was a substance found on the noses of my employees. That substance coupled with the nose hair found up my ass exposed the condition. It is called Brownosehairitis. It is when a massive glob of nose hair is found in the rectum of the CEO of a company. Fortune 500 company CEO’s is infected the worse. The hair clogs the drain so to speak. The symptom for the employee is a glob of a brown substance found on the nose of the employee. A checkup is paramount. Early detection is key to a healthy and happy life for both the CEO and the employee.

Hello Dali by A. Dacosta Brathway

“If you are going to paint, your imagination is your brush!” the voice said, echoing, then fading in thin air. Satch jumped up from his bed, looking around his bedroom for the other occupant. There was no one else in the room. “Who said that?” Satch yelled to no one. His bedroom window was open and a slight breeze was blowing through the room. “Man, I must have been having a weird dream. I’m hearing voices!” Satch sat up trying to make sense of the experience he just had. In the corner of his bedroom sat canvases waiting to feel the cool, oozing, brush strokes of paint. Some of the canvasses had the beginnings of a work the rest were blank. Satch was having the equivalent of writer’s block for a painter. Painting he loved but he could not think of anything to paint. He was stumped. Satch sat there staring at the corner that housed the unfinished works, wondering when he was gonna get his groove on. “What am I going to paint? I’m not feeling anything!” Satch mumbled to himself. This scenario took place most nights. His days were very filled. He did not have free time to over-think about his problem. First there was school. Satch was a very good student but it did not come easy. He worked at it! He loved art class the most. Satch loved the freedom of expression… well, that and the instructor. Brother Knocks was the coolest teacher in the school. His vibe blended with Satch’s mood. He did not press his students to do anything. He encouraged them. Most times he conned them without them realizing what transpired. Satch loved that. Given that, Satch was not producing the best work in the class. He was doing C work. All his other classes were A’s and B’s. Satch wanted to be an artist. His mother wanted him to be a doctor. His father wanted him to graduate. They were very pushy. His other teachers claimed him as his own. They poked and prodded his brain, forcing him to think. Art class was not like that. Satch could sleep in there for the hour if he dreamt about art and could justify it to Brother Knocks. Brother Knocks was a Dr. of Psychology and used to teach on the college level, but he decided to teach in high school because that’s where he felt he could make an impact on students. Art was his passion. He knew more about art then he knew about psychology. He could also paint! His work hung in galleries in Manhattan. He also had some high-powered friends in the art world. Periodically they would drop by his class and give mini lectures about the art world. Those days, Satch would take mental field trips and imagine he was living an artist’s lifestyle. He saw himself living in a loft with his work all around him. He saw himself as being very well off from the consistent sales of his work and he drove around the city on his crome-plateed Harley. He always dressed in loosely fitting clothes and they were always very colorful. Truth be told, Satch wanted the lifestyle of Mr. Knocks. There was one big problem: Satch was not focused in art. He did not understand that he needed the same dedication, in art, that he had in his other classes. And, if it were not for the constant badgering from his other teachers he probably would not do well in their classes either.
But what was most disturbing to Satch was the voice he heard. Oh he heard it loud and clear and what was said to him made all the sense in the world. Satch had plenty of imagination! Satch could dream in vivid colors. His dreams were like movies. They went from beginning to end. They had a plot, a protagonist, an antagonist, and an ending with a twist. Sometimes the main character had a love interest. Sometimes there was wild, buck-naked sex. The endings were always happy and the suspension of disbelief was in full effect. That’s why hearing the voice was so profound to Satch. He heard it as clear as he hears Mr. Knocks’ voice when he talks to him.
“Mr. Knocks, can I have a word with you?” Knocks was wrapping a painting to be shipped somewhere. “What’s happening my brother?” Satch loved talking to Mr. Knocks. He could tell him anything and it would not leave the room. That applied to anything. It was always confidential to Mr. Knocks. “I had a dream last night and the voice gave me a message. It said that my imagination was my brush, if I was going to paint. Does that make sense?” Knocks stopped what he was doing. “That was a real profound statement. Who said it?” It was time for a session. “That’s just it. I’m not really sure. I was dreaming and I envisioned a man with a weird mustache. He had a Spanish accent and he was an artist, only I don’t know who he is!” Satch explained. “You sound like you are affected by it.” Good Ole Mr. Knocks getting right to the heart of the matter.

“Yeah, I woke up sweating! Man, I was moved by the whole experience… It was like the guy was speaking to me like he knew me!” Knocks took the wrapped painting off of the counter and placed it on the floor. “Hey baby brother, if you hear the voice again, maybe it will give you a name.” Knocks had a big grin on his face.

That night Satch was extremely tired. He was ready for bed when the time came. He plopped down on the bed, still in his clothes and was snoring soon after. The colors were vivid and loud. Satch was standing on what appeared to be sand. There were these clocks that were very flexible and slithering around like snakes. Behind Satch were these flaming giraffes, running one behind the other. To his right was what appeared to be a woman with a chest of drawers for a leg. Satch just stood there and took it all in. “What the hell is this? Satch mumbled to himself. “It’s simple young man. You are a part of the Dali experience!” a thin man with a thin, wrinkled face and an up-twisted mustache answered. He extended his hand. “I am Salvador Dali!” Satch was in a state of shock. “You’re the dude I learned about in my Literature class. You’re from the Surrealist period!” Dali was impressed. “You’ve done your homework young man! What can I do for you?” “To be honest with you, I’m not sure. I’m having trouble in my art class. I’m trying to figure out what to paint and I keep coming up with nothing. I don’t know what to do.” Satch lamented. “The answer is simple young man. You simply paint your passion! Figure out what you like and paint it!” Satch was pleased with the answer and moved to shake Dali’s hand. Just at the moment of contact, Dali disappeared. “Where did you go?” Satch yelled out. “Where are you?”
“I’m right here. It’s time for you to get up. You’re gonna be late!” Satch’s mother stood over him. She stressed that Satch never be late for anything. She walked out of his room. “Where was I?”
The school library was not very crowded. Satch was able to get to a computer terminal. He booted it up and got on line. There was tons of information on Salvador Dali. Satch researched the man he saw in his dream.
When Satch got to Brother Knock’s art class, he was full of information about Dali. Mr. Knocks was not covering that period so Satch had to wait until after class to talk to Mr. Knocks about his vision.

The bell rang and Satch was the first one at Knock’s desk. “Mr. Knocks, I gotta rap to you. I had this vision last that I was in Salvador Dali painting and I met him! He told me to paint what I was passionate about, but I don’t know what that is yet?” he explained. “Don’t worry my brother, you will figure it out!” Knocks replied.
The days turned into weeks and the weeks into months. Before Satch knew it, he was graduating and on his way to college. Satch had mixed emotions. He looked forward to college but hated to leave Mr. Knocks. They said they would keep in touch but never did. Satch’s workload was too much. Knocks stayed busy too. Not only did he teach, he painted religiously. In between those times, he traveled. Satch did well in college and became quite a painter. The thing for him to do, now, was to get into the working artist world of art.

Satch moved to New York City in the Park Slope community. There were other artists that lived there and Satch fit in nicely. He was doing work and was receiving allocates from his friends but that was not feeling it. He wanted professional opinions that could lead him to bigger and better things. He had a piece of his work in a gallery in Washington, DC, but it was in a small boutique like gallery in Georgetown. He wanted to show his work in New York!

Georgetown is a quaint little section of Washington, DC. Most of the shops are very small and classy but it’s not New York. Satch went to school down there and made a dent in the art community. The painting was a small one but it was quite profound. It had the elements of the Surrealist period. It was oil on canvas and was signed Satch.
Satch found a job as a framer. It was not what he wanted but it helped pay the bills. He worked hard during the day and painted at nights and on the weekends. When he was not painting, he hung out in a coffee shop in the Village or a Borders Bookstore in lower Manhattan. His friends were pseudo-intellectuals, always talking about how they could change the world with their artwork or writing. Satch was getting discouraged. His art was not moving. Not even out of his apartment. He could not get a break. He was starting to get cranky and surly. Then he started to become a recluse. His friends started seeing him less and less. His work suffered and he was constantly being threatened by his supervisor that he would be fired.

The uptown art scene was rolling. There was to be a big exhibit at the Javit’s Center and everybody who was anybody, in the art world, was showing. Satch knew about it but so what? It was just another event he would have nothing to do with. The dime bag of smoke he bought was guaranteed to take him to worlds unknown and he was ready for the trip! Satch was out before nightfall.
The room was had only one chair and it was being occupied. A woman sat in the chair and she was naked. She looked at him but did not utter a word. A voice echoed from the darkness. “What is the distraction?” a man’s voice beckoned. “We have a visitor,” the woman answered. The man exposed himself from the darkness. Satch was intruding in on a session that Salvador Dali was having with his wife Gala. “Well, well… Look my Gala; it’s the young artist I told you about. What brings you here again my son?” Satch pinched himself. The pain was intense. “ OUCH!” Satch gathered himself. “Mr. Dali, nice to see you again. Where am I?” he asked. Youare interfering with my work! I am painting my Gala. Why are you not working?” Dali asked as if genuinely concerned. “I am stuck again! I cannot think of a thing to paint and I cannot move my work!” Satch lamented. “Is that why you paint? You paint to move your work? If that is the reason why you paint then you are painting to please others; that way you will always be at a loss! You must paint to please yourself. That way, you will always have ideas and no stress!” Satch noticed that Gala did not budge from her chair. She was totally nude and was unconcerned with his presence. They were doing real art! They were serious about the work. “Go home and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Once you do that the ideas will come!”
Satch’s head was pounding. The banging on the door did not help either. “Who is it?” Satch called out realizing he was in his bed. “Yo man, open the door! There’s some weird looking dude with this chick downstairs looking for you. He said something about showing your work at the Javit’s Center? Get your ass up!” the friend ran back downstairs. Satch got up slowly. He was still tired but he didn’t know if it was from the smoke or the trip? He heard multiple footsteps coming up the stairs. “Damn,
I need the sleep! He moaned. Satch moved toward the door and opened it. The man and his companion came in. “Please excuse the place.” Satch begged. “Your place is not our concerned. We are here on other matters. We received a call from a friend who said that you had a piece of your work in Washington, DC. We would like to show it at the Javit’s exhibit! Would you be interested in showing it?” the man asked. “Who called you?” Satch asked. “We are not at liberty to say. We just need your confirmation. We will take care of the details.” It was the offer Satch could not refuse.

The Javit’s Center was crowded. Satch was dressed in all black. His work was being shown in a corner of the big room where there was a nice crowd staring at it… Admiring it! Behind the crowd was a bald, bearded brother, eyeing the work with the others. The man that came to Satch’s place walked up behind him and greeted him. “I’m glad you finally got here. I have someone I want you to meet.” He escorted Satch over to his work. When the man turned around, Satch almost lost his lunch. There stood Mr. Knocks! “My brother, it’s so good to see you again!” Brother Knocks hugged him. Satch was overwhelmed, In the course of the conversation; it was revealed that Knocks was the one who recommended him to the committee. They went to DC to witness the painting and they liked what they saw. Satch and Knocks reminisced about old times and Knocks told him about how proud he was of Satch. While they talked, there was a couple in front of then critiquing the work. They seemed to know a lot about art and had everyone’s attention that stood around them. “You see, people are talking about you!” Knocks mentioned. Satch was interested to see whom the couple was that knew so much. He took it upon himself to strike up a conversation with them. “Excuse me,” Satch interrupted. The couple turned around and Satch almost choked. “Here is our young artist now. Hello Mr. Satch, I see you have captured your passion in your work!”

Business Idea/ Observation by Al Brathway


I got to thinking… I moved to New York City prior to (9/11) and was looking for a job. Things were looking good until those damn planes hit. My luck hit a snag on that fateful day. Then I got to thinking… I need to start my own business. But, what would I sell? A friend called me to tell me that she was in a car accident and her car was totaled. She went on to say that it was drivable but totaled. Well, it hit me like a bolt of lightening! “That’s it!” I yelled.
Oh… You want to know what I yelled? Well, I am the CEO of “TOTALED.” It’s a company I started that rents totaled but drivable cars to people who live in high crime areas! What do you think?

Poetry Corner/ Trapped by A. Dacosta Brathway

Mandingo, slave dick like no other,
Circumcised 9 inch, tripod brother
Ignored the sister for the other…
Danced on the grave of your dead mother.

Confirmed black skin does not think brown,
Spouting lyrics so as not to be clowned,
Wearing that constant, perpetual frown,
Standing straight but trying to get down.

Bullshit artist running a con,
White vagina w/ pubic hair blond,
“I’m going in!” with jimmy cap on,
No DNA trace, my word is bond.

I realize I’ve sealed my fate,
My lines rehearsed to clean my slate,
When I get to the “Pearly Gate”
I hope that I don’t burn in Hate!

I am trapped in my dead skin,
I’ve shunned my race, embarrassed my kin,
I no not what a mess I’m in,
I wish that I were born again…

(c) A. Dacosta Brathway 2002

This Just In: by Al Brathway

The best way for a man to get into a woman’s panties is to go to Victoria’s Secret!

Poetry Dept: Real Rappers Grab Their Roscoes by A. Dacosta Brathway

Pumped up on pumped out lyrics,
Cause and effect hysterics…
Modern day mind control on
Strapped straphangers...


Vying for protection, and attention
Accessorizing baggy jeans w/ boots and pitbulls,

Platinum crucifixes anointed by false gods,
Preaching rhetoric to the empty domes…

Chickenheads cluck their displeasure about the negative stereotype(s) they perpetuate, while pulling that tight g-string out of their ass.

You need to be schooled so you won’t be ruled by the likeness of the Virginia Laws,
Set in place w/ all its flaws…

“Where ignorance is bliss,’tis folly to be wise,”
Behind the bravado, you can hear the cries!
Amid all the hurt, the ignorance and pain,
“The more things change, the more they remain the same!”

(c) A. Dacosta Brathway, 2005

Ghetto Etiquette/ Commentary

No matter where you live, there is a certain protocol. Same rule applies to living in the ‘Hood. If you find yourself in the neighborhood, take note of the customs and try to blend in.

1.Walk All Over the Sidewalk/ Forget about walking to the right of the sidewalk. Just walk anywhere you want. It does not matter if people are coming towards you head on. Just walk right into them and be prepared to fight.

2.Just Stand on Staircases/ It does not matter if it is the entrance to the subway or the staircase to an apartment building. Just stand there and hold your conversations. So what if old people with bags are trying to get by you.

3.Bike Ride in Front of Moving Cars/ When on your bike, always ride in the street and don’t worry about the traffic. Take your time when crossing a street, especially when a car is trying to turn. It does not matter that road rage exists and people are impatient. You have the right-of-way.

4.Bad Language from Very Young Kids/ Do not be taken aback when very young kids use bad language. You have to remember that home training is not a priority in the ‘hood. A 5 year old calling you a “mothaf#$ka is not uncommon.

5.Impromptu Dancing/ Remember, at any time a party can break out in the street. When you see a customized Honda roll up with music blasting to the likes of 100 decipals, be aware that dancing can break out at any moment.

6.Pitbull Restrooms/ Understand that the streets of the ‘hood is the public restroom for pitbulls. You have to respect their right to use their restroom. Their owners do not have to clean them up because they are grown (the pitbulls) and they should not be humiliated in public.


A man goes to a psychiatrist’s office draped in clear wrap. The doctor looks at him and says, “Well, I can see you’re nuts!”

ENTERTAINMENT DEPT: Movie Pitches That Did Not Make It.

Movie Pitches That Did Not Make It
By Al Brathway
Entertainment Writer, MT

New York--- With the wave of movies that have recently come out one would think that there are not enough ideas to go around. But I have discovered, by going deep, deep, deep, deep, deep undercover that there have been some ideas that did not make the cut! Why did these pitches not make it? Read them and you be the judge:

“The Baller”
Story of a young boy who thought he would be good at basketball because his doctor said he was in the 90th percentile in growth in his age group.

“Blind Man’s Bluff”
Story of a blind man who was always bluffing people on the street.

“The Prostrate”
Tale of a prostrate that took on a life of its own.

“The Conflict”
Gripping story of a woman’s breasts and how they could not get along.

“Love Don’t Live Here Anymore”
Story about Gerald Love’s move from his girlfriend’s apartment because he would not pay any rent.

“I Loved That Bitch”
Gripping tale of a boy who loved his dog as if it were a woman.

New Wave of Rock Bands

If I ever get the chance to be self employed, I'm going to start my own new wave of rock bands. Here are my new groups:

BAND> Toothless
HIT> “Take the Watch Out Ya Mouth Momma, You’re Gummin” Up the Works.”

BAND> Arse
HIT> “Passing Gas”

BAND> Penis
HIT> “Biggest Head on the Block”

BAND> The Mounds
HIT> “Mountains of Love”

The Belly of the Beast by A. Dacosta Brathway

A substance takes significant control
As it seeks it’s own level,
The mindful work of the devil.

The dissemblance of the order,
The everyday doings become increasingly harder.

The loss of control,
Under control,
Taking on a significant role.

The creation of the abyss, that never-ending hole,
Altering the state of your disappearing soul.

The emergence of defiance,
The formation of negative alliances…
No guarantee of reliance.

The need for exorcism, to bring you back,
To bring back your soul in tact,
To unravel nerves that has been racked.
To rescue your mind that’s under attack.

All these things, to say the least…
Prey on the mind and hold a feast,
That hold must be broken, a new found release…
It’s Dante’s Inferno, the belly of the beast.
c A. Dacosta Brathway, 2002

Friday, May 4, 2007

The Hairstyle Lifestyle by Al Brathway/ Lifestyle Writer, MT

Chicago--- There is a new fashion statement sweeping the country! Actually it’s an old style from the sixties swinging back around. What goes around comes around! It’s the Afro! Have you seen the latest nappy styles lately? How about that getup Chicago Bulls' center Ben Wallace wears? What the hell is that? Having said that, I particularly like the style where he wears the headband like a beret and the back of his head looks like it is comb deprived. Of course there are other variations of the Afro. There are also wigs available if one’s hair cannot be of that magnitude.
What amazes me is that there seems to be no shame in the game. Men are walking around with their hair all over the place and it does not seem to bother the wearer. In the sixties, the brothers talked about going back to the bush. Now, in 2007, the bush has been brought back to the brothers! Who would have thought that Buckwheat would be at the forefront of fashion?

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

POETRY CORNER by A. Dacosta Brathway

[Fleetwood Jack is our featured poet. He is from Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn and he is very angry. (Why, we have no idea!) His poem, Scared Muthaf#$ka moved us to tears so without further ado...]

Scared muthaf#$ka…?

Afraid to turn that corner? Scared of what you might find,

Nestled behind
That rock?
A lint ball, a sock?

Or is it the other side of your personality begging you to be free?

Chicken shit, misguided fool…
Refuse to try something new,
Opposite your point-of-view?
What is it w/ you?

Is what you might hear
Not RAP to your ears?

Inundated w/ your own ethnic prejudice, basking in the glow of your own while critiquing others?
What are your druthers?

Phobic to a higher level? Another flow that might put you in the know?
Or, are you stuck in your own private hell?
Hooked on the smell of blow…
Did you know?

There is another world revolving around your own or is your head gasket blown?

Should I feel sorry for you?
Or, are you just sorry enough? Should I challenge you or will you call my bluff?

Basking in the glow of limitations,
Ignorant of the know of imitations makes your life a fraud, and a non-believer in the Lord.

Wandering thru w/ no fan base,
All hung up on your race…(ism)
Free flowing in the abyss of Vertigo, trapped in a time warp of the unknown.
Are you scared, muthaf&$ka?

Afraid of what could be, as you believe in your own reality?
Keeping it real is making you fake… sad ass mindset is taking you to the hole, for God’s sake.
Mental breakdown has you “self-checked!”
Yeah, right…this ain’t no game, and yet you still play…
Last time I checked your icons were fallin’ down,
Putting your pagan ass in Purgatory.

Better wake up my Brotha
The OG role models are rollin’ back in style.
Another decade gone by and you’re back to the future.

My manhood’s “back in the cradle” and “your boy looks just like me…” by association.

Another passing of responsibility?