Brian Olayinka Kehinde

Brian Kehinde reading @ La Playa open mic 10/29/15

Brian Kehinde reading his poem "Negligence"

Negligence*

the fate of great Empires is to self-destruct, to implode the pattern of humankind is just that predictable, we are told when the church fires erupted just before dawn the sonofabitch responsible had long since fled the acrid, suffocating smoke rose and wafted into windows and the family the church belonged to was rudely roused from slumber leaping from their beds as the neighbors, too, became aware of the commotion one by one, house to house, the town's lights came on  by then, the blaze was a growling, ravenous monster, biblical in size there was no safe way to approach it, to snuff out the frantic panic many people fainting from the corrosive fumes  a permanent stench burning in the nostrils, down to the bones, like decay this scene of sudden evil, incomprehensible, unmerciful the media blazes trails in a living graveyard of antebellum evil   feeds the running, ducking, dodging, permanent stasis of victimhood and our enraged rattling of cages still won't do us any good these star-strangled crimson pools of senseless misery these fruited plains sticky with the blood of history the poison of a national nightmare spilling into liberty bell cracks suicidal waves of blind white rage among the smoldering ash "don't end up another black body outlined in chalk the news will scrape you off its shoe as an afterthought" protests greeted with tear gas, pepper spray, rubber bullets, indifference  the madness of fear-mongering, the fear of going mad ourselves lit torches and sharpened pitchforks and hunting for scapegoats abound the future now of jackboots and sirens and nooses bearing names tonight, there's no shelter from the howling storm of social unrest we are pleading for asylum, for communion with the spirits asking how to put an end to the insanity of a negligent society it's become so common, the news of black boys on the streets gunned down cold like foxes raiding chicken coops the poorest neighborhoods turned war zones, targets, sitting ducks lined in a row endless portrayals of us as pimps, ex-cons, drug dealers and gangbangers the world barely blinks or grunts: the 21st century has not changed a goddamn terrorism based on race is not urban legend, it is reality dark skin is still perceived as less than human by the law remain satisfactory boogeymen of an aberrant tradition these loyal Southern leeches, pining for Old Dixie days foot soldiers for Hell on Earth, itching to begin the next civil war and they say the gunman acted alone, and they say he just went crazy, and they say he's mentally ill, and they say he's anti-Christian, and they say he had no affiliation with any local white supremacist groups, and they say it has nothing to do with race, nothing to do with that Confederate flag, look away, there's nothing to see here, there's nothing we're ever going to do about it and they say this was no terrorist attack, this was just some freak accident but inside of everything, boldfaced lies. conspiracies and cover-ups in disguise. denial, denials. no one's who they claim to be.  paid off to protect the psychopath mentality. we are no longer fooled. remember this: there are no lone wolves in this country there are mighty wolf packs they are legion they are many. *this poem is abridged

1-900-F**kbuddy

from Filthy Knowledge: An Anthology

the exhibitionist for the evening is a blond boy army-bound  all-american buzzcut bubblebutt stud six-pack tight & curves as smooth as a '58 vanilla rolls royce a heartbreaker of indeterminate age but 18's a good guess he turns his webcam on & turns his watchers on his physique on display to be admired, be desired this live webcast is fire naked as the day he was born bubblebutt blond buzzcut hot buttered at both ends his body a warm fresh bottle of milk for all us hungry grown-ass men playing his cookie-monster death metal distortion with the camera front and center, his crotch steaming our faces up jerking his ivory tower off to the dirty words of his admirers saying what they wanna do to him drowning in the grainy image of him his snakebite lip rings his crucifix & roses bicep tattoo he flexes he leans he stretches he strokes he takes your mind to the places you crave the most wanna rub my face against the gold bristles of his skull suck on his neck until heart-shaped bruises mar his pale flesh this blue eyed angel of sin parts the cheeks of his soft pale peach  the sight of lips pink  pulsating deep, his center of heat a soldier of great promise his dick fires like a gun his cum so thick and plentiful i bet it tastes like all my unrequited objects of lust and ill-repute, bittersweet i bet it tastes like delusionary dreams & i got a starving wolf belly-ache why settle for chicken nuggets when he's a T-bone steak  just before i drift away each night i sodomize these phantoms of my youth with suicidal jubilation my misspent seed warm in the palm of my hands  as my consciousness fades to deep dream blue    and the next day, his account is deleted no trace of him anywhere as if we dreamt him up as if he never existed at all ... so what? 

Cyberthieves Of Legacy

It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society. J. Krishnamurti

like obsolete standard bearers seizing unearned credit for spring fever ramifications coursing through wall street your complaints ignored by production line totem pole chiefs openly jeering in their revulsion for your parasitic rabble-roust their golden calves slaughtered in their festering rotund groves just about to hurl their business-savvy cavalier turdblossoms at you wholly owned by morally deficient industry titans of yore honored ruiners of nature dispelling the secret sloth of consumer law the international asthmatic memory of pre-eminent nuclear strikes power the conveyor belt malaize of their manila folders their fullisade of mechanical pencils and metal folding chairs their compulsory perfectionism of constipated think tanks hatching jerryrigged elections in synchronized advance pigeon slave networks engineered by dull tortoise shell suits in elite extortion power games exchanged for favors on country club green excessively beholden to the gimme-gimme avarice of a new york minute this assimilation by monetary systems we have no play or say in RFID tags embedded in every neck the NSA cyberthieves scan satellite-controlled drones go viral with our government's wrath as stigmatized spies implode from declassifying millions of civilian deaths modern life is a state of vanishing values & impotent impermanence a minefield for egos of passive neutrality and mounting losses the superficiality of blinding static these instant distractions dominate the treacherous trappings of materialistic desires on display a profit-driven pyramid of pled-guilty plea-bargain criminals these blind / deaf / mute scapegoat detectives so lazily predictable violating justice on the same blackmail slab for smashing skulls in the hallowed corridors of their coagulating kidney stones on icy evenings enhanced with extra sensory perception these cyberthieves seep through the cracks of infrastructure dead plasma screen dreams with suicide mission orders their seven years' bad luck programmed.

Bio

Brian Olayinka Kehinde is a 41­yea r­old gay poet, novelist, illustrator, former U.S. Army journalist and Iraq War veteran. He was born in Chicago, moved to Houston in his teenage years and graduated from Prairie View A&M University in 1997 after earning a Bachelor Of Arts Communications degree. He is the author of two poetry books, Filthy Knowledge: A Poetry Anthology (1994­2011), and the more adventurous and unorthodox Monkeyassassins: A Chronic Odyssey (2013). In 2016, he will selfpublish Filthy Knowledge II: Synchronicity In Violence, Filthy Knowledge III: Amethyst Fantasy, and the erotic novel Skully And The Bleak­Eyed Youth, a bildungsroman thriller/suburban noir about a close ­knit group of skateboarding male hustlers and closeted gay soldiers in Georgia, based on his coming ­out experiences while on active duty. He is currently employed by Half­ Price Books and lives in Pearland, Texas.