The Remy was the catalyst, for her eyes being blurred/
and her speech being slurred/
The Vette swerved/
The C8 horse powered its way at 180 MPH, down the road
headed into the ethereal/
She mumbled the words “How dare you”/
Their love was supposed to be celestial/
She spoke something of an utter “I would of never left you”/
She took another swig of the Remy/
At the bar, she took straight shots; they kicked her out, she had too many/
Her name was Dana. Dana looked at the Remy bottle, of what was left there was plenty/
Windows were down, her blonde hair blew in the wind/
Needed to feel alive, she loved the way the breeze accosted her skin/
Inhaled the night air along with the nicotine, she was brewing within/
Dana was drunk and driving reckless/
She was just fired from her job. Her boss said her performance was feckless/
Just fired, husband left, she was on the verge of saying: EF this!/
Tilted back her head and guzzled the Remy/
And focused on the headlights of an on coming semi/
His name was Henry/
Henry was racing home to his wife/
He had to save her. He received a message from her, slurring something about taking a life/
Who’s and why’s was on his mind as he raced through the night/
Took a sip of the Budweiser and snorted a line of coke/
He needed it, he was a rig driver, it was the only way he could cope/
On the road too many nights, he couldn’t remember the last time he and Dana spoke/
He was eighteen Wheelin’ it, for the money he was lonely/
He was doing it for them, for her, she was more then his wife, she was his homey/
He was praying that she ain’t find out bout that “Ep” he swung with Sonya and Toni/
He was drunk, but he wouldn’t swerve/
High, yet undisturbed/
Though, the combination of both, had his vision a little blurred/
His big truck was speeding, on a mission/
Switching gears, top speeds he was hittin’/
He wasn’t sure if it was the Budweiser or the coke, that had him seeing lights approaching from a distance/
Henry took another sniff of the coke, another swig of the Bud/
He was a husband, racing home to save his love/
Dana was drunk and crying, thinking about what once was/
She couldn’t believe the message she received; he was leaving/
Was it because of the one-night-stand she had with Steven/
OMG! how much she regretted cheatin’/
But, no one knew/
Only, Toni and Sonya, they were her girls, she could trust those two/
Toni was the one that delivered the message saying Henry was through/
The Remy she sipped, the harder she cried/
Dana wasn’t ready to lose her love, she rather die/
Omg! He couldn’t see, he was too drunk and too dam high/
The unification of both had him feeling right/
He unbuckled his seat belt. Something he never do. It, was just too damn tight/
Whipping the tractor trailer, somebody was driving the wrong way, headed into his lights/
Too drunk to swerve, too high to care/
His wife was on his mind, he could feel her in the air/
The Vette slammed into the semi with a BOOM! a BANG! And a blinding flare!/
He flew out the window, straight into the ethereal/
She flew out the Vette, in the air, their bodies met. Where did he come from? It had to be celestial/
She wrapped in his arms. He slurred “Dying next to you”/
In the air, they died/
Drunk, in love, and high/
THE END
FATALLY HER PT2
He was CIA.
Her nickname was DOA, cause when she left it was always DOA.
He even smelt like a cop. She caught a whiff of the old spice. His sent lingered in the air as he passed by.
She sat watching him with stealth. He didn’t notice her, but she noticed him, watching him through Prada lens
She was being dined, Dom Perignoned, Filet mingoned, all the while she was on the job.
Her eyes and ears were on her date. And this Jake, she was on his scent.
Her date would be her dessert. He was caramel-cinnamon, and he smelled delicious.
Byredo Slow dance.
He was so handsome. Chief of finances. CFO.
Crowned with looks, sophistication, and success.
“Umm!” She couldn’t wait to see how he taste.
Eat him up, tie him up, then stick him up. Transfer his funds into her account.
Her love came with a price; murder and cash.
She exuded high class beauty: Fendi, Prada, Channel, Loui. Only thing coach was her bag; she flew first class.
All over the world she was understood. The earth know where she go she brung that shadow.
A black cloud.
She was a harbinger of death and style. She murdered the runway with her fashion, and killed for the bag.
The world was unaware of where she would next slay.
She just popped, then flowed away. In that same breath, a body would drop.
Then a glimmer of her image would appear on the news. Just her shadow and the emblem on the shades.
Her likeness was synonymous to murder.
Meanwhile, back at the dinner date, He ate , Unaware.
How couldn’t he see that death was staring him in the face? He just saw beauty and eyes covered by shades.
By, her imported, amorous, aura, he was inflamed.
He wanted to Burn in her scent, wrapped in her ebony skin.
He couldn’t wait to see how she flowed, when she stepped out that blouse and skirt.
“Dam!” She was heaven on earth.
After the meal, a night stand.
Why not?
They were in France, Toulon. AM he had to hop a jet to Milan.
So, now was the time. ” How about we end the night with a bottle of white wine on the balcony, and watch the sunrise?” He spoke with music.
The agent drank Jack at the bar, rough, no rocks, just straight shots.
On the job, acting the part of a Russian. Member of their mob.
The Jack helped him act. He was undercover, full time, lifetime job.
The acting he did was immaculate, trying to get to the top, and knock off some Russian oligarchs.
He was smoldering in liquor.
He was all eyes and ears though. Expert in systematic, secret observation.
Like that broad, over there, acting like she was dating. However, she was observing him.
Why?
She didn’t glance at him with the eye of a spy. Maybe, she was digging his look, that mob vibe.
Vlah, the name of his alter ego, his crook. That’s how he would hit her, disguised as a Russian killer.
She let him peep her peak.
Romantic glances she would sneak.
This guy was all in his ego. He was sweet.
She told her date “In a little while, I’ll meet you in ya room. Just give me a second. I’ll be there in a few.”
She turned her attention to the man at the bar. He was the mission, his head was the bag.
He approached “You look familiar”
Already did he want to kiss her; sex appeal was real.
Palpable.
He could only imagine, how those soft lips would feel on his skin.
From afar she was beautiful, up close she was a diamond.
“I don’t know you.” her words were equivocal.
“Are you an American?”
“No” She said. “I’m an assassin” She smiled. However, she didn’t transude a favorable disposition.
Her smirk was filled with venom.
The way that she beamed, oh, she was the woman of his dreams. She was exotic, tantalizing, hypnotic.
Her diamonds gleaned in the light. This was the charm he wanted in a wife.
Raving beauty.
Her pretty had him off point. He was on the job, temporarily off duty.
He wanted to bask in her presence. Her ebony was sublime.
murder was on her chest, money was on her mind.
She hated a cop who portrayed a willy. Embellishing the part of a gangster. The words that he spoke in her ear was silly. more of a reason to kill him.
“You’re Russian? Are you sure? That accent to me sounds American.” She swirled her drink. She called his bluff.
Watching him frown, he was wondering was he found, and how could she detect the so subtle sound of his accent?
He thought he had this Russian shit mastered.
Her soft hand touched his skin. She had him fucked up.
Real quick
Mixed emotions. Hide, leave, stay? He didn’t know.
Her touch was electrifying, she touched him with some sort of potion. She had his whole body buzzing.
She sipped the last of her wine then stood. She did her thing, now it was time that he understood.
“Who you are, I’ve been known” She was all in his face, as if, he was her date, whispering in his ear.
His jaws were locked, he couldn’t talk, he was becoming scared. He couldn’t move, his body was immobile.
“CIA…Ha” She mocked.
“I tapped into your phone. GPS. I was all in ya home”
His eyes were bulging.
She kissed him, and the last words he heard, was her whisper:
“Femme fatale”
GIVE ME BACK MY VOICE PART2
Fuck it! I’m still trekking through the jungle of bullshit, in search of the transcripts to MY TRIAL. I’m looking for that hidden treasure, and I won’t stop until I find it.
I Feel like my voice has been taken. like so many other brothers incarcerated by injustice. So I write and speak wit ink. I refuse to be silenced by this crooked ass system….
GIVE ME BACK MY VOICE BITCHES
,
GIVE ME BACK MY VOICE
On August 28, 2013, I was swindled by a crooked system into being found guilty of a crime that I did not commit. I was ultimately sentenced to 130 years. That’s death by incarceration. On the above mentioned date, at the Atlantic County Criminal Complex, in Mays Landing, NJ (pic), in front of the Honorable Judge Delury in courtroom number 5 (pic). I was in a fight for my freedom, against the state the Judge. My paid attorney was their hireling. It was the thick of the rumble. (Jury deliberations) I wait in angst for the verdict, in a holding cell in the back of the courtroom. I’m praying to the lord up above to have mercy on my soul, and release me from this devil’s clutches. At 12:15 PM, the jury sends a note marked as C-19. The note read: ” believes that one of the people on the jury came in with a decision made that all non-police witnesses are not credible, only the police department is credible” Juror number 9 wrote the note. The Court, the Prosecutor, and my attorney had a sidebar conversation. I listened in through HEADPHONES. The conversation ultimately led to the Court allowing the jury to deliberate undisturbed. I was returned to the holding cell to await my fate. “Please lord don’t let me get found guilty tonight” was my prayer. I wondered how should I feel about the note? Good or bad? I didn’t know. I paced the cell worried, but strong, uncertain, but content with my Lord’s plan. UP’S ANOTHER NOTE! I smile at my family behind me, as the court Reads the note onto the record. The forewoman wrote “Juror number 4 is not impartial to the witnesses and refuses to accept circumstantial evidence. We cannot move on at this point with 11-1” At this point, I believed that this numerical split meant a hung jury, and I would have to be retried. I was wrong!!! The looks that were on the faces of my family members was painful. I smiled, even though my heart was being ripped from my chest. The devil wanted a nigga, but I’ll never show weakness in the face of my enemies. An elusive answer was lurking within the thick tension inside courtroom number 5. AN ANSWER TO THE QUESTION: IN WHOSE FAVOR WAS THE JURY??? I was hoping that the world would never know, cause I had a feeling that all these white old people, that made up a jury of my peers, was not letting a nigga go. The court called the jury into the courtroom. Twelve angry white people; ready to lynch a nigga. “O Lord, show the devil that he’s a lie” I pray. The Court asked the jury “will further deliberations help you to reach a verdict?” The forelady replied with a curt ” NO!” After admonishing the jury with an instruction, the Court sent the jury back to deliberate. “Whew!” This shit is getting thick, and it look like they on some bullshit, and my peoples is feeling the same way. Judge agreeing with the prosecutor, and my lawyer just mumbling shit. I’m keeping my composure, remaining firm for my family, and after all they were 11-1. That elusive answer still remained: IN WHOSE FAVOR WAS THE JURY? They could still be in my favor. Maybe. Instantly, after allowing the JURY TO DELIBERATE, THE COURT WAS BACK ON RECORD ” UNDER UNUSUAL CIRCUMSTANCES, I CALLED JURY NUMBER 9 INTO MY CHAMBER’S TO DISCUSS THE NOTE SHE SENT.” The fix, the bullshit, or whatever you want to call it was in. My back was against the ropes, the ref was throwing low blows, and the contender was throwing haymakers. What’s a nigga to do? I pray. (O Lord, bring hell upon my enemies in this courtroom. Have mercy on my families soul) The court knew what was supposed to be the secrecy of deliberations. He knew in whose favor the jury was. Now, he would work it. My scumbag, weasel ass, trial attorney leaned over and whispered in my ear “the judge wasn’t supposed to do that” “Do what?” I ask. I did not know that it was improper, for a judge to speak with a deliberating juror, Without either trial counsel or the prosecutors presence. WOW! After the Court did some more unusual shit, he put the pressure on the dissenting jury to conform. Juror number 4 conformed. I was found guilty. Ultimately, I was sentenced to 130 years. DAM! Strapped with the memory of MY TRIAL, a lot of research on ex parte communications between a judge and a deliberating juror, and my family. I was ready for the appellate division. I get the transcripts to MY TRIAL, and somehow, the transcripts were not reflecting the unusual event between the Court and juror number 9. “Hold the fuck up!” I say to myself “this can’t be right” I write to my appellate attorney. Explaining that, something was missing from the transcripts, and we needed the SOUND RECORDING. A week later, I get a letter from my attorney. she wrote: that she spoke with the stenographer ADELE TALASNIK, and the stenographer does not have this event happening in her stenographer notes, and my trial was NOT SOUND RECORDED. Dam! I wonder if I’m bugging, and if, my memory was playing tricks on me? Nah! I KNOW WHAT TOOK PLACE DURING MY TRIAL! I read the letter several times. The stenographers name sticks out. ADELE TALASNIK. The name sounds familiar. Oh, her name was signed on the back of the transcripts. But, still that name sounds familiar. I ask my self why was my trial not sound recorded, in this day and age, is this even true? I dig in, doing my research on trial recordings and a stenographer’s duty. One day while going through some paper work. Guess what I come across? MURRAY TALASNIK.SMH He was the prosecutor that took my case to the grand jury. Wow! If this ain’t no bullshit. These two are married!! (WOW) It all added the fuck up they doctored the transcripts on a nigga. My research is leading me through jungles and mazes, which led me to write letters, and make calls, submit certifications, motions and briefs. Attesting to the truth of MY TRIAL. All to no avail. They telling me I DON’T KNOW WHAT TOOK PLACE DURING MY TRIAL… A nigga’s word don’t count for nothing! |
