The Man Without A Name

by Micah Bournes

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released February 16, 2013

Recorded, Mixed, and Mastered By E.M.J. of alterboy productions. alt-boy.com

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Track Name: Ex Nihilo
Imagine, nothing.
Not darkness since darkness is something.
Imagine no darkness.
Nothing.
No thing to look at.
No eyes to look with.
Even without eyes there was nothing to miss.
Emptiness.
Wait. No space to be empty.
Imagine no emptiness.
Imagine no imagination.
Now, imagine creation.
Materialized speech rising from the lips of He who preexists.
“In the beginning, God created…”
With words.
Imagine the language.
Imagine the verbs.
Imagine the adjectives employed to modify earth.
Oh that ears could have heard those majestic sentences.
Listen as The Infinite articulates the landscapes which leave us speechless.
Speak LORD speak!
Let there be,
Light! Life! Earth! Sea!
Speak LORD speak.
Let there be, for our world is,
poetry.
Track Name: The Man Without A Name
“Hello, I’m Micah, what is your name Sir?” After loitering unshaken, my palm blushed
and returned to its pocket. The man responded
“I don’t have a name.”
“Oh, well, what have people called you your whole life?”
“I don’t wish to be bothered.”
And that bothered me. Not his lack of courtesy but his namelessness.
Were his parents really that indecisive?
Maybe he has a name and just likes messing with people’s heads.
Maybe his stone cold persona is a façade as he snickers on the inside knowing I’m trying
to figure out how or if to respond.
Maybe, he’s a junior, named after the piece of scum that left his mom.
Maybe he’d rather be called nothing at all than the name of the man who abandoned him,
or body slammed him, or touched his private parts.
Maybe his name rhymes with some type of private part.
Maybe he’s still traumatized by the jingle kids sung on the jungle gym.
Maybe he has a lisp and can’t pronounce his own name right so he refuses to try.
Maybe he’s been called everything except his name for so long that he forgot what it was.
Maybe he’d be quicker to answer to bastard, or nigger, or hobo, or bum.
Maybe he had some regrets and sees everyone as a threat, afraid of what we would do if
we knew who he was, or what he’s done.
But speculation is dangerous, so regardless to the series of events leading to his present
state, this man claims to be nameless. And he doesn’t wish to be bothered.
Nor does he bother to wish.
He just sits, hoping to be ignored, or, expecting to.
Because before I made an exit, he found me, and apologized for being so rude.
Track Name: I Love Y'all For Real
I love yall, for real, but sometimes you make me feel dumb. Like the last time we met and she read her piece of poetry and everybody was impressed except, me. I wasn’t hatin’, I just didn’t comprehend it, but I pretended like I did ‘cause I didn’t wanna seem slow, you know, being the only ... Or like when my phone rings and it’s somebody black
and yall laugh ‘cause my dialect is just so darn cute or hilarious or whatever you think it is. “Aye lemme call you back kid.” Excuse me miss, but Sambo wanna know what be so minstrel show humorous? If anything you should be amused by the way I talk to you.
But still, like I said, I love yall for real but sometimes you make me feel dumb, so in my poetry I front like my vocabulary is enormous. The thesaurus is my best friend and half the time I forget what words mean after I use them, but I gotta keep up with the Jonses,
my fellow poets, my friends. Your intelligence extends far beyond the fields of my cotton ball brain. See sometimes I’m ashamed ‘cause I’m black and I aint as braniac as yall. Or, I have not been blessed with the same level of intellect as the rest of you. Furthermore due to my ethnicity I feel the pressure to prove that I am equally proficient at poetic composition. And I am not accusing you of prejudice however, such beliefs are often held sub-consciously, therefore I seek to write so eloquently all forms of bigotry open and unknown are blown to Hell. But I know I never will, and that kills me, ‘cause I love y'all for real, but sometimes you make me feel dumb.
Track Name: My People
I've always been my people and proud.
Bust out the womb wit’ my fist in the clouds.
Aint no beauty like black just ask the slave master,
but when I'm in the hood I'm like, "what happened?"

Chi town, 79th street, my people roll up lookin’ just
like me. Face same black, brim same flat.
Fist to my jaw rolled off with my cash.
Young black, young blood, young me,
Aye, aint you heard we was Kings and Queens?
Young black, young blood, young me,
turns out my people been thieves and fiends.

Check the facts young African lover
greedy as the Europeans were our African brothers.
Putting shackles on each other for some exotic treasure.
My people sold my people to the hands of another.
And I wonder, aint no telling, were the slaves more
sore at their buyers or their sellers. Huh.
But it is what it is, wouldn't make a difference
if I had another skin.
Nope, that's way of our race, everybody been slaves
to a similar face.
Yep, Black on Black, White on White
If my people not my people then what people is mine?

Revelation is the clue, people of every nation,
people of every hue. Crowd full of Cains
forgiven and grateful, and every people praise
the only God who is true.

Hallelu, my people made new,
Forgave the hate any people gave to ‘em.
Hallelu, my people made new,
believe in the Christ and my people is you.
My my, my people is you, my my, my people is you.
Track Name: Normal Hair
I was showering at the home of a white friend, pondering deeply as I lathered my chocolate skin, when suddenly I had an inclination to observe the labels of the hygiene products placed neatly on the window sill. One particular bottle struck me as queer; “Garnier Fructis Fortifying Shampoo, For Normal Hair.” I thought, “normal to whom?” Based on my current residence my hair’s considered alien but I can think of several locations where it would fit the norm. Like the Howard University dorms, or the south side of Chicago. If I walked into a grocery store on 79th street in the Chi, and made my way to the shampoo aisle, I wonder what I’d find? Garnier Fructis Fortifying
Shampoo, For Abnormal Hair, you know, the kind you can’t find around here, for the hair that lays straight, no kinks no waves, for that crazy kinda hair that doesn’t need grease. Or would it still read “For Normal Hair.” Now if you asked me the question do you have normal hair I’d answer, yes, yet I doubt if that product was made for my texture. But I guess I can’t complain; who wants to be normal anyway? I know what
normal really means, and no offense to normal people, but I have no desire to be normal.

Then I started thinking, why don’t we label everything normal as normal? Mayonnaise, “the normal condiment..” Country, screamo and rock will all be called “normal music.” Barack Obama, the first Abnormal President, well technically he’s half normal. Now do
you see how ludicrous this concept of normality is? The only problem I have with normal people is that they think they’re normal. Trust me, there is nothing normal about you. Many of my normal friends have lost pride in their heritage, as if minorities have a monopoly on everything intriguing, while they get stuck with normal culture, and normal hair . But this is not just a normal problem, many people, normal and abnormal alike fail to see the beauty in their own identities. Oh the irony when Black girls cry themselves to sleep wishing they were light skinned, while white girls lay for hours on the beach
fabricating melanin. I just don’t understand, I’m happy how I am, not full of pride, but proud to know I’m made in the image of God, and God is far from normal. So if every person is crafted after Him, there is no typical human, no normal ethnic group, no matter who you are, red, yellow, black, normal or blue, there’s something Divine about you. But
I guess you can’t know this if you don’t know the God you reflect. You’ll go your whole life thinking you’re normal or worthless, never seeing which of God’s many attributes are present in you. I urge you to introduce your image to its template, Jesus Christ the prototype, in many ways a normal guy, rejected by men and despised, yet for them He was sacrificed. By this, God was pleased, therefore thus says the Lord in Isaiah 53 verse 12 “I will divide Him a portion with the great,” and all who know Him will be like Him as well. Normal, I think not, followers of Christ possess the very Spirit of God, making us
extraordinary, and as if by Christ we’re not already great, just you wait! We’ve been given a promise of glorification, each saint will undergo a magnificent transformation, from head to toe, every hair follicle will radiate with beauty unlike you’ve ever viewed, when we get to heaven, Garnier Fructis will not do. If your faith is in Christ, next time
you run out of shampoo, take me up on this dare, go to the store and ask the bag boy “Where is the shampoo for glorious hair?”
Track Name: Respect
In high school, he was a geek.
but they didn’t know that in Jersey.
They called him Cali,
impressed that this white boy from the west survived the streets of Long Beach.
Only a freshman yet somehow he infiltrated the in crowd.
For the first time in life he felt esteemed,
and after tonight, initiation day, everyone would know his name.
Pledging was insane but the strong survived.
He would be Greek no matter the price.
Phi Kappa Tau
“Learning. Leading. Serving.”
Raving. Humping. Gulping
down lemon flavored Vodka by the liter.
The crowd cheered as his liver flexed and shifted to 5th gear.
He could hear the respect he craved.
Big brothers and babes chanting his name.
Slamming the conquered bottle on the table,
he made out with a stranger,
then collapsed on a bed of beer cans and red cups.
No one bothered to pick him up as the party chugged on.
Minutes later someone notice he had yet to rise.
Someone noticed his eyes, all white.
Someone notified the police.
Everyone heard sirens, ringing,
like the church bells that Sunday,
when hundreds before him bowed, heads to their breasts,
giving him, finally, respect.
Track Name: What Can I Do
Yeah I heard what he said and true, it's really sad but what can I do?
The answer is the question. What can you do, well? No skill is insignificant.
Whether you wax eloquent or wax cars, wax on for the cause.
The good Lord has given many gifts. Are all apostles? Are all prophets? If the whole
body were an eye how would we hear? And if we were all ears how would we smell? So
don't tell me what you're not or don't got or can't do. But serve God just how He made
you.

If you've got a green thumb,
then grow a lemon tree and take a lemonade stand.
All proceeds go to the refreshment of man.
I like to write poems, maybe you can write grants.
And you can write songs, maybe you should start a band.
And you can play the drums.
And you can play guitar,
and yall can make a record that'll cut ya to the heart.
And you know how to talk,
maybe you can give a speech,
And educate the people bout the evil till they weep.
You like to organize. You got a bunch of friends.
So yall should get together and put on a conference.
I heard about a band that'll play for really cheap.
I got another homie who can help us with the drinks.
And then I know a speaker, man that boy can really preach.
Invite alot of people who can do a lot of things.
And once they get to talking, bada bam, bada bing.
The movement really movin' and the people wondering
"What can I do?" I say, “you tell me.”
Track Name: I Am Not The Future
He was pushing 60, at least.
So impressed with my poetry he looked me in the face and raved,
“You, are the future.”
I appreciate the sentiment but that is not a compliment because I may
be young but I, am not the future. I am not the future, Sir, any more than you are the
past. You are, wrinkly with a receding hairline yes but the muscle, in your chest beats
and burns just like mine and we are both alive, in the present. I've spent far too many
yesterdays stressing on what I might become tomorrow, while you've wasted timeless
afternoons reminiscing on who you once were but neither of those people are us.

We are not anything but what we are now.
My faith of last week does not please God today.
My future riches does not cancel this poverty.
My former strength does not heal present weakness.
My soon-coming failure does not diminish current victory.

I am not the future, I am not history.
I exist in perpetual nowness.
Rebuking the ghosts of old sins and future fears.

I am nothing but here, and now.
And if I don't like that me, then I must change here, and now.
And if I can't change that me then I must pray here, and now,
that God allow this present step to land a new man.
By the grace of God I am what I am.

I am young, you are old we are both but a breath
any second my inhale will be as your ex.
So let's celebrate this moment in eternity when God saw
us fit to be brothers in the now.

And I know you meant well, dear sweet balding wrinkly faced Sir,
but I hope you understand how much you're worth,
for you are not the past,
and I am not the future.
Track Name: Sure Win
As the old truth says,
give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day.
Teach a man to fish and he'll eat for a life time.
But if you love a man by the power of Christ,
he can multiply the fish to feed the multitudes
far more than physical food.
The world needs relief,
not just bread and money.
You can fill a man's stomach and he still be hungry.
You can give a man dollars and he still need change.
You can change a man's clothes and his filth remains.
So what is our aim? What should it be?
to build schools and dig wells in hell,
then leave?
Do we merely seek to keep ‘em alive
or keep ‘em living?
Do we give ‘em a house, or a hammer and a vision?
A brand new perspective.
A mind that rejects all the lies that attempt
to confine and oppress.
People need the truth of God that sets free,
to know that their groans have reached the heavenlies,
and when God heard them he reached the hearts of his
servants and broke them because hearts love better broke.
Broke them so they go,
yes with food
yes with clothes
but most, with hope.
Most to show the ones who mourn that God is for them.
Who can stand against?
When our aim is to love,
the battle’s a sure win.
Each well we dig will dry.
Each home we build fold
but souls healed by the love of
God remain forever whole.
Motivation for our labor is greater than
fantasies of utopia. We know, until his kingdom come
The sorrows of this world will increase,
but Christ has overcome the world.
My Lord, what a relief.
Track Name: Daddy Says I'm A Princess
Daddy says I'm a princess.
Daddy won't let me play with boys at the park.
Daddy says stay away from boys 'cause they're nasty and stupid.
That's okay, I don't like boys anyway.
They have cooties.

Daddy says I'm a princess.
Daddy won't let me talk with boys on the phone.
Daddy says stay away from boys 'cause they're nasty and stupid.
That's okay, I don't like boys anyway.
They're too dumb.

Daddy says I'm a princess.
Daddy won't let me go with a boy to the dance.
Daddy says stay away from boys 'cause they're nasty and stupid.
That's okay, I don't like boys anyway.
They're immature.

Daddy doesn't call me a princess anymore.
Daddy wishes I would play and talk and dance with boys.
Daddy stays away from me 'cause he thinks I'm nasty and stupid.
That's okay, I don't like boys anyway.
Track Name: Oasis
They say you find "the one" once you stop looking.
If that's true then I’ma be alone for life ‘cause my eyes are always open.
The homies call me thirsty and you can think what you want but I am not desperate.
The truth is, I'm lonely. And that's hard to believe 'cause I'm always surrounded by
bodies, and they keep me sane, but not company.

They love me, convinced that I'm Super Man but if I showed them how broken I am I
doubt if they'd stick around. So I don't. So they do, and it's like I have to choose between
being accepted by those who don't know me or abandoned by those who do. Either way,
it's lonely.

A desert.

And I guess I am thirsty, longing for an oasis, a pool of fresh water
that knows me enough to show me myself.
And after seeing my filth reflected in her
tranquil skin, I'm not rejected in judgment,
but invited in to be cleansed.
So I strip my fig leaves and let her see everything
I swore I'd never show. And now she knows I work with youth and sometimes
look at girls with lust.
And that I'm more prone to be
charitable when there's an audience applauding
my goodness.
And how the last time I reached an oasis I was too afraid to get in.
So I stole a drink, skipped a rock and urinated before I left.
And my nakedness continues to confess until anyone with
half a conscience would gag with disgust.

But still, she is still. And still she invites me into her life.

Yes. I am desperate for such forgiveness.
For such a woman.
But am I such a man?
Hardly.
Maybe that's why I'm so lonely.
Track Name: What The Back Of His T-Shirt Should Have Said
The tiny T-Shirt stretched over the pecs and biceps of the large handsome man read
“Virginity is Curable.” But the backside should have said “However, Genital Herpes,
HIV, HPV, unwanted pregnancy or a plain old broken heart, is not. Now don’t start
rolling your eyes ‘cause I’m not trying to tell you how to live. I’m just explaining why I
choose to live the way I do.
I’m well past puberty and I’m still a virgin.
I have never made love and I will never “make love.”
Love cannot be made and is not a synonym for getting laid.
And just to set the record straight,
If I wanted some, I could get some.
But I want Someone.
Someone that will be in my life past tonight, past next month, past next decade.
Someone that won’t say to five other guys the same sweet orgasmic lie, “I, Love, You.”
Someone who believes sex is the pinnacle of a relationship and not the base of the
pyramid.
Someone I enjoy being with even when she’s not naked and in my bed.
Someone I connect with emotionally, psychologically, spiritually.
Someone who’s worth the wait.
Someone who believes I’m worth the wait.
Someone who doesn’t insist on protection ‘cause she’s not afraid of me or anything I
might have contracted.
Someone who will be glad to Mother my kids.
Someone who won’t hate her child because he looks like me.
Someone who will never try her best to eradicate my place in her memory.
Someone who knows when her breasts hang low and her wrinkles fold I will not trade her
for a porno and my right hand.
Someone who understands that it takes a strong man to control his passions.
Someone who looks forward to loosing them.
Some who will put that song on repeat and ooh wee until we faint from fatigue then wake
the next morning and feel, no, shame. ‘Cause we have the same last name,
and our nasty is holy.
So thanks for the offer Dr. Lover, but I’ll wait for one who also suffers, and we’ll cure
each other.
Track Name: Every Poem
A friend of mine bragged “I’m working on a new poem.” “What’s it about?” I asked. He laughed and said “What else?” Seeing my dismay he explained “I’m convinced that every poem, and every song and every rhyme from the beginning of time until the apocalypse
will be and has been about the same tiny word with gargantuan significance. Love. Now I’m not saying everyone is praising love, but rather its presence or absence in each artist’s life influences every word they write. Even those who compose lyrics lamenting the futility of being only exemplify their need for love. For no one who knows love believes life is devoid of purpose. Then others think that Love aint worth it. It might have its perks but most people like to flirt with whatever they wish, so they make music about making love instead of knowing true love, desiring Love’s benefits, but not a relationship.
Then some sing that love is for the weak and they don’t need it,
while others tried it, got disappointed by it, only to convince themselves that it’s not real. Yet no matter how bitter they feel towards love, it’s impossible to ignore love. So they rhyme about love being a waste of time. A myth which only fools believe in. While foolish poets cry "Amen! We are fools for Love and proud of it." For they believe it is the only thing that gives life meaning. They would rather die for it then live without it. They shout its praises with the same intensity of those who vocalize their hatred. And so this war between loveless poets and those who believe rages through the ages on book pages, stages, radio waves and screens. Inexhaustibly pushing their perspectives on what Love is or isn’t, but in the end, love doesn’t need a defense, it is what it is.”

“My” I said, “that’s quite a view, and if it be true, I conclude something huge. According to my theology, 1st John 4:8 states God is Love. Thus according to your theory I suggest that every poem, and every song and every rhyme from the beginning of time until the apocalypse will be and has been about, God. I’m not saying everyone is praising God, but rather His presence or absence in each artist’s life influences every word they write. Even those who compose lyrics lamenting the futility of being only exemplify their need for God. For no one who knows God believes life is devoid of purpose. Then others think that God aint worth it. He might have His perks but most people like to flirt with whatever they wish, so they make music about making gods instead of knowing the true God, desiring God’s benefits but not a relationship.
Then some sing that God is for the weak and they don’t need Him,
while others tried Him, got disappointed by Him, only to convince themselves that He’s not real. Yet no matter how bitter they feel towards God, it’s impossible to ignore God. So they rhyme about God being a waste of time. A myth which only fools believe in.
While foolish poets cry "Amen! We are fools for God and proud of it."
For they believe He is the only thing that gives life meaning. They would rather die for Him then live without Him. They shout His praises with the same intensity of those who vocalize their hatred. And so this war between Godless poets and those who believe rages through the ages on book pages, stages, radio waves and screens. Inexhaustibly pushing their perspectives on who God is or isn’t, But in the end, God
doesn’t need a defense, He is who He is. Amen.
Track Name: Strangers (Ft. Emily Joy)
“I am a poor, wayfaring stranger, wandering o'er this world of woe.
And there’s no
sickness, toil or danger in that bright land to which I go.”

And when he brings me to that celestial home
All the pain and the grief and the tears I used to know
Will dissipate like smoke
And I will finally be whole:

No sickness within, praise the Lord. No danger without, praise the Lord. No death and
no fear and no doubt, praise the Lord!

And someday, someday. This will all be over. And my flesh will never stand between
me and my Savior. And my heart will never scheme to wound a beloved brother. And my
hands will only ever be lifted in praise to God my Lover.


But what about now?!
I know this world is passing
but if there is no hope for the temporal
I'd rather just die.
For my eyes are tired of watching the
wicked rejoice,
wearing violence as a coat
and pride as a necklace
their mouths lash out against heaven.
But you seem to ignore their blasphemies
as you do my prayers.
My bowels have been bleeding for years!
The aroma of death rises from my waste
and there is no stench like decaying faith.

What about now?
Seeking a homeland I am
But the homeland I have
Keeps chewing me up
And spitting me out
And leaving me as good as dead.
Broken heart and broken plans.
God, I'm not trying to be an idolater,
I want to be a like the righteous man,
Who fears the Lord and loves his commands,
But it seems like no matter how patient I am
My cries go unanswered.
Do you even hear me?

"If you have raced with men on
foot and they have worn you out,
How can you compete with horses?
If you stumble in safe country,
how will you manage in the thickets
by the Jordan?"

That was the Lord's response to
Jeremiah when he
he found himself too tired to endure.
But he did,
leaving stallions in the dust.
And when our calling seems
too much to bear may we remember
those who ran before us.
countless servants accomplished
feats well beyond their
capability. For when they were weak,
they believed.

What more can I say?
If I had the faith of Joshua
I'd pause the sun in the sky.
Only then would I have
the time it takes to tell
of all the prophets.
Those who by faith
conquered kingdoms,
administered justice,
gained what was promised.
They shut the mouths of lions
and walked through fire unscorched.
Others were tortured, beat, imprisoned,
stoned, sawed in two, destitute and
persecuted for truth.
Those of whom the world was not worthy!

And in the company of those great saints
That went before me
Here…I…stand.
Broken dreams and filthy hands.
Counting sins like grains of sand
And sinking further down
Than I've ever been,
Losing faith
Cause it feels like all I ever do is go astray.

But He took my sin to the grave, praise the Lord.
He died so I could be saved, praise the Lord.
He took my sadness, my sickness, my pain, praise the Lord!

And someday, someday. This will all be over. And my flesh will never stop me from
praising Him evermore. And my heart will swell only to the sound of the voice of my
Lord. And my hands will take His quietly as He leads me through the door. And the
victory is won and I see what He suffered for.

What we suffered for.
The servant who overcomes shall
receive his reward.
One day we will eat from the tree
of life in the paradise of God.
Untouched by the sting of second
death.
One day we will consume the hidden manna
and holdfast to a stone bearing
our new name.
One day we will be given authority
over the nations. Robed in white
our names will remain in the
book of life for all ages.
And Christ himself will
acknowledge our faithfulness
before the Father and his angels.
One day we will be made a
pillar, in the temple of God,
never to be removed.
One day.
One glorious day.
One day coming soon
the Lord will grant
us the right to sit
with him, on the throne.

But today,
I'm just a poor...