Amiri Needs To Write A Poem About Beer

Two pics in Sundays with Amiri, and thus far he stays having some brew on hand.


I love the idea that Amiri gets drunk at parties and just starts randomly blessing people.

Who son?!!? WHOOooooooooo?!!??!?!

Here's a practical joke for black people everywhere: First, memorize the poem "Sombody Blew Up America" (it's about nine minutes or so, but don't worry the egregious length will only add to the hilarity!). Now just wait until some of your caucasian peeps throw you a birthday party or something (don't fret, they'll get to it eventually). Then get ridiculously drunk and when the crowd goes, "Speech! Speech! Speech!" you grab the microphone and perform this:



Hilarious! It's like Punk'd, but better! It's Blunk'd! Holla! Make sure you don't skip any questions. Each one is critical to the cumulative effect.

Anywho, between "Who?" and "Why?" black people are well prepared for any impromptu street interviewing.

Sundays with Amiri

Sundays are days of somber sobriety ... with a brew and Amari Baraka:

Notes For a Speech

African blues
does not know me. Their steps, in sands
of their own
land. A country
in black & white, newspapers
blown down pavements
of the world. Does
not feel
what I am.

Strength

in the dream, an oblique
suckling of nerve, the wind
throws up sand, eyes
are something locked in
hate, of hate, of hate, to
walk abroad, they conduct
their deaths apart
from my own. Those
heads, I call
my "people."

(And who are they. People. To concern

myself, ugly man. Who
you, to concern
the white flat stomachs
of maidens, inside houses
dying. Black. Peeled moon
light on my fingers
move under
her clothes. Where
is her husband. Black
words throw up sand
to eyes, fingers of
their private dead. Whose
soul, eyes, in sand. My color
is not theirs. Lighter, white man
talk. They shy away. My own
dead souls, my, so called
people. Africa
is a foreign place. You are
as any other sad man here
american.

- Amiri Baraka