I love Islam and cream soda

Back on September 10th, I posted an admittedly provocative picture on my Twitter, of me cutting a gag off of my mouth - one that had "Dom" written on it - with the caption "#48Days". To most, it was an obvious reference to my then-countdown to the day that I would be off of parole and able to talk freely about my ordeal with my ex-wife, Dominique. But to my man, Theo Wilson, it was an opportunity to cape for Dominique and attempt to call me out on Facebook and both get back in her good graces and look like Black-Women's-Best-Friend. All the while, he claimed to be "brotherly" to me. He must've meant "brotherly" in the sense that Cain was "brotherly" to Abel. Some background: In August, the Kasbah nightclub hosted its poetry night on a Thursday and a sister recited a poem about being molested and then pointed out an audience member (and fellow open mic performer) as apparently being the one her poem was about. This s

On November 26, minding my own business, I got an interesting Facebook friend request.  At first glance, it looked like the typical spam request that would eventually direct me to a porn site.  Except for the locale of the person.  Generally, the spam requests come from a locale either from my profile like where I grew up, but this one was from Colorado.  It took about 4 seconds of a closer look to realize that it was my ex-wifey Dominique, after old shenanigans. And I do mean “old”.  She had only just recently catfished to me taking on the guise of a weather person working at 9News.  The same 9News that had just exposed her as a fraud and a house thief.  Dominique intended for me to click on a link that she sent that would record and send her my IP address.  Not that she could do anything with that info, especially given the fact that I don’t have a static IP address; the perks of having more than one or two hacker friends. First, I snatch the pic and drop it in Google sear

When an inmate gets out of prison, it is a rebirth - and there are questions they confront in order to start a new life.  One of the most important ones is, "Where am I going to live?"  As a society, we have no idea of the reality that the majority of inmates get out of prison and that they will become our neighbors. I know this - because I was that inmate, and I am now "that neighbor".

It was July, 2010. That summer, my daughter was preparing to move to Baltimore with her mother, who had recently married a brother living there. Being the dutiful father and Muslim, I helped my ex pack and straighten the apartment for their departure. As I was gathering up Umarah’s things, I came across as small, girly-pink notebook labeled, “JOURNAL”. I’ve said it before – as a father, when it comes to kids, I am nosy. Unapologetically. I don’t subscribe to Leave-It-To-Beaver notions of parenting. Being a step/father to girls made me super vigilant, super protective. And super nosy. Sue me – and good luck. All that, of course, is to say, I opened and thumbed thru Umarah’s journal. What I read ripped my soul out and tied it in a knot.

Racism is an exercise of xenophobia and low self-esteem - negative core values that people reflexively cover up with Confederate flags and misplaced adulation of President Trump/hate for Obama/probable cause traffic stops. What follows is a list of activities that any Alt-Right Racist Cornball can engage in that will rid them of their discriminating schizophrenic prejudices and fears and have them trading in their robes and tiki torches for basic humanity.

Click HERE for Part 1 I got out of prison in August of 1996 on a Friday, released early from my sentence to community based supervision in a halfway house. I was initially housed at the County Jail, awaiting bed space, and was given the opportunity the following Monday to hit the streets after 7 years. I made a bee-line to my wife’s apartment on the Eastside. I had just missed her leaving to work but the kid's were home. A bunch of hugs and high-fives later, everyone was off doing homework and chores and I stood in the living room soaking my freedom in and basking in the glow of my new castle. The responsibility didn’t escape me, though. I was a full-fledged stepdad, and my wife was also my baby mama, being a couple months pregnant at the time. “You need to protect those girls.” That edict from my Sister rung over and over again in my ears. I not only had to provide for my step-kids as head of household, I had to keep them safe from a predator (allegedly) w

“You need to protect those girls.” These were some of the first words my Sister told me after I had gotten married (for the first time) – words about my new stepdaughters that rang out to me very loud. Very clear. My first marriage occurred while I was still serving time for a robbery I committed at 19. I was 25 and Muslim and despite my circumstance (and very much because of my spiritual transformation) I had been lucky/blessed enough to snag a gorgeous, devout, and intelligent woman who took an interest and liking to me. My wife had been a friend of a friend – a blind Pen Pal hook-up that quickly blossomed into matrimony. Maybe too fast – because not long after I got a cautionary letter about my new nuptials.  Among a couple red flags waved at my marriage was this: my wife’s ex-husband was a suspected child molester.

In 2000, Shwayyah got married for the first time, to a young brother from Egypt named Mohammed. The backdrop of this event saw me and her mother Asiyah going thru a brief separation, one that extended to my relationship with Shwayyah as well. In the meantime, Mohammed approached some of the brothers in my mosque, inquiring about marriage to any available sisters - they brought up Shway for consideration and one of the brothers in a leadership role, Mikal, stepped into the role as her wali (representative), a role that was mine traditionally but for my absence... Asiyah and I reconciled as Shway's marriage entered its final stages of confirmation - the signing of the marriage contract. It was a poignant time because one of the things that drove our separation was us battling over my role as head of household and as a father and stepfather. My marriage to Asiyah was my first, but her third, and it came after a long period where she was a single divorcée of 4 kids and, I felt, us

Clink the link below and catch me at minute 12:00 in this amazing project conducted by renowned poet Mohamed Hassan. http://www.radionz.co.nz/programmes/public-enemy/story/201826249/public-enemy-episode-1

Originally published in the Denver Post, July 12, 2006 "Something's not right with him," I told his mother... My stepson, Meeka'eel, was 2 years old. He cried so incessantly that we couldn't help but think it was a substitute for talking. He would stare into space but never look anyone in the face. In the middle of the night, he would either giggle to himself or shriek loudly for hours. When he was 3, our suspicions were confirmed when Meek was diagnosed with autism. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, one in every 166 children born in the U.S. is, like our son, confined to a mysterious world marked by abnormal interaction and behavior. That was 10 years ago. In that time, we have watched Meek struggle and grow into an uncertain future. As a toddler, he'd never eat right and couldn't master toilet training. Early on, we were fortunate enough to enroll him in a program at University Hospital that studied childhood disorders. Bu

Like that last tribe of Israel My past in invisible My original name has been left behind And my bloodline lies fossilized In the ruins of grown over slave quarters That they forget to talk about on Tuesday plantation tours That all men ware created equal has always Been a bit of a White Lie Most days, were still trying to find That remaining 2/5ths of humanity They like to say: That's not today, so get over it already But that's not likely to happen until I take my story back The one that they tell about: Buck-toothed rabbits in the briar patch Pickininnies with bare feet and braided plaits Black bird buffoons in Saturday morning cartoons And in Tarzan movies with mite midgets in blackface Pretending to be pygmies See, nobody else will ever get YOUR story right Everybody still dreams of a White Christmas But Black Ice... Is dangerous and insidious They like to say: That's just not today But let's be honest: Ebola only became a problem wh

By 2007, I had been training at Edge MMA (then known as Grapplers Edge), for about 3 quiet years, concentrating mostly on Jujitsu and nogi grappling. One Saturday, I was visiting the Denver County Jail as a volunteer chaplain for Islamic services​, driving directly from an Open Mat grappling session, so I was wearing an Edge t-shirt at the time. One of the deputies approached me in the hallway and asked me where I had gotten my shirt. I told him that I got it from the school that I train at. The deputy frowned and replied that he trained there as well and had never seen me there... “Hmmm…Is this another of those challenges?” I wondered - it was commonly known at the jail that I was an ex-con who was now providing religious services to inmates and I had clashed with a deputy or two who did not necessarily respect me or what I was doing because of my past; so my hackles went up immediately at this possibly becoming another one of those incidents. I told the deputy that I had prima

One Day, Your flattened fingertips Rubbed smooth by too many swipes Over too many screens Are going to miss me Yearning for the mottled texture of my insides I  may cut you at first - An injury of unfamiliarity But that nick will heal as i absorb your blood It shall be a token to worlds far away from here I am waiting to bear you by all sorts of magical transports That only an author can conjure Come to me hungry And let me feed you Nibble, gnaw and chew to your heart's content I am your escape I have keys to every shackle and hobble ever constructed Let me enter your veins and course through Make you addicted and detached From the Armageddon that is outside your windows Drink my Sufi wine, intoxicated by the most Divine Let my spine bear your weight as you recline For now... I live in a museum What you used to call a "library" Where I am still and dusty but wide awake and alive Waiting for your fingers to honor and humor me In exchange

I imagine that at some point in the life of every devout person, they confront a crises of faith. In Islamic tradition, Moses dealt with his by asking God to show Himself to him – a foolish request for sure, but his insistence and reasoning (to strengthen his heart/faith) underscore how deep this conflict ran for him. Muhammad had a similar crisis when there was a pause in revelation that caused him intense self-doubt and made him fear that God was disappointed in him for some reason unbeknownst to him. Personally, I’d like to think of myself as adamant in my belief that God exists and that my life should reflect this belief – in this I think I am stayed pretty clear and consistent – BUT, there have been many moments that this certainty has been tested and met with despair and desperation. Exhibit A would be my most recent 90 day stint in the joint. To be brief, I had returned this past October thru January for a “turnaround” for a technical violation of parole after a hearing pr

As a Muslim, when I pray, it is usually at a quiet place for the sake of focus and solace. On Saturday, February 4 th , I prayed in a place in Denver where I experienced the most powerful silence in my life. It is hard to imagine the moment occurring on a blustery afternoon in the midst of nearly Thousands, observing the prayer 10,000 people gathered in protest and support – protest against the current administration and support for the local Muslim community. The event was (aptly named) “Support Our Muslim Neighbors”, held at the Civic Center Park, and organized by several local activists led by Queen Phoenix and Nadeen Ibrahim. I was immediately impressed as I walked into the park, coming across about 7-8 thousand people but to be honest, my first impression, despite the many signs of support for Muslims and lambasting Trump’s ban, was that most were gathered moreso to protest Trump than to support Muslims. I wondered to myself as I wove through the crowd how many of t

I am going to talk I've been back to prison for parole revocations twice now, because I was upfront, vocal, and honest about why I first went to prison in 2013. Simply put, I went because my ex-wife Dominique made false claims of domestic violence against me. Claims that began falling apart as my case progressed. However, in the middle of my marital turmoil, I made attempts at reconciling with Dominique, despite the fact of being barred from interacting with her by automatic protection order. That love-blind decision came back to bite my behind when, as her hoax began to unravel, the DA salvaged her prosecution by filling 19 cases of misdemeanor violation of protection order. I was literally facing an unprecedented 19 years in the county jail. It seemed improbable, if not absurd, until another local defendant made news being sentenced to an unprecedented county jail sentence of over 10 years. Long story short, I took a deal for an "open" sentence, expecting proba