Spoken Word&;; 1 Black Boy MUIR I'm nothing more than a black boy. A term, few others hold to joy. A black boy originally from the projects. Tompkins Projects, precisely, now I'm of the rejects. A black boy- from the projects, trying to enter this world and make it. I've explored and this world is nothing more than a large pit. I've seen nothing, as I've seen coming back home. roam these streets between my old project and Interfaith's dome. I started there, and here- home, I'm without fear. But no fear can repay for the crimes done dear. Not physical crimes- remember when I asked you to spare that dime? Ah, my black brothers. I'm nothing more than a talented, project-born, black boy. Understand, we are either for coy, sexual toys, or we can enter the void. It's choices. I'm once conditioned, i fight whatever 'repression', and I'm in and out of #depression. And like others, I've been and I've lied too- but in this world- ive learned there's no place or time for the old gospels, blues or doo whoop. And for once, Brooklyn- to all my brothers and sisters- Brooklyn, I hear you. -alexsandr muir

For Cortelli Rossa Da for cortelli rossa da - prose by MUIR These are the days that Romans call glorious. The citizens to kings emerge, vain as semi-gods due to the new enlightened revolutions. We are the newly generation with rods of ire: we fight for freedom. we slight pity and speak ourselves in the shoes of our brothers and sisters. We are the individuals that blessed for knowledge. An order of new rejections to the cold days of past. Yes, the days are glorious, comparable to the esteems of our fathers- toleration that our days are worst or of imagined Eden should we choose. Yet, i need not say these are bad times, for I'd forget the arts, the movement of the flower power in the previous decade, the sudden rise of self- fulfillment and our sinned pleasures- which we cannot help. But i shant say these times are good either, for even in glorious times the already weakened shall weaken further. And this, my mother once confessed, damned us the minute we arrived in Paris some seventeen years ago. #prose #blackwriters #blackauthors

For Cortelli Rossa Da - prose by MUIR These are the days that Romans call glorious. The citizens to kings emerge, vain as semi-gods due to the new enlightened revolutions. We are the newly generation with rods of ire: we fight for freedom. we slight pity and speak ourselves in the shoes of our brothers and sisters. We are the individuals that blessed for knowledge. An order of new rejections to the cold days of past. Yes, the days are glorious, comparable to the esteems of our fathers- toleration that our days are worst or of imagined Eden should we choose. Yet, i need not say these are bad times, for I'd forget the arts, the movement of the flower power in the previous decade, the sudden rise of self- fulfillment and our sinned pleasures- which we cannot help. But i shant say these times are good either, for even in glorious times the already weakened shall weaken further. And this, my mother once confessed, damned us the minute we arrived in Paris some seventeen years ago.

My Doo Whoop there are no words- nay sentiments, gay or chords, to explain the v. binds of my current. what can I say? that could, oh, would- please this grey of the day. tensed, this room be. i, sense these coy gestures in that corner- pensive, mocking and sneer to-day, Je suppose another lesson for this learner. to noticed this distance, from your previous warm- these, my arm, delights and rigour, switched, swiftly, venomous as Camelot’s lance I to you, cannot turn en vogue as the other pomps you’ve witnessed and praised- yet, you’ve sought me as your rouge. My darling dear, your back turned, and your gestures coy- Come and be that peer I sought- our coffee’s here.