Things Fall Apart

I often attempt to separate that which is real from the imagined. Last year is a blur.. Something that I remember at times, however, some of trials I endured are much to much painful to relive. I remember thinking I wish I was a year into this and then, perhaps things would be easy. Someone asked me why do I share or write personal information on my blog. A close friend and I joke, the issues I write are predominately circumstances surrounding my life, a composite, and sometimes not my experiences. Of all, perhaps 20 are truly me. I enjoy the mayhem associated with you reading between the lines and trying to figure shyt out. Not really.
I was so tired of the trying to figure shyt out, the trying to justify my actions in my life, the not focusing on you, but focusing on me and what I'm doing. Last year it was no more your business with who I was with than it is this year. Why didn't you buy me that car since you were so concerned. You could have at least waited til we left the party before you started talking about me and my then date. No, despite what you think I never flirted with you. If another mofo accuses me of sleeping, dating, or having an intimate relationship with someone, anyone I am going to scream. So stop fcking insinuating anything else. You saw me with who I was interested in and eventually dated. I have a life outside of poetry. I have a life outside of this group. Believe it or not I became friends with someone whom I hope will be my friend thru this lifetime to the next (and none of you ever knew). Proof that I have a life exists. I have not forgot any of this. I looked into the faces of the people whom I knew were guilty of this shyt and I got mad all over again. Because I hadn't forgotten. So I wrote a poem toward the end of the year entitled Burn. It was to purge me of my anger, my pain, my demons.
A man who is becoming a friend and brother wrote a second part to it. We performed them back to back on Wednesday night. He prefaced the introduction of our performance with, "Thir13teen stepped to me like a man, better than most dudes. And said, 'keep my name out your mfing mouth.' We talked most of the night and have been cool since."Initially I was embarrassed. Didn't want to recall the anger of the moment. Didn't want to recall that as a result of the conversation I wrote Burn. He and I have similar issues relating to "people being occupied with us and out doings" for whatever reason. I am well aware of his issues and he mine. Some are the result of the same few wagging tongues. Either out of boredom or just the innate desire for those persons to escape their mundane reality. I am not a saint. I have, and will occasionally indulge as a means of escape. I just now have a better place, under the shade of an elm. And he, whispering in the ear of his songbird.
Wednesday I was reminded of my disposition, and tenacity to never forgive or forget. Not him, see, as adults we spent time navigating and negotiating the pitfalls which would prevent us from seeing each other honestly. Today it's a challenge. I struggle with the art of duplicity. I was reminded of things this week. I was reminded of gossip. I was reminded of daggers that hang clandestine-like in the hands of shadows with outstretched arms posing as hugs. I am reminded of lips stained brown and green with BS and envy that brush cheeks frontin' kisses. I am reminded of words in poems that reach to sting, maim and hurt. I am reminded, as Langston says, "We are creative people, who express ourselves with the same creative passion." I am reminded of crabs in a barrel. I am reminded that I have work to do. I am reminded that I have to be patient with myself and others when I am emotionally bankrupt. I have to remember to pray. I am reminded that I am not perfect, but perfectly imperfect and so are those around me. It doesn't help. It doesn't help. I wanna run. I wanna run. I wanna run away from the lies, the jealousy, the gossip, the broken hearts, the cheaters, the deception, the anger, the mess, the envious, the bullshyt, the duplicity, the hate disguised as love, the inability to let go, the misery loves miserable company idealogy. Ya know? And sometimes that means even running from me. Sometimes that means even running from me. And I know I can't gather the riches that this life has to offer with a clenched fist. I have to be willing to open my hands. I have to stop running. I'm tired and I want to stop running.... I just have to figure out why it keeps chasing me......

Nikki and Sade: thanks for the Reminder...

Wednesday night was phenomenal. Not that I wasn't impressed with the poets who graced the stage. They were wonderful; but what struck me, was most memorable was the conversation and musings with two young ladies. Well, actually there was a table of young women; however, only two of the four, Nikki and Sade, were confident, witty, clever, and daring enough to join the conversation and give me a bit of what I was giving to them... A HARD TIME. I absolutely adored them. Sade asked questions immediately and Nikki quietly took it all in before she took the stage and read an amazing piece..... I'm ahead of myself....
In some ways Tuesday should not have been as enjoyable. I had to get up early to catch a flight to Houston for work. 6:45 am take off.... Which meant getting to the airport an hour prior to departure. Hardly slept the previous night as I didn't want to leave in that way. And the weekend, while it worked it's way out, I didn't spend it as well as I would have liked.. Worked later on site than imagined. Leaving the work-site was horrific.... I wasn't driving, and I like to drive like a New York cab driver... So, the ride to the hotel took LONGER than anticipated. Like forty minutes to go 12 miles... DAMN. So I didn't check in until 6:00 pm. Did I mention I needed to be on the U of H campus by 6:00 pm? I hadn't secured a ride to the venue. My peeps were at Luby's on Gulf Freeway (My hotel was on 610 South by the Galleria), seemingly a gazillion miles away. Didn't get the location or address. The shuttle only went within a three mile radius. Had to negro-ciate the rented vehicle with my colleague. Poor directions from my Peeps. Bad traffic. Frustrated driving, not paying attention and cursing self, by the grace of G.O.D. I got there by five to seven. I couldn't fully shake my frustration, so I mostly walked away from the crowd of poets I was to perform with to get a bit of freshness.... (I have found when I am frustrated it is best to talk to strangers.... you don't tell 'em anything, you just flow, ya know?) So I walk over to this table of four young sisters and just begin talking, like I know them.. a snippet of the conversation:
Me: "Is this a greek organization? Do you got to this school?"
"No. The ____ put this together."
Me: "Oh. Are you Greek?"
"No. Are you?"
Me: "No, why? Are you a part of the group who put this together?"
"Naw." Pointing, "They did.".
Me: "Who are they?"
"Who are you?"
Me: "I'm the entertainment, aren't you entertained?"
"Yes, naw," thru laughter, "who are you?"
Me: "The entertainment."
As we continue to talk, I find out they are both from my immediate area. I tease them, they tease me. Reminded me of talking to my younger sister, goofing off. I learn they both write. One performs (Nikki) and it was absolutely beautiful. They both promise to come to our venue when they return home. What's amazing is: after the show they came up to me and discussed how much they enjoyed the show, and would be coming to the venue to perfrom during spring break. I encouraged them to continue to write, gave them my e-mail address and blog site information. Today when I returned to work I found an invitation from Nikki who has created her own blog and has listed two poems on her site. Instantaneously I am reminded why I write, why I love the freshness of the new, and why life is so damn amazing. Can I take credit for it? No, and I don't want or wish to. Just glad I was able to do some things I absolutely love: talk and goof off, encourage another to tell their story, and have the opportunity for us to share it with each other and the world. Mo... You were absolutely right... There is a lot of love among women. You just have to channel it the right way and know how to recieve it, the good and the bad. People please check out the young sisters (Nikki U of H) blog tagged on the sidebar...
thir13teen

Week endings.....

It's been sometime since I had to prepare myself to spend the night away from home. Away from my bed, my surroundings and kisses.. It seemed as if I spent the entire weekend preparing for it in some way or another. I am looking so forward to a joint household and a united front. And while, I believe, in some ways the corners of our two four walled homes and the gaping 28 miles that separate them were beginning to close in on us... The rain and cold, allowed me, momentarily to believe that they were safe havens to vent and just be.. Angry, happy, sad, tired, misty, loving, you know, experience the gamut of emotions. I just need to learn to relax and enjoy the view... The weekend..
Saturday: slept in, glanced thru a few ads on-line (WITHOUT COFFEE), spoke to Mo (BRIEFLY, don't know if she ever made it back to her hotel room..), read my birthday gift (A Life in Letters ZNH), cuddled, slept and went to the movies with my main man CT.. We sat thru DATE MOVIE, laughing our butts off while grubbing on about 25.00 of movie junk. I believe in another life I lived and died as an adolescent boy, seems there is where my humor resides.. Saw the fattest house I just have to HAVE... Walked it and the only bad thing was a hall closet door which appeared to be a munchkin entrance to OZ.....
Sunday: slept in, and after I got over what appeared to be my fifth attitude (not wanting to travel on Tuesday), I felt better as we went out and looked at the house. We both love it. We missed breakfast, our favorite meal, the entire weekend, BOOO!!! Watched the LWord and the Boondocks... Caught up on American Idol. Damn I love DVRs!!!!
Monday: got up to run a few errands. Made call to realtor, another couple is interested in the house. BOOOOO. He can't meet today. We can't meet until the weekend. Damn... Did I tell you I still have an attitude? Yup. Hate to leave on Tuesday, I feel tired already. And damn, I don't want to leave this bed..

After a Conversation...

The Beauty of Harlem
dedicated to the possibility of you..

I want my fingertips to trace your infinite beauty,
emboss the essence of you upon my heartbeat
so I may dance to the music of your smile.
I want my kisses to discover
the intricate mysteries of your passion,
engrave them upon my soul
because with you,
is where my heart resides.
I want to place all I know of me
at your feet,
surrender to the gaze of your eyes,
the promise of your caress,
and the wonder of you.
I am willing to journey
the dark vast chasms of my mind
to light and fill the voids with
your words, your dreams, your desires.
I may as well place them there
because you are all I can think of...
the heart notes of peony
and sheer freesia
stain my pillow
invade my dreams
I hear your voice
see your smile
and long for your touch.
I am afraid, yet
I feverously await your return.
the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine
overwhelms and invades me nightly,
when I reminiscence
of you.
I begged the moon to save me
from the burning yearn
that desires
to trace the curves of your silhouette
which dance on the beams
that stream into my bedroom window.
an illusion
intriguingly enticing
seductive
I am truly baffled by your beauty.
what have you done to me?
that which has never been considered
becomes a possibility
and I,
well, I desire to become the
object of affection that hides
in the sensuality of your mind
I want to become what you see
when you look at me...
but cowardice remains my closest companion,
until then,
I pray that God grant me one wish
and if,
if it be granted
that he allow the blood which pumps directly from my heart
to stain the pages
of my journal
to compose the perfect poem
that will make passionate love to you.

kdtaylor 2006 copy written
Section 8 Coffee Publications
all rights reserved

Uhm... Christa Bell, All Yours and Dre

Aside from last year's "special guest" appearance from my sister/mentor/friend Mo, last night had to be my absolute favorite night, and undeniable, one of the best night's of poetry I have experienced. From beginning to end. On the real.
I cannot truly describe the night without sounding like, well sounding like I did last week when Andrea and Suzy introduced me to Ms. Christa Bell prior to her feature at the Austin Slam. "Uhm. Thir13teen. Uhm. Neo-Soul. " But at least I didn't say what I thought I would say, "Yea, I like ice, too." What does that mean? It means I was afraid I'd sound like a babbling idiot. And eventually I did. I have shared that I talk A LOT when I'm nervous right? Well, it's not intelligent discussion, it's more on the lines of a babbling teenager. And at times throughout the night I am sure I did. (Sorry.) Came across as a fanatic? (Again. Sorry.) But all in all. I hope that our stop was one of the high lights of her current tour. The show was exceptional. In addition to Christa Bell, our very own, All Yours and Dre (Jill Who you will ask everytime she performs a Jill Scott song) lit up the stage and mic, performing a wonderful duet (she sang, "Running Across My Mind" while he recited a love poem) truly amazing and a wonderful way to bring up the featured guest, Christa Bell. Big Ups to Deja Vu (San Antonio), Lisa and pronounced Kay Lee Yah (New Orleans) for traveling the miles, keeping it hot and adding to the madness of the night. Special thanks to all the poets that graced the stage and MIC, you definitely made it a TRULY WONDERFUL NIGHT OF POETRY AND A TRUE HONOR TO HOST THE SHOW.......

Mad Love, Peace and Respect. thir13teen

14 februari 2005.....niew haarlem

14 februari 2005.....niew haarlem because u remembered...

I want to be a kid, one who sits behind you in class and pulls your hair. Throws paper at you. And passes you love notes. The simplest and most innocent form of admiration. A feeling of sheer delight and wonderment. Not tainted by adult experiences. I want to sit and wonder, ponder in the ball of emotions which cause me to desire your attention, and my willingness to do anything to earn it. Your first crush. Puppy love. A seemingly pre-adolescent form of admiration. One where I captivate your attention and you have dreams of being with me forever. You write our names on the back of notebooks, on scraps of paper, and I become secret diary entries scrawled in prepubescent cursive writing with hearts and flowers, cartoon characters and super heroes. And when you see me walking down the hall, you cannot help but smile, giggle or wave.... It remains simple, but it is the birth of intense feelings.... Your first kiss, the cradle of desire. I want to remind you of lips pressed together, mimicking adults in make believe passion. A kiss that you wanted to last, and last. A kiss that peeked your curiosity. A secret you couldn't wait to tell you best friend. I want to be a teenager, with no place to take you. So we walk and talk. Doing absolutely nothing but devoting attention and time to one another. I want to hold your hand, lead you around corners in which to steal kisses from watchful eyes. I want to find a quiet spot in a movie theater and make out with you. I want hands to fumble from lack of experience, desire and sensuality, with only the desire to please you and for you to allow me to go to second base. I want the first experience of touching you, not just your body, but your mind. I want to be the first person who made love to you RIGHT... One who was in touch with you, reached inside your dreams and played out your every fantasy. I want to be that memory. I want that type of love...... I want to be stuck on you....

today i found a letter

Today, I found a letter that was not addressed to me. Faded and tattered. In shambles. It was locked away in the corridors of denial. Crumbled, hidden in the crease of my forced smile. I knew not to open it. But I did. And I wished. In that moment I wished that I could love you brand new. That on the day we met, I was truly your first and last. And you, mine. That we'd never known another's touch, or kiss. That there was no one else to reminisce or remember. That every love adventure to explore and discover was simply our lifetimes with one another waiting to unfold. That I would never be reminded that your heart and soul once belonged to another. That your I love yous, smiles of adoration, gentle embraces had never been shared with another. Mine alone. Today, I was reminded that there was once another who filled your heart and occupied your time. That your lips once brushed across her cheeks. Your welcome homes were once housed with her. And that there had been many times you cried, for her, to her, with her, and because of her. And that sometimes, on special occassions, holidays, and in memories, those tears are revisited. And I cannot share that space with you. There are love letters housed in your soul that will never be addressed to me. Letters that once contained a desire to be the object of her affection. Forever. To live and die in her eyes and the shadow of her smile. And I know this. I know that I am not your first. I know that you.... Well, I know that the love you once had for her, allows you to love me, in this special way. But today, I wrestle with means of celebrating and expressing my love to you. I struggle with creating routines and traditions to celebrate our love. I wanted to write you a love letter. I wanted to write you a poem. But somehow, I feel that I have loss the voice to express it. That my fingers cannot connect with my mind and heart. I wanted to write you a love letter. But I just can't seem to find the words, something special, something you've never heard.

The Art of Duplicity

To paraphrase a poet comrade, "...Anyone who is everyone's friend, could never truly be anyone's friend."

jai "byrd" malano

Duplicity is one of my favorite words. I love the way it falls upon my tongue, plays on my lips, sways across the back of my teeth, to tease the air gently upon it's release from my mouth. It starts and ends strongly.

Unlike the word Truth, which starts strongly with a curl of your tongue, press against the roof of your mouth.. Only to conclude with a puff of hot air. In other words, it ends weakly.

I say this because I am tired. I am so very tired of.......... Fill in the blank. I guess I've heard so much about the same incident, the same story with different variations and twists. What people had to say. Who was right. Who's at fault. What others believe. What others thought. The truth of the matter is I am ......... And I want to......You can fill in the blank with anything you want.

I believe in duplicity. I believe in it like a religion. My motto:"people are selfish and self-seeking by nature. And they will do what's in their best interest each and everytime.". I know Copa, I know.

Everyboby Gets Dickmityzed... I mean Micmityzed

Last night was a hot night... Why am I a sad shade of blue....Rule Number One of Open Mic Hosting. No matter how hard you try, someone will always leave slighted, angry, disappointed or hurt. The truth of the matter is I am not a people person, so 95% of the time I could care less. Until it involves me. Personally.
What most don't know and believe is a joke. On average it takes me roughly $10.00 dollars to get started. That is, I spend at least $10.00 every Wednesday night before I ever set foot on the stage. It's spent different ways, however, there is one constant, two heinekens. It helps me relax, become comfortable with the crowd, my surroundings. Beer in hand, or beer just ordered and on my way to get, or beer on table waiting for me.... I walk the room in an attempt to greet every person in the stage and bar area. Afterward, I sit in a corner to regroup. To pull myself together. I do self talk. "You can do it. Take a deep breath. Baby steps. Got a new spill for the night, gotta keep them entertained. Do you remember everything you need to know. This isn't about you. This is a business, you are a part of the entertainment. You can do it." The bottom line is weekly I have to get a buzz because I can't deal with I DON'T WANT TO GO FIRST OR LAST, EVERYBODY WANTING TO GO NEXT, NOT WANTING TO GO AFTER THIS PERSON OR BEFORE THAT PERSON, IT AIN'T ENOUGH PEOPLE HERE, CAN YOU WAIT AND CALL ME LATER, PEOPLE ARE LEAVING AND THEIR NOT GOING TO SEE ME. DAMN.....
I cannot please everyone every week. Everybody can't go at the peak times every week. I have to rotate it. So I work on trying to please one. I wish I could say that it's me. But it's not. The man wants a show weekly, and I attempt to give him what he wants. As the host, I have the "power" , and I use the word loosely, to call whomever I want in any order I desire. For the most part I follow the list from the top to the bottom, with a few deviations here and there because people aren't used to signing the list. There are many styles to hosting and managing the list. Now, some hosts carry the list all night. Some hosts favor certain poets. Some hosts allow the "poets" to dictate the list, i.e. telling the HOST when THEY want to go up. Some hosts have been known to punish people who constantly ask to be put on stage by placing them further down the list. Some hosts will not allow a poet to read if they are not familiar or comfortable with the poet's material. Some hosts will tell you up front don't ask them about the list or when you will be called. I learned this from many hosts I talked to over the last year.
Me, I simply follow the list. I don't favor one poet more than another. To take it a step further, if I saw that you were favored in the past, I will make certain that I don't treat you any different than anyone else. The likelihood of you reading twice at our venue is slim to none. 1) Because they already paid for a feature, and they don't need two. PERIOD. Not their rule but MINE. And 2) There's really no way to be fair with allowing people to go twice, so I'd rather end the night and allow people to listen to music and dance. And 3) If you only get one shot, then it's up to me to bring you up like a fcking superstar and your responsibility to live up to it or down to it. I don't keep the list on me, so you can always check the BACK table. I leave the list on the back table to set a boundary. See, while fair is only in the dictionary, I work hard at it. It's not FAIR to ME or YOU, to allow YOU to come to ME and tell ME when YOU want to go up and ME doing it. There are a million people scrutinizing me. Constant eye contact doesn't work. Buying drinks doesn't work. Following me all night doesn't work. I am trying to give the MAN what he asks for. A GOOD SHOW. And every once in a while you may go later during the night. I AM NOT PUNISHING YOU. IT'S NOT THAT I DON'T LIKE YOU. MY JOB IS TO BUILD A HOT ASS SHOW. Sometimes I need strong poets later during the night to keep the crowd in their seats. Sometimes I need newer poets to go early. Sometimes I need certain people to go around the feature. Sometimes I just need to keep it hot. And I try, I try, to call upon those when I need them. It's my call.
What I'm saying is I don't want to be a DRUNK by the end of the YEAR because you are ADDICTED TO THE MIC AND RESPONSE YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE RECEIVING. My gurl Efa calls is mic masturbating.... doing it all for the wrong reasons. I do not want to continue to spend over twenty-five dollars every Wednesday just to cope with calling a few names and putting people on a stage. It's not about you. It's not about me. It's never about you or me. It comes down to dollars and common sense..... In other words it's business and never personal.
'Nuf said.....

For Your Representative. The One I Really Love

I remember when you believed in me for no other reason, other than the possibilities of us and our love. Feeling that you deserved more than your past indicated or dictated. More than that which could be seen or imagined. Breathing. Falling. Your wish was to simply connect with another on a deeper level, where often verbal communication was was no longer a factor or needed. That you, and your lover had taken the time to know the intimate details of each other's desires, and that your mind, well your minds, were mere blueprints to the other's soul. See, neither of us were willing to settle, and were no longer fans of beautiful relationships. Breathing. Falling. We believed, imagined and lived as if there was so much more for us. And we were willing to explore each and every possibility fearlessly. To leave no stone unturned, and to never allow pride or our tongues to destroy a single moment. Moments we would build upon, moments which would eventually become our life, and in our twilights, we would reflect and laugh, dying without resentment or regret. Don't you remember?
I remember the first time I recognized the brown in your eyes held my reflection. I remember when goodbyes were opportunities to say hello. No door was closed or back turned without a kiss. Breathing. Falling. I remember falling asleep not quite knowing where you began and I end. That my dreams held your scent and touch, even on those nights when we were apart. Without you, I did not feel lonely, there was always a sense of comfort as your essence remained and lingered. I recall holding your silhouette whispering I love you thru cellular towers, hoping that you could taste my sentiments in the breeze. And the only tears shed were those masked as perspiration upon our bodies during the course of our love making. We never cried. Don't you remember?
I remember calling you for no other reason other than to hear your voice. That every story you told was brand new, a chance for me to get to know you better. I remember wanting to know you so well that we finished each other's sentences and began each other's thoughts. That ecstacy exisited just past your lips and fingertips. I remember wishing I knew you as a child, to share your triumphs and learn from your defeats. I remember all dusks and dawns were welcomed with your voice, your touch, or your kiss. And that you were never more than a thought away. I remember peonies, freeshia, and sunsets. Rose petals floating a top milky bubble baths. When infactuation was mistaken for adoration, adoration for infactuation, but we both knew the love would last forever. When my spirit mirrored your image, your image seemingly the purpose of my exsistence, for you were heaven sent. And you were birthed and lived just outside God's blue hues. Breathing. Falling. Breathing. Inhaling your spirit, exhaling our lives. Breathing. Falling. Breathing. I remember colors.... I remember breathing. I remember falling...
I remember falling in love with shades of blue skies that represent you. I remember rainy days give way to blue skies because of you. I remember that I can soar among blue skies and clouds with you. I remember when shades of blue outlined my path to your soul. I remember blue lights luminating from your smile. I remember your hues of blue chased away my shades of blue. I remember ocean's blues could never be compared to the depth of your blue. I remember breathing your blue. I remember feeling your blue. I remember singing your blue. I remember falling for your blue. I remember colors. I remember shades of blue will always represent you..... Don't you remember?

NEW LOOK....

Big ups to Jo V. aka Poet in Law for the Blog Banner/Skin thing... Love it.
Check out the weekend blog (Sunday) I just posted it. I finally finished it.
Onto the Banner and it's Significance.....
1. See the cockroach in the cup.... Wouldn't be section 8 without the official ghetto pet.....
2. For those of you concerned... the lady in the section 8 logo has locks and is wearing glasses... so we can't get sued.. i don't think..
3. Love a pretty smile, and the lady has pretty teeth, pretty smile and pretty lips...
4. Love me some Starbuck's... thus the borrowed logo shell.
5. The lip prints on the cup are just off the chain. I'm expressive so i am digging the face it's making.. I wear my emotions on my face and in my posture.
6. The Picture.. My first print ad for a feature in Houston at Eb5.....
7. The window pane... I'm a public figure (hosting, I hang out with popular people, I wouldn't say I was popular), you see me often, but I'm very very guarded.. A participant observer for the most part.. . Also.... I pray that I make my village proud... First Pane - Mary Elizabeth (my mom) Second Pane - Margaret B. (my grand) Third Pane - Mary Lou (Great-Grand) Fourth Suzy and Clara (My Aunts - they split their time in my life, never had them at the same time.)
8. The beans... again coffee lover, but also strength.. richness... possibilities.. like seeds
9. Earth tones.... cuz, ya know... They're low key.... but hold their own...
holla.....

YUPPERS.....................

Big Ups to Poet In Law..... hooked up my blog when no one else could.... No wonder Langston..... I see ya...

Sensuality, Eroticism, Vulgarity, Pornography and Poetry REVISED

I was listening to one of my favorite poets. She has a beautiful poem, entitled "Untitled". It is a haunting poem discussing the lack of positivity and romantic archetypes for black women. Particularity little black girls who seemingly obtain their ideas related to femininity, sexism, sensuality and the definition of being a woman from music videos. Videos which stereotype women. Women, who seemingly make choices to pursue the career as what has been dubbed "video ho". Music videos have become modern day soft porn, with some videos with content so explicit that they must be shown after hours. No, I am not preaching. No, I am not prudish. No, I am not hating. Just bringing up a point. I have beautiful little nieces. My friends have equally as beautiful little girls. And I fear that the subconscious messages that are being sent thru print and media are destructive to a little girl's dreams and goals. I believe that the message regarding a little girl's self esteem and sexuality needs to be addressed.
Many things happened over the last couple of weeks. I've been listening to the cd since I coped it from Funky Mike. 1) I have become a bit more conscious of erotic poetry because of our venue. Restaurant. 2) Erotic vs Sensuality, few are able to discern the difference. 3) Why it seems to be becoming popular at our venue. Aside from the two poets known for erotic poetry, I believe the others are doing it to elicit a reaction from the audience, i.e . popularity. 4) When is it disrespectful? And does the poet know that fine line? 5) I sat and observed a couple of people who ogled and literally stripped every woman with a glance who passed. Even more disturbing.. they were woman. 6) I watched the little girl "crunk" dancing in the Rize video.
Untitled particularity struck a cord last Thursday afternoon. I was riding around doing errands listening to the cd. And almost, for the very first time, since Nationals, almost out of no where, I heard "...spread your legs monkey bitch, you know you want this.... that ni%%a wench you pulled a train on.... the main attraction on a cruise line of christians." And I was spelled bound. And in that moment it all made sense. I was thinking of the previous night of poetry. It took a turn and I for the life of me could not understand how or why. I remember being angered, incensed on various levels. Don't get me wrong it was a hot night of poetry. It's just, on some levels as I watched the audience reaction to what was being said on stage
Sexuality aside. I am not a fan of erotic poetry. Mostly because the AVERAGE POET does it with LITTLE if ANY TASTE. Leaving nothing to the imagination and often comes across more vulgar than erotic. Secondly, I believe the poet mistakes a reaction for a response. Thirdly, which brings me to my point. The audience is predominately black women. Like most black women, women in general, I've had my share of unwanted advances, perverse, inappropriate behaviors, vulgar gestures, as well as overall disrespect and disregard for my boundaries and space. I don't know if I can attribute having a father, a grandmother who made sure I was aware of the birds and the bees, or having a village of independent, strong women that allows me to have a quiet strength and dignity about my role as a woman, confidence regarding my power as a woman, and complete control and feelings of security regarding my sexuality and sensuality. In other words I know who I am and what I am about. Today, I don't question it. And it pains me to observe on some levels that we as a collective don't have that same level of consciousness. That we continue to allow ourselves to be subjected and ridiculed, almost as if we are nothing more than sheer entertainment, or worse, our presence seen as simple foreplay.
It angers me to here young women reduce themselves to Lil' Kim and Trina poetry, using descriptives such as "rub your d--- in my t---- and cum in my face" or "my lesbian experience has made me more than a freak". Worse, the word clit being used more that ten times in what would be describe as poetry. Also, are you willing to spit this "erotic" poetry at every venue? I mean is it really you? Are you mimicing someone else's style because you see the repsonse they recieve. Shocking people into a REACTION does not mean you are getting a FAVORABLE RESPONSE. I know, people will read this and read far more into it than what's written on the page. The truth of the matter is when i go to a poetry venue, I don't want to hear the intimate details of your sexual exploits. I don't want to know what type of freak you are. I don't want to know the many ways you know how to make someone "cum." I don't want to see how desperate you are. What I'd like to hear is a poetic description of your fantasies. I'd like to be given a glimpse of your sexual powers and prowess. I'd like for you to make me want you because of your words..... I remember the first time I heard Taalam do Aura Number One or watched Marc Marcel place his chain on the mic and spit his piece... Twain, my gosh the flow and aliteration alone is enough to buy velcro panties as Cousin would say. My brother Langston do one of his many pieces.. I said to myself they know what's up. Not one of these people used vulgarity to make a point. They utilized their vocabulary and their imagination, to entice and enthrall me. And believe me... they make many points while on stage. Now, like (W)RAP we get anyone and everyone spitting pieces for shock value. So, anyone reading help these people out, here are a few definitions:
erotic - 1 : of, devoted to, or tending to arouse sexual love or desire 2 : strongly marked or affected by sexual desire

sensual - 1 : relating to or consisting in the gratification of the senses or the indulgence of appetite : FLESHLY2 : SENSORY

vulgar(ity) - a : lacking in cultivation, perception, or taste : COARSE b : morally crude, undeveloped, or unregenerate : GROSS c : ostentatious or excessive in expenditure or display : PRETENTIOUS5 a : offensive in language : EARTHY b : lewdly or profanely indecent

pornography - 1 : the depiction of erotic behavior (as in pictures or writing) intended to cause sexual excitement2 : material (as books or a photograph) that depicts erotic behavior and is intended to cause sexual excitement3 : the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction

I recieved a comment from another poet who does a great piece which is just damn funny. Immediately I was reminded of not only her, but Da'Shade's piece regarding STDs which is also humorous. I wanted to include them because I wanted to make sure that the readers knew where I am coming from.

A Million Reasons Not To Book Your Own Gig...

Remember Holy Man with Eddie Murphy? Think Coming to America. Remember Eddie Murphy's character? Akeem? Okay, take it a step further, imagine that he's gay.... Okay, I know some of you believe Eddie is gay, but I'm talking about the movie character. Below, a story. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.
On Saturday, after the youth slam, Nancy and I headed over to the Doubletree Hotel. I promised a co-worker that I would perform a piece at his friend Eddie's party. The party it turns out, is a cd release/going away party. Upon arrival, we meet my co-worker Kerry in the parking lot. He informs us that the party is in a room separate from the main building and it would be better to park out back. Nancy and I return to the car and drive toward the back of the hotel. As we park, a car rushes past us and escorts "some one" into a back door into the party room. We're not easily impressed, but become somewhat concerned as we are dressed casually. Me in my poet uniform of blue jeans, t-shirt and running jacket. She, totally out of uniform, with jeans, blouse and heels.
We walk around to the other side of the building. Mostly a mixed ethnic, gender, and sexuality crowd. We enter the party room. There are quite a few people sitting at tables, mingling, talking. I had only spoken to Eddie on the phone, so I had no idea what he looked like. In addition, Kerry was no where to be found. So I walked over to a young woman, let's call her Miss and asked her if she knew Eddie and where I could find him. She stated yes, that he was preparing to go on stage. She then pointed to another door. I said, "thanks Miss."Upon first glance, I saw a man about 5'7 feet tall, dressed in a white linen pant suit (it's still winter) getting make up and hair prepared by a stylist. Still not easily impressed, I walked over to another man introduced myself and asked if I could go in. Now, at this time, I am a little taken a back, as I am questioned in rapid succession. "Who are you? What are you going to do? Oh you're the poet? What do you have? Do you have anything on friendship, love, going away? How much time do you need? Not more than five minutes I hope? Are you a professional?" By this time I am frustrated, but managed to smile weakly as I look toward Nancy for guidance. Then out of no where, Eddie walks up, with the thickest Nigerian American homosexual slur have ever heard in my entire life. One you could have bought my ass for free, and you guys know how much I love my ass. Two no one could have ever told me that I'd met a Nigerian effeminate homosexual. (No I am not being bigoted!). Three he sounded and looked like fcking Eddie Murphy from Coming To America except he was wearing the damn Holy Man outfit, with that jacked up fro/dread lock thing he tried to do for a minute. You know the one where they tease little horns/tips all over the place. Now, Nancy has begun the glaze over... This is a look that I have become familiar with. While she has a poker face, the glaze over often means we are going to laugh our asses off thru tears once we get back to the car. "Hell O Keem. Itz ah pley zhur to meat choo. Ker E haz tool me so mouch a botchoo. So glad datchoo maid it." He says. I am starting to feel a bit more at ease, despite the tears that are starting to collect in the corner of my eyes. Eddie at least calms Arsenio down for a moment. Because I felt like he was interrogating me for all the wrong reasons. Hell, I was doing them a favor. By now, I know I cannot look over at Nancy, because I wear most emotions on my face. Can't whisper worth a damn. And can't fight. So, I am straining not to burst out in uncontrollable laughter and answer the questions. "Nice to meet you, Eddie. Thanks for having me." Turning to Arsenio, I ask, "Nancy , what do you suggest?. "You could do one of the Harlem pieces they always work." "Okay. I will do one of those. Arsenio, do you need to hear it for content or appropriateness." "No, I can see you're a professional."
Okay.. Finally. Kerry shows up, introduces us to his ex, and his new boyfriend, another couple seated at the table and his room mate Miss. We exchange introductions. Nancy and I have a seat at a table. Showtime. I spit my piece. Get my mad respect from the crowd. Walk back to my table to watch the remainder of the show. Pretty average. Local artists. One sings. The other WRAPS. Then the grand show.... Eddie walks on stage, every one in the room is smiling, clapping, this fool opens his mouth and .........
Well, to be nice... it sounded like a warped version of the Lion King meets The Chorus Line soundtrack. American Idol worst takes out of Africa. To say it was HORRIBLE is an understatement. Kerry walks over to me and whispers, "I told you he wasn't the greatest singer." Again an understatement. Did I mention this was his CD RELEASE PARTY? To make matters worse... Remember the young lady? Kerry states, "My room-mate, he wants to take a picture with you. Oh, I'm sorry, I can't get used to saying her. She's very happy now though. Since she had the surgery. She says she want to come on Wednesday nights." What da fck? I know it was a little dark in there. I also know sometimes I don't pay attention once I've assessed I'm not in immediate danger. But hell, I just thought... The one I kept call Miss, was not a very attractive woman. And in that moment it.... the one who had been staring at me all night long. I mean, IT turned it's chair around to face me, looking at me, dreamy like, smiling, little touches, brushes across my leg, not paying attention to the show, rolling it's eyes at Nancy... I mean I noticed it, but I thought maybe she was looking at Nancy or mayber the dudes at the other table. (Nancy and Kerry both later confirmed that it was me Miss was looking at. Kerry taking it further stating Miss thought I was in the venacular "fine". Miss came over to take a picture. Nancy's smart ass moves away, as if she's not going to join in. I grab her arm, and she whispers, "you know that's not a woman don't you." In this moment I am literally fcked up. Miss lays over on my leg grinning like a ______ (anything I say will not be appropriate so you fill in the blank). Anyway, we take the picture. I pray it doesn't find it's way to the internet.... Now I know my gender bending androgynous ass attracts almost anything and everything... If there's a bi-curious male or female in the room they will try to talk to me, but a post op transgendered homosexual male or is it a transgendered lesbian who was trapped in a man's body? That shyt is BRAND NEW... even to me... By now.. those that know me know I AM LOOKING AT MY WATCH AND THE DOOR.... LOOKING FOR A QUICK OUT.... Nancy is glazed over twenty times over, so I know we are in for a few hours of laughs... And as I am trying to recuperated, fcking Eddie walks over.. "u knot E ting? cum on tri af ree kan fud. itz gud. u eet sum ding. you wur gr8. we muss werk tu geth r." I'm thinking you gotta be kidding me... long short.... we finally leave. Not without Miss, pressing up on me a few more times, then HUGS me as we leave.... Ahhhh.. no more favors. no more free ninety nine performances. no more booking my own shows.....

Some of my best friends are black....

remember back in the day
when everyone was conscious
and down for the struggle
love brought us together
just sitting back and talking
cultivating a positive vibe
blue lights in the basement
freedom was at hand
you could just taste it,
it was so cool..
I'm Digging You (Like An Old Soul Record)
Meshell Ndegeocello 1993

My mother and step father were members of the Nation of Islam during the early seventies. As a pre-teen I read the Autobiography of Angela Davis, The Autobiography of Malcom X, Soul on Ice, the poems of Sonya Sanchez, June Jordan, Etheridge Knight, and Nikki Giovanni. Most of course were accompanied by the dictionary. I was to look up every word I didn't know the meaning of, in order to expand my vocabulary and obtain "the true meaning" of the text. The "required" reading continued well thru High School, when eventually, my participation in athletics and other after-school activities kept me occupied. It was thru the required reading that I seemingly developed a "pride" in my heritage, my people. I knew the difference between being proud to be black, the need to associate myself as such and the "color". That identifying myself as anything else would be to turn my back on the people who struggled for "rights" which were not afforded to "niggas". To identify myself as "African American" was to claim, maybe, one aspect of myself and my ethnicity. (Since the cradle of civilization is Africa, then all people, black and white can claim to be african american. and a white south african can check the african american box if they so desired.) Besides if and when the war comes to American soil, I don't believe they are going to bomb African Americans, Native Americans, Irish Americans, ect. I believe they are going to bomb Americans.
I must admit. I have always believed I had an infinity for my people. That, while at times a few bring an overwhelming sense of embarrassment, due to their self imposed inappropriateness, I have always been able to recover. To contribute their lack of appropriateness to lower socio-economic conditions and deprivation. Never, had I believed that I had "bought" into "racism", black on black racism that is.
On Friday, I attended my best-male friend's feature. It was held in a little "nite club". Upon entering, I realized the crowd had "changed" considerably from the previous month. There was a "hip hop" act showcasing before the poetry reading. The club, a very small one, with one way in and one way out was filled with.. Soldiers posing as wannabe gangsta rappers, and thugs posing as soldiers. There were the few locals who just wanted to.. Well, wanted to fit into the stereotypical mold that MTV, BET and the local news have created for them. Reeked of kryptonite (new slang for THC) drank Patron tequlila and Hypnotic, because MTV, BET, Rappers, the American media (print, visual and hearing) and peer pressure dictated they do such. Most wore the gangsta rapper uniform, baseball cap, gaudy jewelry, large belt buckles, XXXL t-shirts, blue jeans much too big for them with their boxer shorts exposed. Along with the modern day brand, black tattoos which represented things that are "important" in their lives. They threw up gang signs, snarled and grimaced, spoke loudly and harshly as a means of showing their toughness and expressing their manhood. And I became, as the night wore on, extremely uncomfortable. The people in my group would often express their dismay with the noise level coming from their corner. Each time some one in my group commented toward them, I moved, believing that a fight or altercation would erupt any second. I was teased, my girl stated I was from the "scaryho" tribe. And in that moment, I was. Except I was afraid for all the wrong reasons. This was not a healthy fear. There was no immediate danger. Only the "idea" of danger, because some one said I should be afraid under these circumstances. I was afraid in the way that most would describe as "white" fear. The truth of the matter was that these young men represented nothing more than a statistic or local news story. All relating to crime, substance abuse, victimization, ect. And I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed for having the thoughts. Ashamed for not believing that, they, like me, were there for simple artistic expression. Nothing more. The uniform they wore, the feelings they masked, their overt behaviors, were simply nothing more than who they were in that moment. But I couldn't. I couldn't get past the statistics and news stories. All I could think was: Security is not checking any one for weapons. How am I going to get out of here when they shyt hits the fan? I found myself watching. Watching closely because every one was suspect. And I was ashamed. And I was angry. And I was besides myself. And I fought myself. But I lost. I lost because I could not see those men for who they truly were... or at least acknowledge the possibly of who they could be.... And that night, as everyone discussed the night, including my standing in a booth reciting my piece, stomping on a table, spilling a drink on Cousin, forgeting my poem. All I could think was how I exposed my personal bigotry, and was left naked, wearing a thinly veiled sheet. Ashamed that perhaps, like so many, I have forgotten who I was, bought into black on black racism, and had become a member of the modern day Klan....

Harlem's Transgression

My deepest wish is to turn my back on self and time to give you what you truly desire. Me. I would give back my fear and insecurity. Forget every time my heart was shattered with a simple kiss or broken promise. Learn to forgive myself for letting myself down. Remember that sometimes the best lessons are those which come from experience, but not allow those experiences, no matter how disappointing, to define me or my life. To learn to really give what I want in order to receive it in return. Learn that unconditional is just that unconditional. Not keep score. Every opportunity to forgive is an opportunity to expand our possibilities. Learn that while I speak well, and make good arguments that I am not always right. To walk away, because there are things that should never be said. Hold hands longer. Kiss even longer. Say I love you often.

Motherless hugs have left my arms heavy, my heart weary, my mind weighed, body paralyzed from anxiety, apprehension and fear. Love and life lessons which, while I try diligently to learn, leave me frustrated and wrought with failure. It is in those times, as confusing as it seems, I want you to hold me as a mother would. Comforting me, loving me, unconditionally. Yet, today, I remembered, that no matter what, you have never let go. You've not let go since that fateful rainy day when you coyly smiled at me and said, "I'm not flirting with you. People often think I'm flirting with them. They get the wrong impression." And you laughed. Thru your laughter I saw the brown of your eyes, and longed to be lost in them. One day. And by no act of my own, I am afforded the opportunity to not only get lost in your eyes, but to seek shelter in your arms...

I am learning to let go of fear and my past. And while I don't need most. I do need you. My insolence will not always allow me to let go of my foolish pride and admit it. I love you. I need you. I want you. I wish you knew how much.....

The Mic was Nice...

What do we do for the next poet? Show 'em some love. What do we do for the next poet? Show 'em some love. Neo-Soul show your love for...................................
Okay. Am not sure where to start. But last night was off the friggin chain. Mostly hot from beginning to end. (There were a few glitches in the matrix) Yes, we did miss a few folk hint hint wink wink. I drank myself past my nervousness... Way to go James!!!!!! 'Cuz, uhh, well, see the little girl up there? That's how I feel the moment I step on the mic til the end of the night. Dep did the damn thang with his cute self. Big ups to 'Chelle who rocked a new piece. East Texas rocked the night with a new piece, kind of gansta with an English accent. I'm going to start calling her Ms. Dynamite or what's the name of the rapper out of England that rocked it with Latifiah on Ladies' First. Angel, our little blogger spy did that damn thang keeping the night erotic like. Yup, if you heard it you would ALWAYS USE FALLEN before you said Angel... Hustle dj's and it felt like Neo of old.... It was off the chain.. Damn Relentle and Cousin, we might have to start limiting the number of slots. It's blowing up in there.... Brian finally did "Whatever Turns You On" ending the night with a bang.. And yes. I am VERY HUNG OVER TODAY.... Cannot wait for next week.... the ever amazing, bringing the house down...Kevin Sandbloom!!!! then ohhhhhh my goshhhhhh the 15th. Hint ".... if too much sugar makes you sick, spoils your appetite for just the smell of dinner there a certain flavors of women you should not consume..." the too much