Category Archives: Poetry

art in harlem: black president 18 may 08

bl prez

Now, I’m not saying that Michele and Obama will be there, but…

art in harlem – nov 02
art in harlem: sexual revolution – may 03
art in harlem: miscellaneous – nov 03
art in harlem: faces – may 04
art in harlem: bodies – nov 04
art in harlem: belief – may 05
art in harlem: star struck – may 06

ART IN HARLEM: black president

art & performances

hosted by

bre and damond haynes

Sunday May 18, 2008
bring food and drink!

rvsp, please

12 W 130th Street, #3

artists inquires, details
and to rsvp,


Our first blk prez loves to dance..check out these moves… 

formally instituted in november 2002, art in harlem is a collaborative effort to showcase the works of upcoming and established fine, graphic, decorative and performing artists. artists and their admirers gather at the space in harlem for
art, performance, music, food and spirits.

the idea behind art in harlem was to offer a comfortable, laid back open space in order to provide a clearinghouse for new artists, as well as established ones.
here’s a link to an advertisement for our last show:

Basketballs: For That Little Boy I Never Saw, But Heard About

For Bre

9:47am, Lenox Avenue.
Like a prisoner, he was dragged down the street
Coat askew, his tiny arms waving madly,
Surrounded by eyes pretending not to notice, except one pair,
That could not stop.

She watched his small body
Being dragged through the street, like a prisoner.
After they investigate, the police tell her 
The boy was bad at school, was punished for it.

Like a thing, he was carried down the street,
By his older brother, who mistook the boy’s head
For a basketball, bouncing the brown ball against the wall of a bodega,
Several times.

Surrounded by eyes of the old, the ones who didn’t want to
Get involved, the eyes of other children, who felt
The bounce thunder in their small, brown heads,

When that pair of eyes went to the police,
She was told that the boy was in trouble (again) at school.
That his brother had disciplined him.

They found the wet, dirty basketball,
Under the bed, cornered.

11:57am, Lenox Avenue.
Not a basketball in sight.

A good old age – a b-day poem one day ahead, cuz why not?

stevie 42 beardy like42 years, a good old age
twice as dumb and twice the sage

half a goat and half a man
half the time i’m in my hand

in the heart the soul it spake
ways in which i never wait

casting spells for life and amore
for boy in belly, no longer sore

i live to love and love to live
i curse the sound of katydid

more is less and less is more
yeah i know you call me whore

art it shows, drips and flows
where it shows, i always sow

42 years is fun, i guess
until my pants i make a mess.