sunday's reminder or why there are so many single sisters....

fade2black
she, he and i are riding to the auto parts store to pick up yet another part for hip hop. he and i are discussing a mutual acquaintance and behaviors. she abruptly interrupts after what seemed like a gazillion attempts to engage her in conversation."
her: "so you know why people don't like you, huh?"
me: "uhmm, yea. it's pretty easy. i can come across a little arrogant and at times, rude, i'm often hurried or disinterested. never my intention. i do not want to offend or ostracize anyone. i prefer few words, and act quickly, yet deliberate. i'm cool with me though."
"are you?"
"yep. gotta wake up with me every morning."
"well, i can tell why they don't like you. or at least you what you did to me."
i knew it didn't have anything to do with the subject. a woman knows when another woman has a problem with her. especially when it's about her man. "what's that?" i ask, half heartedly, i knew what was next.
"you disrespected me, you don't need to brang my nigga no liquor. i can do that my damn self. also, you left my house without saying bye. i thought i ain't done nuthin for dat. you can be standoffish and shyt."
"my bad. where i come from when people under charge, you give a tip or bring a gift. he did not want to look like he was overcharging me, so don't give him too much extra. he said i gave him too much the last time, so i purchased a bottle. i didn't sit with him and drink it. i was also aware that you didn't care for him to do work outside your home, and that you didn't feel well. he insisted he could do the work, so i walked to the park and talked on the phone while i waited. as not to disturb you, or be a reminder that he was doing work outside your home. i apologize for being raised by WOLVES." i was sarcastic, but knew she'd never catch it.
"i ain't said all that shyt. and i DID drank that up with him. i just said to myself, why would she do dat. i ain't done shyt. ya know you a woman, i'm glad you let me get this off my chest. i feel better."
"good." i replied, but i knew better. she didn't see me as a woman, but a threat. i knew she was lying. she had unresolved issues that didn't have anything to do with me.
fade2black
three days later as he didn't finish the previous work.
he: "come by the house sunday. i gotcha."
me: "you sure. you know, ya girl. she doesn't care for me."
"aw man, come on by. she know this is about money."
"man the last time, i was there, well, you heard what she had to say. i thought i was appropriate."
"come around noon."
"what if i come around 1:00 that seems early. i don't want there to be a problem."
"come on, what'd i say? i gotcha."
sunday, after i waited for an hour for him to get home, he beckons me outside.
he: "i can't fix ya car. man. she's trippin'. i don't know what her problem is. man, she trippin on you. she thinks it's something going on between us?"
me: "what a car?"
he: "naw, man. you know."
me: "black, i'm cute and all." we both laugh. "but damn...."
he: "take your car to the old man's,i gotcha tomorrow."
fade2black

he and i do business. he has a woman. whom, at least within my limit eye sight he seems to be faithful. problem is, they have a history. a history of cheating. he on she. she on he. it has nothing to do with me.
if your man is a cheat, then he's a cheat. the reason he cheated is about him, not about you. you can have a million dollar __________, but if he has taste for a million and one dollar _________, yours is no longer the flavor of the moment. every woman that comes around does not notice your man, let alone want your man. especially the way you want him. matter of fact, you could possibly make the "whatdoeshehavethatmakesthisbitchsocrazyattitude' type take you up on the challenge just on g.p.. and that small percent of women who will "fckyourmanandnotgiveadamn" are easy to point out. a lot of us know a good relationship is hard to find. we respect the few that exsist. yet, out of our own insecurities and limited abilities to view each other as sisters we create a divide. no one wants anyone who is so insecure that they are willing to sabotage their livelihood. his woman and her insecurities are messing with his business. interfering with the money he's bringing into their household. *those of you that know my beloved hip hop know any good, reasonable mechanic will get me on the comeback.
not only is it destructive to her, it's destructive to the relationship. i could see the disgust and embarrassment on his face. i felt bad for him. and her. in the end, i went to the door to tell her goodbye. she came outside with the INQUISITION.. why am i leaving? why did i come over? (DUH!!!! my fcking car, why else would i drive 30 plus miles in horrific construction and weekend traffic!) he lies to her. (none of my business) did he invite me to dinner with his family? (uh, no... he's was trying to earn some quick cash to buy some more groceries, which you just managed to fck up!) you do understand where i'm coming from? (bitch please and hell to da naw. i am very involved with someone else. and he's told you who it is so YOUAREREALLYTRIPPING!) you can stay for dinner if you want. (uh, and not get my car fixed?) the whole scene was pathetic and disheartening.
as i got into my car, i didn't worry if i'd make it back home. i had let go of things i couldn't control, and had faith that someone, like always, would be there. i hoped that she too would learn to let go. for her own sanity and self esteem. the look in his eyes and the far away tone in his voice screamed this was the last straw. he treated me like a little sister. looked out for me, cuz, as he says i needed a real brother and not a bunch of "poets and suits" in my life. i felt bad, 'cuz the brother was always on the grind. not an illegal hustle to bring heat to her block, let alone her home. took care of his little girl, hell i've seen him leave cars on blocks with a bunch of n---s cursing to go pick her up from daycare...... he's done the same with her, picking her up from work, when she had a car and was able to drive herself back and forth. he flirted and talked dirty around his boys, like any man... but i never saw or heard the dog in him... and believe me, i'd seen sisters throwing themselves at him to get a "discount" on their car repairs. then, i wondered...when will she realize that she's not expressing love, but a desire to possess. and that you can never hold onto anything that long or that strong without suffocating it.....

what i want to hear

i yearn to hear her... hear her kisses. they, a sweet nectar flavored fit... they smug deceit upon rouge cheeks doused in midnight sun... absorbing lights, colors.... they silently slide hugs 'round waist, past noon moon just below curve of dawn.. sticky bitterness clinging desperately to yesterdays.... plead mine eyes to hear her kiss in small of back... back of neck... pout of smile.. lift of frown... brusque past lives to death... lips plead to feel soft kisses smear on subtleties... abrasively... harsh words mistaken for chapped adoration... mouthing i love you... her kisses i long to hear...

I Rise...

i, fire smoldered, flicked from tip of spent cigarette butt left to die alone..... suffocating.... shallow breaths steal farewell kisses exhausted by inhalation of ash from phoenix's tears... i rise.... to fall from loose lips betrayed by exotic truths left on tip of tongue... spilling... fallacies real imagined.... once... u and i, gum and cheek, smoke lingered 'round fingers, threading shattered exsistencies sowing seeds like cloth... to blanket me... covet me...once...wish like moons upon stars upon suns upon you...badly like a child's desire... then come true... i red lips tattooed upon butt of cigarette left dying alone... your fragrance a star i call upon.. child like... shallow breaths leave like golden hues upon autumn leaves.. soon

half the space

she swallows space spiced with basil, rosemary and thyme...gingerly... delicate... decadent... the slumbered ascent from graceful prayers to lissome beckonings left unanswered.... questions slight... right... clouded figments fragment to flatter a dream mare's iniquities... lithe hallucinations weep stilled reality showering purgatory stakes seasoned by laughter/tears, volumed silence/muted din, first/last inspirations, i/she, me/we... she swallows infinite inceptions wanting to become whole....

speak lightly

we speak... we speak in light and I am mesmorized by images transcending matter... of facts... occupying darkened time... pre you and i... minutes rush hours retrograding... shrinking in valor... considering... pondering... communicating in volumes at frequencies audible only to mass and gas flirting with the andromeda galaxy... begging to commune... praying for unison... dying to become stars... voices twinkle... we speak... unimaginable... universes milk light from barren holes disguised as souls... drinking in solace... comfort... consolation... wholeness... yet we speak... in light... in love... in lust... spiraling galaxies toward infinite heavens... i smell hues of unattainable deep blues... permeating... peaceful... tranquil... boisterous silence... yet we speak... we speak to pierce fruitful blacks tones to expose explosion of colors... fertile... life... yet we speak... we speak until impression, incarnation, semblance, effigy of his likeness answers... speak lightly...

Autumn, I Dew... Even When the Leaves Stand

I walked thru rain today.... mist, dampened the soul of my feet, toes gleamed from droplets which grimaced at the pall of the noon sun. Dew traveled upward, timidly tracing aged ankles which have forgotten how to skip and frisk thru crayola tinted blades of lavender... weight defies senses gravitating toward the haze between soundwaves and light... I inhale your hues, nose stained by yellows and pinks... I walked thru rain today, it slowly trickled from ankles to wobbly knees, weak in love, wanting to stand, professing unyielding.... relentlessly.. water canvasses the horizon in shades of somber and melancholy, bold orange strokes flow vertically.... and the rain continues to flow.... sprinkling up knees to thighs, spine to hands and fingers, triggering, begging to quench insatiable thirsts for reds and greys.... aisles and rings... me and you..... brush me warm with your browns, cinnamons, and coppers with petals of peony, freeshia, your touch... i smell your colors heavily in the autumn leaves rustling.... soaked, cascading along side dreams of heavens and earths.... breaths masquerading as whispers swirl desperately longing for God's ears... your thoughts I hear.....and the rain continues to rise....

i can smell the petals fall

no one understands the weight of an echo. the difficulty in taming it's unbridled desire. it slips easily thru misconception. often misunderstood, it does not mimic, nor mirror. fluid lucidity. no one can see a heatbeat's shadow. only feel the artic chill resounding in each beat's absence, as it moves, dancing along the sun's beams. flashes on air tone heat waves streaming above sticky concrete.... no one can hear a teardrop fall. it's mass, booming silence deafening the listener straining for proof of it's existence. painfully knowing it's there, yet unable to recognize it's song, as it cuts thru rainstorms tormenting the soul.. no one can touch a dream fulfilled. the thrill is not in what's materialized, only the emotions tickling your nose.... triggering cayenne tinged tears, hot flushed achievement that swirls in the breeze. i can smell the petals as they fall, bitter sweet the descent from grace to disparity. blues, pinks, yellows, meld fragrantly outside my window beckoning..........

Pillsbury Dough Man and Barry White, whadafck?

There are somethings that just don't fcking go together.
Oil and Water.
Gasoline and Matches.
Janet Jackson and Jermaine Dupree (thank god it's over!).
Bushes and White Houses.
yaknowwhatimean?
a few days ago i'm listening to reality television while heating a boca burger for a quick meal, and I hear old school blaring from the television... you know barry white? and I'm cool, getting all warm and fuzzy, thinking maybe it's a commercial for some soulfest love jams cd... i glance over at the tv and see the Pillsbury fcking dough man, dancing with a crescent roll or something similar (okay, not really, or at least i hope not). barry white and a biscuit commercial? that's blasphemous! and at the end of the commercial these jokers had the unmitigated gall to say some shyt like the other "mr. white". my first thought is barry white must be rolling in biscuits and gravy in some soul food HELL right about now. then, it dawns on me that his fcking kids have no respect for the man or his legacy. so the next generation will equate one of r and b's most legendary voices with some damn biscuits, crescent and dinner rolls. what next? trojan using luther's "creepin" to sell condoms. linens and things using the isley brother's "between the sheets"? welch's grape jam using teddy riley's "jam" or worse using an improvisation one of black television most tragic moments... "jam! jam! jam!"
damnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

8 hours til BURN.....

I'm in a fcked up place. Pretty sure why. I know what to do, it's just I have a methodical manner of procrastinating that must be followed before I can get out of this place. The last few weeks I have fought reacting, yet, I have come particularly close. This is common. I will also find one or two people who I remove permanently from my life, which is also common. The second step is the most precarious. Few times, but significant, nonetheless, I have chosen the wrong people. It hurts for a moment, but I consider it a casualty of war. For whatever reason, I attract people who are much too heavy for me, or I much too heavy for them. If it weren't for the weight that we, somehow place upon each other, it would be a wonderful, life altering friendship. I can be viewed as a coward in MOST instances that require fighting, I would rather flee. It will never be because I didn't believe the person was worth fighting for. Everyone that has touched my life, no matter how I may act, or what they believe, has been impacting. In 98.8% cases positive. I just can't deal with the outcome, the end results, the ongoing bullshyt, especially when it gets thick. I had an oil and water relationship with an individual. We were mad cool. I have had some of my most memorable experiences in the ATX with her, she helped me with my artistic growth, overall a damn good person, and I miss talking to her (a lot).... Ya know? (you probably don't) But we just viewed life differently, argued, people chose sides (often her's), and shit. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't like to fucking argue, nor do I like conflict. I like a lively debate. I try to live a life where I understand and want to be understood. In that situation, I could never be understood. "People" always thought I was fcked up. Or actually it was a time for a few, whom I never really fcked with, to have an opinion about me. So did a motherfckr talk or what? Still probably flapping her gums..... I digress. Also the duplicity in the circle of acquaintances, allowed both of us to believe we were right. And I know I am not always right, Ya know? (you probably don't.) Again I digress. The situation and the "friendship" in the end was hurtful, not because of her, just that people can't mind their fucking business. People feel like they have to chose sides. Kiss ass. Can't let people work out their PERSONAL differences, they never realized it didn't involve them, and most times it was nothing serious. Or so I naively believed. So, in the end, I just stopped talking, "cuz it was easier". And the weight of it was bringing me down. And I do have bouts of depression...
People believe that shit on stage. I wear a hint of arrogance on my sleeve, but it's only a protective shield. I hate the image that people have built of me. No I'm not on some, I'm soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo misssssssssssssssssunderstooooooooood bullshyt. I'm just a tired mofo, and I can only keep shit up for soooooooo long. Anyway, I am at that place again. Where I want to be left alone. Where I ONLY want to be with someone who wants to be with me. Where I am not this "POET" person. I want to be me again..... And I want someone, any fcking one, to hang out with where I can be me, and....... UHHHHH! Now, I have to remove people because it is easier. 'Cuz I'm tired of trying. 'Cuz it hurts more than it heals.... I don't fight, I'm tired of arguing, I'm tired of, well, like I said earlier, I am a very tired mofo.........

disclaimer: Burn is like Choke it's not about ANYFUCKING ONE, JUST WHERE I'M AT IN MY LIFE..... So when I read it, if I read it tonight, don't start tripping, just listen if you want.... or don't...

evil miK

Wanted....

FADE2BLACK
"13, I want a relationship." his words bounced off the wall to the beat of techno pop muzic, whirring in the buzz from several vodka tonics, while grinning every so slightly at secrets that skipped along the air. Smoke cloaked the brown of his eyes and as it dissipated, I felt the moisture of his sadness along the mahogany counter that held our happiness. Leaning toward me, he asked, almost pleadingly, "Why can't I have a relationship?".
My tongue heavy from the bitterness of cheap vodka, the cynicism of my current plight, and a tad of intuitive sarcasm, replied, "People like us will never be successful in relationships."
Again the plead, "What? Why?"
"Baby, we wear aloofness like cheap perfume and the poor taste of a badly dressed Queen. They look at people like us and assume we are don't want a commitment. We appear too detached. Look at you. Dancing in this corner, laughter around you, beautiful as you are, they will look and believe that you don't have a care in the world. They will look at you with lust, and want you for that moment. Me, it's the thrill of the chase. And you know what happens when you stop running, or they realize that you were never in it for the chase? They don't want you anymore. A fucking game. People want what they can't have."
"Umm. You need another drink. That shit is insightful. Do I really look detached? I mean I smile, I'm cordial. I talk."
"The life of the party. The center of attention," I add.
"That's the hook. They want that. They want a part of that."
"They don't want the insecure you, the one who wonders if you will ever be enough."
"What about you?" He looks thru me, and embraces an untapped emotion.
"Painful. Pained. I know there is no permanency in another, so I just wait, sometimes impatiently, to be abandoned. It starts with a single behavior, then the game begins. They slowly let go. No one ever really breaks up with me, nor I them. We just wake up one day and realize that maybe we should have never got involved."
"I feel you. That always happens to me. All I have to say is, 'Whatz up? I want more than this." And they're like 'what da fck', you know. But you and ____________ have never left me."
"It's because we know the game. It's also because we don't want a relationship with you. Just want to have your babies. Ha. Ha. Ha."
He smiles at the lie, knowing neither of us want children, but understand the loneliness and desire that prompts many to do so. We, often unspoken, believed that we were those children born from that unsaitiable need. "I like the idea of aloofness. And you're right, when I meet someone, they always think I just want to have a good time. Want to fck. I need a husband. But you. You're on your way."
"Am I? What I want is probably much too much for anyone. I want to love unconditionally and get that same love in return. Some days I have a lot to offer and I just want someone to build a home with. No one truly understands that. They get caught up in what they see, what they believe. None of it's me. It takes everything in me to get up on that stage. I'm nervous every frickin time. I'm not that confident, but I'm not a needy mofo either. On the rare occasion I meet someone who thinks they want what I want, they find it's too fucking challenging. They want what I give, but couldn't possibly give what I give in return."
"Yea. And that shyt hurts like a muthafckr. Ain't nothing more lonelier than that. Fuck sometimes I see people, like today, all coupled up with families and shit, and I feel like I'm the only person in the world that doesn't have somebody. I know I got friends, but someone to share my life with. Now that would be the shit. But the way people want me sometimes, it makes me feel all used up."
"I hear you. I always feel like a dumbass. Stupid." We both laugh attempting to shield the other from the certainty of the sentiment. He turns, takes in the remainder of his drink in a final gulp, walks toward the pool table, and places a quarter in the wedged slot atop the table. He'd rather play the game to ease his heart's mind. The insecure gap in his walk gives him away. I'm glued to my chair, sobered by the arrythemic beats echoing inside. I am familiar with the hollowed thumps, and am immediately aware that I will become angry before nightfall. Anger will be much easier than dealing with the emptiness that has overcome me. I swallow back the absurdity of the moment, thirsty for answers (there will be none), I swing from the stool and move toward the main bar. I know that I am moving past my limit, but I don't care. "Two vodka sours, two vodka tonics."
I buy each of us two drinks. One for the moment. The other for the longing silhouettes that sit across from us engaged in muted, personal conversations. They are ever present, and this afternoon they to have thirsts that must be quenched.
"You know 13?"
"No, what?"
"It was a good day wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was a good day."
FADE2BLACK

"Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are." Kurt Cobain....

Stop wasting your life. You will never be her. Yet you believe it is better to be in the subplot, if you cannot be a leading character. There are a million people in the universe, yet you latch yourself to the few that are significant and have true meaning in her life. There is definite wisdom in age, and behaviorally, you exhibit, that of an adolescent, unwilling to accept no for an answer, balking at the truth that has boxed you into your current existence. I encourage you to shadow box and strengthen yourself, so that in the future you are better able and equipped to accept another's boundaries, space, and decision. A decision that does not, did not, will not, can never, will never, include you. Yet, you continue to appear, skulking in the twilight of the life that was meant to thrive outside your covetous eyes. Her life belongs to and with another. Is was a personal choice, and disappointing as it is, people will make choices that don't always include you. It is how you handle it that creates and fosters growth. Unfortunately you are unable to discern the difference and continue to cross lines that have been clearly marked. And often the person whom you meant to win over with your insidious courtesies, will begin to despise your presence, as much as your name.

You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting.
Sir William Thatcher/Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein of Gelderland, A Knight's Tale

ELMS and OAKs....

FADE2BLACK

"What's up 13?"
"Nuthinmuch.. What's up wit you? I came by yesterday afternoon. I wanted to be nosy. See what was up, ya know?"
"What time?"
"About 6:55 or so.. that's the reason I missed "Everybody Hates Chris."
"Okay, you caught us at that window. Stepped out for a minute. But it looks good. You'll see it Saturday or Sunday."
"What you doing later? I want to go see Domino."
"Yea, I heard about that. The bounty hunter. Didn't she die or something?"
"I don't know. I'm looking it up on the net now. Uh, yea, an overdose. Just recently."
"An overdose? Well, that kind of changes my mind. Oh, I can't watch movies when I know people died like that. I thought she died while capturing somebody or something...."
"So what does that mean?"
"You know. Just...."
I cut him off, cuz I couldn't believe I was having this conversation with him.
"What time do you want to go?" I ask.
"Well what time do you think. I'm going to fold clothes until 11:00 am, then I'm going to dust, then....."
"That's scary."
"Why? I know, if it sounds like I have more than 24 minutes of clothes to fold, I do."
FADE2BLACK

I never fade to black our conversations because the detail, length, subject matter, whatever, expands years, minds, universes even. Sometimes I feel like I am in a graduate course, absorbing everything he has to say, then others, we are sitting aside one another, he eating clay, me glue in some kindergarten class somewhere. It feels as if I have known him all my life. One of the few people that keep me grounded... Sometimes we joke, knowing that we must've been married or at least close in another life, because somethings just click so naturally.... And it's been that way from day one.

He feels like an extension, my left arm... something I take for granted will always be there and work when I need it, I can always count on him. Sometimes I am jealous of our significant other relationships, because it keeps both of us pretty busy. But I'm happy that he's happy and vice versa. Each time we get to hang out or, like today, have simple, meaningless, and at times poignant conversation, I soak it in, knowing like a desert rain it may not come again in a while.... But I realize that with kindred spirits, as he and I are, sometimes it only takes a tone in a voice, a look in an eye, and immediately we connect. Able to sense where the other is at.

He will be my lifelong friend. And sometimes my stubbornness, or my desire to be detached keeps me from saying how much he and his friendship mean to me... I have an ELM and he is my Oak..... and to my Meliaceae, Mahogany... miss you get home safe.

I thank God for the forest that grows outside my village.....

High School and Being Me

Recently my High School had a decade long reunion (included the entire graduation class of the decade, not just the year I graduated). For about two weeks I REALLY thought I wanted to go. I thought how much fun it would be to hook up with old friends from back in the day. I romanticized my high school years: the athletic endeavors, the writing exercises, talking in N's (a secret language me and Monique) created in journalism, and hanging out with Jeffrey (my High School version of Langston). I even thought about how I managed to stay thin having eaten one honey bun, one package of vanilla cup cakes and three glasses of fruit punch for lunch daily my entire senior year. I even went thru my memory book, and pondered how much fun it could, or would be. At the end of the two weeks, I decided I didn't want to go. The biggest reason was I really didn't like HS when I was there, or BETTER YET I realized it after I graduated. It's not like it was horrible, I had a lot of fun, just undergrad, which was VASTLY different, I would also go back over and over and over again.
High School was JUST so awkward. While I was popular, I never felt quite comfortable in the public eye. I was very skinny, politically incorrectly speaking, Third World Hunger sans the bloated stomach skinny, with a very nice butt. Yes, as a friend says I come from a very nice ass family or I'm a distant relative of the Francis's.... I was good in sports. I was developing my current "winning" personality (that simple air of arrogance, hidden behind feigned innocence) quick sarcastic wit, and an overall, lifelong relationship with insecurity. Had a lot of friends, and I still talk to or email about eight of them. Two of them are life long friends who I call for advice and direction.... Three of us actually went from elementary school thru undergrad graduation ceremonies together. LaBaron, my neighbor thru the third grade, got the "biggest embarrassment" in undergrad during Freshman comp. We were to describe a childhood memory, and I wrote about how he and the "bad ass kids across the street" as oft described by my family, stomped and trampled my Weebles (wobble but they don't fall down) Doll House while my sister and I looked on out of our bedroom window.
But as I thought about the reunion, I remembered the mean things didn't like. One I call the cafeteria games. The cliques. I was a floater, I hung around the stoners, the kids who were "too old to be in HS", cheerleaders, nerds, the poor kids, the rich kids (which always amazes me, as no one was either rich or poor in our community). I know if it weren't for sports or the fact that 50% of us went from elementary to high school together, no one would probably ever talked to me or gotten to know me. It still holds the same now, most days, particularity during my lunch break with co-workers, my name is "I know you, you're that poet". It's cool, but at the same time, it feels high schoolishly awkward, and I immediately want to "shrink into the reddish mocha hues in my skin". I guess I get embarrassed from the attention/recognition. I watch people on the poetry scene and at my place of employment continue to play those same games (or assume roles). In the venue or during work meetings, all these fools need are: team-mates, equipment and the appropriate playing field. it's humorously painful to watch. I remember hating that game. Who's popular. Who's the smartest. Who's the cutest. Who's most athletic. Who's _________ (fill in the blank). Who's got the best goal for the quarter. Who spit fire that night.. BLAH BLAH BLAH.... And what's funnier is some try to re-create the "glory" days by poorly assuming a role that was never Theresa in the first place. Or they return with a vengeance, ala the nerd returning as the stud no one believed could look so good. But if you listen close, you can hear the nerd clawing thru his uncomfortably thin skin, dying to be revealed... (A manager in my building... You can see nerd from the implants in his hair to the overpriced metro-sexual ala Express for MEN dress shirts) I mean, why? Why is it necessary to recreate yourself for others? In that I am reminded that people are as neurotically insecure as I am. Just unable, unwilling, or maybe dying inside to admit it. I want to be revealed. It is how I keep myself grounded. "Monthly I wonder if I am being a fraud, but I know some are more fraudulent than me" a paraphrase from THE WAY WE WERE.
I think about this mostly because last night during poetry I watched a poet whom I respect, struggle with himself and his self image..... and I know he could really care less about what I think...... REALLY... He went thru the discomfort of little if any energy from the crowd, his perception of what the audience wanted, his own drunkenness ;0) his desire to perform new pieces, and being his OWN MAN, as he always is.... I mean he rambled incoherently at times, pushed past levels of inebriation I've known in any spoken word performance, cursed patrons (he didn't but it would appear that way) and after the 50th nigga, or 34th motherfckr, (I lost count after that) I thought he is always himself.... or is he. I know this man he is probably one of the most prolific characters in my lifetime, and a better writer... yet, even he gets lost at times.... and that hurts....
And in the midst of everything and everyone, fakeness, realness, all to realness, keeping it realness, I remember you can never keep it too real, unless you are being yourself...
thanks, fluke flawless for reminding me that it's okay to be me....

Sister, You Can Handle It........ If no one else can...

She's faced the hardest times
you could imagine
and many times her eyes fought back the tears
and when her youthful world
was about to fall in
each time her slender shoulders
bore the weight of all her fears
and a sorrow no one hears
still rings in midnight silence,
in her ears

Wildflower..... The New Birth

Call me Barcardi

"Sometimes I feel like cheap liquor, I'm on the lips of people for all the wrong reasons."
evil miK

Poetry, Groupies, Crushes & Stalkers......

Okay.... I have a friend. She's about 5'9/5"10 ish, a deep mocha with red undertones, brown eyes, clear complexion with the exception of an extreme battle with eczema along her chinline... She hates taking pictures, because no matter the angle, the condition, she believes, is similar to a five o'clock shadow. At times she's confusing, 'cuz she has some distinct feminine ways, with tomboyish qualities, devilish grin, and can carry a good conversation, when she wants to. On the poetry scene she dresses like a frat boy or a trendy metrosexual, for the most part, being fond of Abercrombie and Fitch jeans, expensive, trendy t-shirts, Banana Republic linen, men's Tommy Hilfiger dress shirts, and flip flops... She's abandoning the idea of bandanas, having only worn them because her dark brown locks with cinnamon ends were in that 'tween stage, not quite shoulder length, not short enough. She's digging on one person... Really digging on that person. And she's getting volatilely tired of the crushing.. If you're still crushing, and not getting ANYTHING IN RETURN, it's not a game.
I'm not hating on her. The sister's got a cute thing going, but she's not that fcking cute. And while she's peculiar, or as a friend labels her, quirky, she is not that fcking interesting, either...
I know, because she's me....
My life has changed dramatically since the inception of this spoken word "thing." But after, having spent a week in Baltimore, having contact with only my family, and a handful of others, I realized something very important.. I didn't miss _________, well, a lot of things.
Poetry has been a blessing, I have established at least two lifelong friendships based on mutual honesty, trust and respect (Langston and SISTERMENTORFRIEND), as well as the building of solid relationships with others. I have also lost people and at times myself, along the way. I am reminded why I stopped writing in undergrad. Everyone has their own agenda. I am not that competitive, nor is my ego tied into this shit. Yet, to paraphrase a sister from another web-blog, a dirty book bag, a notebook full of words, the ability to rhyme, and the esteem to get upon a stage and spit your thoughts to an audience, does not make you a poet. Everyone is not and cannot be a "successful poet". I like to write, and have been told I'm good at it. I think it's easy for me to do to some degree, but not just creatively. Yet, I majored in English, in addition to graduate courses. That could make a difference.
To quote one of my favorite movies, don't laugh, The Way We Were.
"In a way (s)he was like the country (s)he lived in. Everything came too easily to (her) him...but at least (s)he knew it. About once a month, (s)he worried that (s)he was a fraud. But almost everyone (s)he knew was more fraudulent."
Hubbel Gardiner, The All American Smile
See, it's all a game. No matter what they say, it's a game from the slam to the open mic. Most are prostituting for points, if not tricking for sex, money, fame, adoration, self-esteem, acceptance... It's an ugly realization. Think about it. There are some huge casualties as well. One is this "creation" of YOU, which is not even a decent body double. People, and sometimes you, begin to believe your own press. Bad choice. I refuse to subscribe to the paper and work diligently on not reading it, see I miss my privacy. And I want it back. I miss being able to walk into a poetry venue and listen to poetry without someone reading into it. An example, "she didn't speak to me, _________." Well if my mouth appears broken, what the fck is wrong with yours? Speak and then find out if I'm not speaking or not. It would never cross your mind that I never walked thru the audience talking to people, even at the old spot. Remember how I used to wave and hang around the rail? Of course not, that would be too simple, or just, the truth.
I am not interested in "fcking" nor have I "fcked" anyone on the poetry scene. If another bi curious female/lesbian or poet comes onto me or asks another question about me I am going to fcking scream. Even if I were available, I would not be interested in anyone on the POETRY SCENE (NO POETS, NO AUDIENCE MEMBERS). You don't know me. What you see on stage is NOT A GOOD REPRESENTATION OF WHO I AM. I am neurotically insecure, introverted, and I want what you want, someone to like and maybe even, love me for who I am. In spite of and despite my best efforts, I can be crazy. A side note: I have seen a few work, but they keep their socialization out of the watchful eye of the public....
There is a fine line between a crush and stalking (I feel you Mo). There is a fine line between curiosity and being nosy. There is an even finer line between what you think, what I think and the reality of a situation. Or better yet my life. I am older than most on the scene. I have a career, not a gig to hold me until this poetry thing kicks off (I have no intention on the poetry thing kicking off, I want retirement. I will support your cause.) I have a mortgage with no room-mates, and have a life that is far more important than the 3-4 hours I spend on the "scene". And lately, the viciousness of the 3-4 hours is far greater than the rewards.
While in B-More I learned or remembered.
Lesson 1: It's better to be seen than heard. No, I'm not going to come in at 10:00 pm while people are on the mic, walk thru a crowd to speak to you. If you are on the side, at the DJ table, or in the back, I can always talk to you.
Lesson 2: I have someone and somethings in my life outside of those 3-4 hours a week. I picked up habits called a job, a life, and an involvement. It occupies my time and my mind. I go to poetry to relax, not date, gossip or pick up anyone or thing (and believe me sometimes there is no difference).
Lesson 3: (the most important one) I got this from my Grand when I was a child... "If you spent more thinking about/working on _____________, than on ____________, you would be successful and could get anything you want out of life.
When I was a CHILD a person would fill the second blank.... People, I am no longer a CHILD.
Lesson 4: If you have to ask me about this, than we probably were never cool in the first place. I don't want to hear anything about anybody unless it's something good. And I don't want you to tell me anything anybody said about me... 'cuz I don't care.
Lesson 5: I want to live happy, die happy and I want to become a better person in between.
Lesson 6: When I told an associate about the poetry scene when I first came on she believed instantly that I had made a lot of friends. I told her then, as I continue to believe. A common interest and a common meeting place does not make us friends.

4afraid/fear/afriend

i turn my back from my hurts,
to look directly into the eyes of your pain...
i ignore the smell of discontent,
to inhale the distance
that falls between what is real
and make believe..
me to you...
it is pungent...
sometimes i suffer from
delusions of adequacy..
snub, accepting things that are normal..
like, you not being here when i need you,
or me, wanting more than you can give,
as it has been with them all..
i guess that makes me foolish....
but, what does it make you?

Back 2 Life Back 2 Reality....

I am stuffed... Yes, I have had yet another Lump crab cake. This time with fried shrimp and sourdough rolls. I washed it down with a Heinekin, a sweet mango drink and a power-ade. I have a slight buzz, my back's hurting and my feet are throbbing!!!!
I have never walked this much in my entire life. I spent the day in DC. No I did not visit most "historic" monuments and other geography/history answers to middle school quizzes. After arriving at the Federal Triangle station, we walked a few blocks to M and something or other Grill. I pigged out on tilapia with chile lime sauce, grilled asparagus and carrots, which was off the chain, though a bit overpriced. After the meal, my co-workers and I went our separate ways. Them for history, me for Our-history and future....there wasn't much time for a formal tour so I caught the train to the Shaw/Howard station and went straight to Howard University. Every city I visit, I look for and try to visit one or both of the following areas, depending on the time I have available: 1) an Historically Black College/University or 2) a black community. I want to see where we live and/or how we are educated.... In addition to touring Howard University, I went to the African American Civil War Museum. Now, I did walk past and catcha glimpse of the White House, Lincoln Memorial, Pentagon, Courts, etc... a walking mini tour so to speak....
Last night was a POETRY WASH..... Marc hooked me up with a dude, Dry Fish, but he was busy doing something or other. He called pretty late and well, I was doing my own thing. All in all, I had lost faith in the Balitimore Poetry scene sans Talaam or Marc. Dry Fish stated the joint was kind of rowdy, or at least that's what I heard him say.
Tomorrow, I am suppose to return to the great State of Texas. Still not sure, as I have friends in DC who will be free for the weekend, and New York is only a train ride away...
All in all, I like it here, it's what I imagined, except the poverty and loitering is unimaginable... There are some places in this city that look EXACTLY like The Wire and The Corner. I know it's was filmed here, but DAMN! Not outside New York or maybe (old) New Orleans, have I seen people nodding out on the fcking streets. Not just one, I mean a LOT... I saw this lady carrying a trash bag of personal items and she was like a nod walking. Every few steps she would stop dead in her tracks and lean..... Tonight near the Harbor, a dude was dressed in plastic bags sleeping on a park bench. Yesterday during lunch, on the way to the Market, I walked past a man sleeping on the sidewalk, he was SNORING. It's pretty depressing, and am not sure how it would impact me in the long run, cuz my heart goes out to the mentally ill and chemically dependent. I have worked with the population most of my adult life. It's very sobering, and different than the homelessness, mental health issues, and chemical dependency that impact my community and state. It, like my throbbing feet, are reminders that it would be too painful for me to bear, I do not belong here, and I am only a visitor...
Baltimore is a beautiful city, full of people who look just like me... I mean there are strong black bodies, pretty and handsome black faces, grand proud black smiles, and black laughter despite the oppressive situations. It has a strong Black/African American History. I checked out the African American Muesum yesterday. It was a gorgeous building/facility. I believe it was Fredrick Douglas who said, to paraphrase, "I am purchasing property, where I was once considered property."
So maybe I didn't need to go to a poetry spot to get what I needed, perhaps the spoken words I needed were those inaudible sounds and movements from the belly of the city, the faces of the people, the history of it's streets, and the blood in it's voice, that also glistens it's lips....it has truly been an inspiration, indeed....
I pray that we are watching the same stars and that our worlds are not as far away as we believe, and not much different than what it seems.... so, dream.. dream with me...

Bald eh more?

Okay, so I'm standing on the corner of St. Charles and Baltimore. I had just eaten crab cakes and grilled mahi mahi, so my belly's tight and full... and I am buzzing, slightly, from the Heineken, the bustle around me, and the fact that every corner I turn, there is someone who looks exactly like me.... It is BEAUTIFUL....
Shit eating grin, looking like a country assed second cousin twice removed. ( I really don't look country, just i know i look like a tourist cuz everything is so new to me..) I flag a cab, "8 E. Preston, please." I am hyped, as I am going to get a fix of some poetry, a little jazz, and some slow grain (alcohol). The cab driver gives me the run around to earn an extra buck or two, I'm cool. I know the route and I know what he's doing so I just talk to him a bit, letting him know that I know he took the wrong turn.
I get to the spot.. The cabbie and I, he slightly annoyed as he has another call, look for the Cafe.... There is no Yours, Mine, Ours Cafe anyfrickinwhere in sight. He let's me off, insisting, operatative word, insisting, that this is the place. After surveying the area, scanning for bus stops and foot traffic, I reluctantly pay the $9.00, get out of the cab and enter what's suppose to be the Cafe. Instead, I find a smoky local bar, the patrons look cool, but it's not the poetry spot I was feigning for. I ask the waitress if this was the place, she stated....
"This bar has changed names a few times. There hasn't been any poetry here for at least a year. I've been here that long. Funny, there was another woman here earlier looking for poetry. She said she got if off the internet. She had the same look on her face as you have. She wasn't too happy either."
What the hell?
I walk out onto Preston and think to myself, "where do I go from here?" I walk back to St. Charles, which is now a one way street, going the opposite direction of my hotel, and I notice a bus coming in my direction. I decide to walk two or three blocks to another street, and guess what comes my way? The number 11 (my favorite number) and it appears to be heading in the direction I need to go. I flag it and hop on. It drops me off one block from my hotel. $1.60. Now, I'm not cheap, but it has cost me $10.60 to go I know only about 2 miles in 20 minutes. (Who's the cheap whore, I ask? Then laugh, cuz I know it's me, I got fucked for $10.60.) So, aside from not getting any poetry tonight. I'm starting to feel pretty bummed 'cuz Talaam and Marc are not in town and I'm on my own, except of course the, now known, unreliable information contained in an unmentioned website...
HOWEVER, my village did raise a child who can look on the bright side.... the chance that there is poetry tomorrow will keep me alive. Wednesday is anything can happen day!
Aside from the adventure. I am having a good time. I have wandered around the city doing, for the most part, what I want. I am eating lots of REAL seafood! Almost as good as the Cape. I have been able to successfully dodge my coworkers, and have some alone time. Occasionally, there was an experience or two that I would want to share with that special someone. Hopefully we will make it back on vacation....The harbor is beautiful at night and I am thinking about you.....
Tonight, I looked into the depth of night and caught a glimpse of your smile... the cool of darkness pulled my jacket closer, pulling me close, the way your arms do during the silence of our dreams.... in that moment I missed you, needed you, and wanted you, more than you would ever know....

rainbowed rollercoasters

your dreams wrestled my rainbows leaving a pot of golden tears.....
she loved you, still does, despite the rainbowed rollercoaster she rides almost daily to be presently available in your shadow.... somehow believing if she stood patiently strong, one day the rain that drowns your dreams would dissipate, and allow the vibrant colors of her love, to still you... to allow you to rest peacefully, if only for a moment.
she pays to wait in line. she pays with time and tears that seem to race backward... time slows and allows her to swallow her pain.. walk head high for the both of you, even when yours is too heavy to cast a reflection. cuz someone has to be strong. someone has to be there in case, you allow yourself to show up for you.... and she, well, she just wants to bear witness to your successes. even if it's only once in her lovetime.
she cries silently, sharing your pain. on some days she believes it is the only thing you share. her words whisper prayers to breezes, believing those northerly winds, would somehow, one day, wisp the heaviness from your core and allow you to soar. she wants to blow the dust from your wings with cotton candy flavored kisses, even if you are unable to taste the sweetness in their intent.
she re-reads the notes from your good days, when life is light, and love colours the skies... she prays that autumn will bring promises and hope.. promises that will not be kept... hope that falls short of wanning desires.... the description of cinnamon, peony, freshia, and citrus fruits creating a life together, just shy of reality....
she knows, she knows that she is a leaf hanging desperately, fighting her nature to hold on... fight against herself, as it is in the complexity of her temper to let go.... to blow aimlessly, touching everything momentarily, to her there is
no permanence in another...
no permanence in this lifetime...
no permanence in living in memories of love long lost....
and the only thing that waits at the end of the rainbowed rollercoaster is a pot of golden tears....