Lawrence Robinson

Lawrence Robinson isn't a household name. And he won't be after this blog, but I want to honor him just the same. He also had the moniker, "Square Biz". Lawrence was born in Marshal, Texas, on August 19, 1926, to Hayes Robinson, Sr., and Annie Caroline Bush. He was one of four children. He attended Central High School there. Lawrence's life became joyful after overcoming a great many personal challenges: petty theft, alcoholism and repeated incarceration. He served honorably in the U.S Merchant Marines aboard a ship in the South Pacific in the 1940s. After his honorable discharge in 1945, he began a fifty-year sojourn that included travels to San Francisco, Minnesota, North Carolina, Los Angeles, St Louis and San Diego. During that period, he married Rosaland Scott of Newbern, N.C., in 1980. They traveled across country as crafts merchants.
Following the dissolution of their fiery relationship, he made Las Vegas his permanent home. He began what he referred to as his age of appreciation, spending his last years writing his insights, photographing people and scenery, observing world politics, and listening to his favorite music -jazz. He was most known for his kindness and ability to make people laugh and see the world with a more positive outlook. I met him while he stayed in Los Angeles; introduced him to the Los Angeles-based International Black Writers and Artist group where we performed under the president, Edna Crutchfield at various middle schools and universities. I was overwhelmed by Square Biz's volume and wealth of jazz; needless to say, he was an avid jazz lover; he was a historian and former performing jazz musician and singer and a consummate poet, spoken word banging artist. Needless to say, when thoughts came to him, he would write his thoughts on whatever paper was available, scraps of toilet paper, napkins, casino tickets or scraps of paper picked off the streets. His prized and signature poem, Intelligence is among the collection catalogued in the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, Ripley's Believe It or Not, and has been displayed across the country. His final years were spent with his true soul mate, writing partner and biographer, "CoCo", Parker Philpot of Las Vegas, Nv. In closing, I will post Square Biz's signature poem Intelligence, a poem he said no other poet had ever attempted to write; I believe him because I've researched it. His truth/observation is intact.



INTELLIGENCE

The nuance that is seen
from a blank line between
any two lines of eloquence;

be it ever so small,
if it rings true at all,
what else is INTELLIGENCE?

Cerebral seasoning; the power of
reasoning from logical evidence;
correcting confusion, and knowing
illusion; - is not this INTELLIGENCE?

Meandering visions, affecting
decisions, - man's VERY FIRST
LINE OF DEFENSE?

The only REAL TRACTION FOR WISDOM
IN ACTION is also INTELLIGENCE.

Copyright 1972 - Lawrence Robinson

MTHN

I've been asked several times to explain what is meant by listing my occupation as MTHN.
Were I to divulge that information, I would be violating a well-kept secret and practice known to only a few hundred people. The consequences of revealing said occupation would cause me and others of my ilk serious harm and death. Chronologically, I am seventy-one years young; and am becoming younger as I age. No, I haven't discovered the Fountain of Youth. You'll not find The Wandering Jew. Are you asking, "Then, what is the purpose/reason for this blog?" You will know the answer in quick or due time. Before I proceed, let me say that the few hundred people who've achieved the occupational status of MTHN, some deceased or disabled, boast the distinction of having an appellation shared by no one else. Yes, I am the only Mongo Kalahari Taribubu in the world. Twelve plus years was a long time to remain steadfast in a discipline that would offer limited personal freedom, leisure and comfort, but the learning process, along with some disappointments, intermingled with rays of encouragement made it worthwhile; giving the experience deeper meaning to the twinship of agony and ecstasy. Sometimes cushioned people want to leave the couch of expectation and step into unscathed territories, swim with dolphins, soar with eagles and tempt the sun. I was allowed to do just that after my initiation into MTHN. One goal of being an MTHN is to bring about positive change in the world by changing one person's attitude about human emergence, purpose and limited power when it comes to forces far greater than our own. Throughout the centuries, great entities, avatars, braving human flesh and form have visited this world to spread various doctrines (some detrimental to the well-being of the human race). AS A STUDENT, I leave you with this riddle: You, too, can become a disciple of MTHN without twelve years of rigorous, dedicated study by understanding the power embodied in the reverse of MTHN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With me
There is no "I"
No "mine"
There is nothing.
All inner desires
have melted away.
Whatever I do,
I do nothing.
My mind has stopped working,
It has simply melted away,
and with it
dreams and delusions
and dullness.
And for what I have become,
There is no Name,
no "I" no "Mine"
no "Me"

(Ashtavakra Gita 17:19:20)

To be continued.

The Genesis of Penitentiary Poem

When hearing my signature poem, Penitentiary, most people come to the conclusion that it was written during a time of my incarceration. But not is the case. Initially, the poem was titled, I Am Alcohol. A friend and member of an AA group and the editor of its monthly newsletter asked if I would submit a poem about alcohol. I did. And the poem was a hit with the readers; a few of them shared their comments on the editorial page. An inmate with a subscription to the newsletter ask if it was possible for me to write a poem with the twist on a Penitentiary or prison setting. I complied, and it was well received. On the written page, the poem did not measure up to academic standards, but presented vocally, its power was overwhelming. Or course, with my training in elocution and other literary techniques, Penitentiary was often requested when I attended poetry venues in the mid-sixties. Over the years, to this day, I found different ways to deliver the poem in order to keep its freshness and ensure its universality. Too, it has been recorded several times by different media artists. I have used props such as chairs being kicked over, tables being pounded and rocks broken with sledge hammers. The most memorable recitations, to my regret, was not captured on video or camera as I collared a heckler and took him to the floor as I screamed, I'm in command, and the other time, when in a circle of the round at Al's bar, eyeballed one of the listener and said, Push me Punk and be DOOMED!. The guy took it as a personal affront and said he wanted to punch me out. But I was ready for the confrontation.

Public Transportation

I live in Los Angeles, California where public transportation can be hell: overcrowded buses, dirty floors, especially when someone has spilled sodas, beer or some other liquid that sticks on the soles of ones shoes; smudged windows, inconsiderate drivers and passengers; the smell of baby poop. Some passengers talk on cell phones as if other passengers want to hear what they saying.

But there are times public transportation can be a pleasant experience, especially when the run is hourly through or pass up scaled residential areas such as Malibu, Beverly Hills, Century City or the Pacific Palisades. Of course, there are other pleasant areas outside of the ones I've mentioned. Since I rely on public transportation six to eight times a day, I've become an expert on which are the best and worst buses to take, the kind of passengers I'm likely to encounter, and the best time of day to ride. Sometimes I'm not as mindful of the bus I decide to ride. I'm out to go nowhere in particular.

And without a degree of apprehension I'll board buses I normally would not chance under any circumstances. I watch every passengers who boards: individuals, couples; the aware and clueless, the good, the bad, the ugly, the clean and the unclean, and the few extraterrestrials. But, of course, I jest. I ride to observe - not judge, knowing that even I'm being watched and recorded. I follow the rules posted at the front and sides of the bus: No Smoking, eating and drinking, radio silent, please exit at rear door, priority seating for seniors and disabled, pull cord for next stop. Regardless, people drink and eat, play radios at a disturbing volume And the odor of pizza and other foods, sweat, urine, soiled clothes, bodies overly perfumed, and inundates the unventilated bus. Priority seating for seniors and disabled are occupied by under-age children whose fare's not required and young adults who care less for the elderly person with cane or walker.

People cough without covering mouth, spit on the floor. Some passengers hold a hand over mouth and nose. Sometimes a passenger moves to open several windows. I observe. Seemingly, the front of the bus is packed with people who's clueless that the back is full of room. I wonder who these people are, where are they from? Thank, God, not where I'm from! Sometimes a driver will say, "Please, move to the back of the bus so others can board." Most are unresponsive. They can not hear or refuse to because of earphones plugged in ears, listening to music or busy blabbing on cell phones.

I do my best to negotiate pass backpacks, luggage and feet blocking the narrow aisle so as not to offend someone I should be offended by. I notice four, five, six people pulling the cord for the next stop, unaware that the cord has been pulled. Again, I wonder, who are these people? Can they see? Can they read? Can they hear? The bus comes to the stop and a few people exit from the back door as others shove through a throng of people trying to board. Thank God, they're not in cars on the highway or freeway or overland streets. What would happen with such unawareness.

I'm going somewhere, nowhere in particular, just riding, destination unknown, observing the behavior of passengers. I take note of drivers, his or her demeanor, one who's heavy on the horn, brakes, courteous, etc,. When on the bus, if possible, I take a seat by the window, two rows back from the priority seating in order to see if a wheelchair wants to board. I see the women with her seeing-eye dog. She boards. Wow! The driver has to demand two reluctant and indignant-looking passengers to give up their seats.

Boarding a bus is another problem at some bus stops: a person stands, keeping others from boarding, blocking door, while asking the driver questions or getting to the cash box and fumbling for change or a bus pass in a stuffed purse or some unknown pocket. And there are the attempted fare invaders who boards, ignoring the driver or depositing a few pennies in the fare box and proceed to seat themselves. Some drivers ignore the escapade while on occasion others will not move the bus, threaten to call the police, as some passengers scream at the culprit(s) to pay or get off. Sometimes a passenger will volunteer the fare in order to diffuse the stand-off. But, here is a lesson learned: this guy boards a bus, asking passengers for fare so he can go see his mother in the hospital. A sympathetic passenger gives it to him, but instead of depositing it in the fare box, he darts off the bus. Overall, I like public transportation because it's a nice way to joyride.

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

AMERICA'S LEAST WANTED

A few friends suggested that I should start blogging. I'm reluctant do so because writing is not my forte. Too, I have a poor grasp of the English language. My grammar is faulty, punctuation, spelling even worse; and I'm unable to construct more than simple sentences. Poetry is different: I'm able to use language in such a way, albeit, incorrect, and claim poetic license. But, too, I don't consider myself a poet. I fancy being a dramatic enunciator.however, I will try blogging in a few days, but be forewarned, I've placed a two thousand word limit on what I'll write, and I won't do a word count. Instead I'll rely strictly on my instincts. I truly feel that whatever I write will not be important or make a difference by influencing opinion of those who'll read my blogs; will not come away with a charged enlightenment. As the title states this is an attempt to say as few words as possible. Read between the lines recognise who's the least wanted in your life. We're familiar with America's Most Wanted, a popular television program, detailing serious crimes by criminals on the run, wanted for unanswered crimes committed in anger, passion or outright stupidity. AMW spotlights felons and seek justice for those who have been victimized. Justice is a Janus-faced entity:an institutional retribution encoded in self-serving laws of humankind; the other face, a spiritual force of recycled deeds known as Karma. But, back to the point, who is America's least wanted: simply, the homeless ( and to some extent), homeless enablers. Los Angeles, California has been given the designation, Homeless Capital of America. On any given night you'll see homeless people sleeping in doorways, alleys, tents, cars and vans; some with shopping carts, duffel bags and/or backpacks filled with worldly possessions. Individual men, women, children and families without a support system because of billions of dollars shipped throughout the world to pre-empt the childhood of exploited children, and bolster the wealth of tyrants. Homelessness has became a crime in too many American cities, and homeless enablers have become victim of legislative edits enforced by robotized police. Who are the homeless? Why are they America's least wanted? What are the stats? We have the tendency to lump the homeless in one category: We fail to see there are homeless people whose condition is resultant from loosing employment (one paycheck away); veterans, alcoholics or those unable to pay and get treatment for psychological maladies. People labor under the impression that most homeless people are drug addicts, alcoholics, ex-convicts and deviates of some kind. My mind's eye, seeing the Buddha, leaving behind his wealth and status and Christ, feeding five thousand with five loaves of bread and two fish, blows me away. America's least wanted! Shame, shame, shame!

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

This is better expressed in an article written by Jeff Dietrich appearing in the Los Angeles Times, Monday, August 8, 20011, entitled Home sweet shopping cart. Or go to lacatholicworker.org