Young Ston..,Uhh..
(Put yo lighters in the air2),wave them, stand up & rejoice, (Yeah2),(put yo lighters in the air2),wave them..stand up & let's be together, (Yeah2),..(put yo lighters, in the air3)..stand up & let's fight back Yeah..let's fight together, Yeah, let's fight together man..(put yo lighters up in the air3)..wave them,stand up my ****** & let's fight for the truth...Yeah..Uhh..Yeah
Put yo lighters up & wave them..

Have no fear my *****, the more that we are together than against each other we are stronger, & smater & we can defeat this evil sadistic system, why y'all so scared for, don't be man...
Cuhz,they are more afraid of us than we are actually are of them, we can win together, yeah..(put yo lighters in the air3)..& wave them,Uhh,my *****..Where the peace at, where the love went..man...
They got us so distracted, I'm so tired of being lied to , I had enough of it,..my *****, We keep going to war for nothing,.. So much Bloodshed cause for no good reason, America is the real terrorists,..**** my ****** in the hood keep destroying themselves..man, the government ain't really for we the people, they selfish, they only care about the money & that's it, put yo lighters up Yeah..put yo lighters in the air man & let's revolt, Rebel & rejoice now my nigg..Uhh

So much **** **** & ******* they been feeding our minds for years & years, is about to stop..Cuhz, God don't like ugly..Uhh..
Imma OFTR Soulja, death can't even stop me Naw, it won't mane..Uhh, untill I meet my Heavenly Father, Imma keep on fighting, ryhming, preaching, & fulfilling my destiny, my ***** this is real hip hop, I'm bringing awareness like a Aids convention,Ayo, nothing can be above Jesus Christ,..that's why I worship & praise him, hes my idol, no man is, I'm above these ******* because of him, Aye mane..

Put yo lighters up , blaze one..(Yeah2)...Aye, let's Unite as one & peace it dawg..everybody get a piece of the pie, not apple, sweet potatoe with whip cream on the top..Aye
Yeah I might say the same thing in all of my songs, but peace is the only thing that stay flowing in my mind, Yeah peace is all I want,..Lets go..Uhh..

I said put yo lighters up in the air, Yeah put yo lighters up high my *****..(Yeah, put yo lighters up,man3)..,let's fight back..together & stop Being so afraid,..(Yeah2)..Aye,..We need more musicians telling people what's real man, my ***** Imma Villian to society,, **** The government, I know they already got assassins out here looking for me, but I don't fear death,..The elitist can burn in hell, I live forever Yeah, **** America..(They can *******2)..man..Cuhz,
Heaven is my country, *****,..&
(Imma be who I wanna be2)..

Yeah mane, Uhh,..(Put yo lighters up2)..in the air wave em back n forth Yeah, let's rejoice & uplift each other instead of killing each other..Yeah..(put yo lighters up2)..roll up & let us be as one man..Yeah, put yo lighters up in thee air, & wave them..(Put yo lighters up man,put yo lighters up, Yeah*3)..Yeah...Uhh, put them lighters up..high..& wave them.. Yeah,yeah..Aye

Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter

Thinking in sparked lighters that
sting your thumb and cut your
lungs
Glints in your eyes and burns in
that 0.2 of a second
Scarlet grapefruit that puckers your inner cheeks
Breakfast you've only seen on
Latenight  Television, behind the couch, in secret
it's been years since they've
promised your order so where is it
you scream
You scratch, scathing, panting
promising to yourself
of sweetness
bitter sugar

Down the back alley
on the cold winter evenings
your eyes stared only at me

I didn't smoke
as my father gave up
yet i didn't dare disagree

you parted your lips
you drew in a breath
and your body relaxed in turn

exhaling slowly,
you grin and you show me
how much your body did yearn

for the taste of a cigarette
the embers and ashes
matches and lighters, causing flickering flashes

you said I didn't have to
but I said I didn't mind
that the smoke in your mouth would soon be in mine

I did not draw back
my mouth- under attack
I just had to last the duration

because I didn't smoke
the taste scorched my throat
and gave off a burning sensation

It must have felt different
as just in an insant
You stub out the cigarette with a hiss

silently relieved
and now more at ease
oh, the things that you do for a kiss

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                       Three Cigarette Lighters


                        And in what landscape of disaster
                        Has your unhappy spirit lost its road?

                        -Thomas Merton, “For my Brother”


I was strolling along for my digestion and health
Inspecting the refreshing October winds
Counting the summer-tired leaves floating to earth
And noting the brightness of autumn’s yellow flowers

Off in the weeds a cigarette lighter presented itself
It didn’t work. A second cigarette lighter did
A useful souvenir of my evening walk
And then a third – three cheap lighters, all in a row

A ******* trail of disposable dreams
Disposable lighters, disposable lives

perhaps I've lost my mind
from all the red lighters
the aching in my stomach
it craves the chemicals
chemicals that warp my dreams
distort my deepest desires
I see cigarette burns
I see glossy red eyes
In a broken mirror
why do I search for bliss
in strangers and amber bottles
In pain and indifferent lovers

I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.

When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.

A thousand wishes were sent to the stars,
Along with lighters in the sky.

She sat on a park bench crying at the moon
Because that's what wolves do
And wolves were a lot closer to her than family
He lied under a park bench
And spoke to the ants
Because ants were more like friends than any friends he'd ever had
And once upon a time
These two were children full of innocence
Full of vigor and life ready for anything
Like anything was the everything they did everyday
And this is an ode to lost innocence
But I'm not sure he's lost
We may have just forgotten where to find him
Or maybe he forgot where he lives
And right now he's wandering the streets
Finding refuge in anyone willing to dream when the sun is out
Our children are seeing things like they live in the third world
They're spending their days providing
For families their fathers left them
Watching gun shots count for the census
Seeing thriving turn in to surviving
And surviving turning in to not even worth it anymore
Our mothers can't afford gifts for Christmas
And sometimes they can't even buy their kids imagination for breakfast
We have kids knowing their **** hands
Before their clock hands
Surprising their math teachers
With their extraordinary knowledge of ounces and grams
Innocence has been gone for a while
So I put up missing posters on the same telephone poles
Those once innocent children sell themselves on
I place fliers in the newspapers
The teenagers are rolling their **** in
I'm searching for him everywhere
And I'm starting to believe he's nowhere
Then I see an old man
Who's been through his share of this war
Looking at a painting with eyes I once had
Admiring the image, not the brush strokes
Loving the feeling it provokes
Not the conflict it's trying to resolve
And I see in him the innocence that's lost
But it doesn't stay long
His cell phone rings and he hunches over
As if no matter who it is, it's the real world
And the weight of that is crushing him
So I crawl under the same park bench
And pray to the same moon
The young woman cried to
And I ask the man in the moon to save us
To use his huge eyes to find the innocence
And put it back in talking to ants
And howling at the moon
Convince them to leave the straight jackets
In empty padded rooms
And let the children we were
We are
We never got the chance to be
Run free
This is an ode to lost innocence
To lighters and cigarettes in the lost and found
To Anti Depressants in the nurses office
And Ex-Lax in the girls bathroom
They used to have four square and hopscotch courts
Now the only chalk on sidewalks is outlining a corpse
Explaining to our kids about pregnancy and STD's
Before we teach them the infield fly rule
This is an ode to the innocence that ran away
Because maybe he's not lost at all
Maybe he's just sick and tired of being ripped out of people
Of being ***** out of young girls
Beaten out of young children
Shot out of young boys
Maybe innocence just got tired of being taken for granted
About not being loved like poets used to love him
You don't see his name in too many hip hop songs
And I haven't heard a poem in a while to call his praise
Maybe he left to go try and find somewhere
He can be loved like he used to be
He could be courting aliens
Or wooing dolphins
Because it's clear we don't care about him anymore
That innocence got lost without us noticing
So why would we notice if he came back
So why should he come back
This is an ode innocence's last name
Children
This is an ode to lost innocence
The cops came and took her away
And before her head was tucked into the car
She howled one last time at the moon
And from my balcony as loud as my lungs could let me
I howled back
And the next day I crawled under a park bench and talked to ants
A week later I found myself howling at the moon
Because it seemed the whole block
Caught a case of insomnia the day they arrested the wolf lady
This is an ode to lost innocence
Please come home, our children need you

i used to pass my fingers through the flame of my lighter when I was 10
in order to see how slow I would have to go for it to start hurting
now,
can’t you see
why I was afraid when you asked that we take it slow