A Photograph by Tamara Abdul Hadi
“Slang Rap Democracy” – I am indebted by the Narcyssist for his Love and Support and an extended thank you to Iraqi phojournalist, Tamara Abdul Hadi for this photograph.
Photograph taken by Norman Robert, all rights reserved and used exclusively with permission. I am grateful and thankful to Norman Robert who kindly granted me permission to have this photo on this page.
Eyes over St-Henri. Born in Montreal’s St-Henri, Mickey Boston Kovaks narrates the story of social class and gentrification. Photograph by Olivier Chwaiki, all rights reserved.
Opening for Slum Village at Cabaret UW Montreal. Rocking the set whilst rocking the new SOLA hoodie. Photograph by Bruno D Capture, 2013.
Big Brosky Halal to Kosher Food for Thought.
Some made that mistake in forgetting to fast the eyes and the tongue. Nothing is easy and ask the wise when it all begun. Personally, I may have sunk and God forgive these blunders we done and shine Your radiance on us above the Sun.
The Slum Beneath my Pillow – Mickey Boston
The Poverty.
In Baghdad, she slept beneath the cars in thought of her father somewhere beyond those Babylon stars. East to Kabul, her sister slept in her eleven year old brother’s arm, he was her sun, moon and star. No street children my dream for my people, all. No more faces of tar, soot salvar and food in the stall.
He and His Boombox – Brosky to the Boondocks
Sal’s Boombox Speakers
A product of the eighties and Reaganomics, he used to windmill like the Cathedral’s Onyx only to fall depressed on alcohol and tonics. A deceiving medicine to escape, when…all he ever loved was them classic crates of beautiful LPs of Jam Master J’s, those were the good ‘ole days.
Mickey Boston’s America
America.
NYC Cabbie at 22 and things were so different from the motherland…on the other hand, the dispatch told the meter to take a stand and raise his hand engulfed with trenches of 6000 miles of urban road engraved in a grain of sand, was this the story to be written for an immigrant man in America’s tuna can?
Under Pressure.
He whirlwind through his city like a lost dervish as he became the Rumi of underground hermits with a Graff on Calligraphy permit. His genius crossed the sublime consciousness of Coleridge as the bricks and fire escapes comprised his foliage. Aerosol and Aerodynamic thoughts that ricochet and flipped like clips when they all-so-suddenly dipped in projectile mechanics, man was writing on walls in caves.
Mickey Boston, is it Dead?
Nisar to Nasir and Back.
Nasir, did you Murder or Kill it? There were days you made it live, but who am I kidding in one anonymous sitting, the Factory still knitting. A fabric woven in a silk that I am forbidden to garment myself with so let mine ears fall on deaf sounds, you write it and I chose to give it, sign, seal and deliver it…my father’s name, Nisar.
