Nightengales: Angel Taylor's "Chai Tea Latte"

Here is a fantastic new artist I stumbled across about a year ago.  I love her voice and she is even more amazing in person.  Definitely check her out and buy her self titled album Angel Taylor: Love Travels

It is not enough to say you like an artist, you need to support them as well. 

The official recording for Chai Tea Latte is my favorite song, closely followed by "Best Father Around".

Words of Silence: Clayton Valli, "Dandelions"

"People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate." - James Baldwin, "If Black English Isn't a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?"

One of the new things I have picked up is a love for ASL.  I have only been studying for less than a year, but I have found the language to be nuanced and extremely beautiful.  Below is a video featuring Clayton Valli.  He was the first person to ever receive a PhD in ASL Poetry.  Watch and enjoy a giant of the field.







Clayton Valli (1951—2003) was a prominent deaf linguist and American Sign Language (ASL) poet whose work helped further to legitimize ASL and introduce people to the richness of American Sign Language literature.  As a poet, Valli created original works in ASL that he performed to appreciative audiences around the country. His poems make sophisticated use of handshape, movement, use of space, repetition, and facial expression. Influenced by canonical American poets like Robert Frost, as well as Deaf poets such as Bernard Bragg, Valli often chose nature imagery to convey subtle insights into Deaf experience. His brief "Hands" -- which makes use of the 5 handshape throughout—is a celebration of the power of sign language to describe anything in the universe. "Dandelion" uses simple nature imagery to convey the persistence of ASL despite oralists' best efforts to weed it out.  (source Wikipedia)

Echoes: Verse 11, Robert Westley

A warning...

What's Happening
by Robert Westley

It is not necessary to wait long
To see it happen -
Happening in the streets
Red with black blood
Happening in hallways
Littered with semen stains
Happening behind doors
Where babies loll on the floor
Scream with pain and tear each others hair.
It's happening right now.
A young girl surrenders her secrets
To the boy she loves, but
When they rise from her bed
Nothing remains between the sheets but
Vaginal secretions, some dark decaying spit
No love and not even a condom.
Everything she will know of him is inside her now
Her bones are light beams
Her arms are wings
And if the bedroom widow won't do for a fall
The butcher knife is in the kitchen drawer.
It's hapening.
Happening, by the way, in your neighborhood
You of the fresh-dew flowers
You of the scornful looks who hide
Behind your money it's pulled
Not just your petty crimes
Like murder or theft
A simple toke of some smoke or coke
Cheap sins that wash off on Sunday
Someone's abusing your mind
Fucking your son
Deceiving your daughter
Filling your house with shit
As if I care
You could take the dare
End the affair
Eat a pear
Turn to prayer
Stare into reality like a basin
Full of heavy water
And cleanse your skin
Of the evil that's within
But forget it.
You are not what's happening.

Westley, Robert.  "What's Happening."  The Road Before Us: 10 Gay Black Poets. Ed. Assoto Saint.  New York: Galiens Press, 1991. p. 136-137.

Bio from The Road Before Us

Robert Wesley was born November 10, 1962.  "I am a native of New Orleans where I spent my first seventeen years.  I graduates from Northwestern University in 1984 with a B.A. in philosophy.  I attended graduate school at Yale University for the following three years, and then started law school at the University of California, Berkeley, in  f1987.  I am currently working towards completion of my dissertation in philosophy and the final year of law school.  My career plans include teaching, law practice, and economic development in the black community."

The Places I Have Been

To tell all that has happened to me in the last months would take more ink than this post can hold so instead of a recap, a few simple facts:
 

1. Still working in the arts.
2. No longer single.
3. New house.  Fewer roommates (although I miss the old ones sometimes)
4. Still calling the District home.
5. Happy and learning how to deal with the unfamiliar sense of balance that comes with it.



I am coming out of a period of much needed self reflection.  I needed to get right with myself.  Now it is time to tend to those things and people that were neglected in my absence.  Back to business. I am giving myself the reported simple task of making two post a day.  I want to stay true to the intent behind this blog and keep it to writing and social commentary, so expect the see the world through my eyes in more ways than one.

For now.  Rest assured that the lights are back on underground.

Mountain Climbing and Other Views on Romance

A writer friend and I got into an interesting discussion recently regarding a fiction blog series of his entitled Jaylen's Journal.  I read the piece and was really intrigued by some of the ideas about it and that lead to a VERY long comment that I decided to turn into a blog post of its own.   I recommend you read the blogpos first and then my comments make a litle more sense.  You can find the post at: Doin Just Fine: Jaylen;s Journal, Entry 1

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You always manage to construct phrases that stay with me. Your final line that it's easy to sleep with a broken heart when that is all you know (paraphrasing please forgive me) was poignant and sobering. So much so, that I am going to deviate from my usual pattern. Instead of analyzing the technical aspects of the piece, I will follow in the footsteps of your subject and respond from a place that has little use for quantification, reason, or order. I will give voice to the intangible.

To love is not a very difficult task. What is very hard is the recognition of that emotion; the simultaneous act of taking ownership of it while giving it away to someone else to hold, nurture, protect, and harvest. I think the difficulty emerges from the fact that although we give it away in the hope of receiving those blessings, love can be dropped, stunted, violated, and left fallow. So we are left yearning but fearful.

We climb the heights of passion sometimes slowly other times quick to stand at the precipice that overlooks paradise but we are afraid to enter it because it requires us to set foot off of the mountain we have spent so much time climbing and to free fall with only an all consuming hope that some how we will float or lean to fly and make a new home in heaven. That is the dream of love that sustains me at least.

But as you know. I don't sleep much and therefore have precious little time to dream.

And I don't like climbing mountains or heights and alot if other shit that I used to paint my poetic picture.

When you climb you get dirty. You bleed. And by the end of it all you tend to end up looking a hot mess. Not to mention that in my metaphor the only options you have I'd you manage to get to the top are to stay at the top of the mountain probably with some sense of accomplishment, but alone and probably hungry. Or you jump, and learn the same lesson as icarus that you pobably should have kept your feet on the ground, fuck what you heard.

So keep climbing.

(shrug)

What the hell else do you have to do today?

Red Ink, Chapter 3

I stood shivering in the rain outside the hospital.  My throat was raw from the sobs that had racked my body for that last hour.  I was spent and alone in the dark, but I could not go back to that room. 

“God,” I whispered through chattering teeth. 

“Why?”  I asked. “Why?”

I looked up to the heavens, but the only answer I got in return was a rumble of distant thunder and the pitter-patter of rain on my face. 

“Fuck!!!  FUCK YOU!!!!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.  It was clear my questions and threats were going to go equally unanswered.

I had to escape.  It did not matter where I wound up I just had to get as far away from this place as possible.  I chose a direction at random and began walking.  By this point my clothes were completely soaked, but I did not care.  I did not care about my clothes, the rain, or anything.  I just needed to keep moving, to do something other than sit and wait.

“Is this Mr. Dupri?” 

Cars zoomed by me as I wondered along the side of the road lost in the haze my thoughts.  My path zig zagged on and off the sidewalk as I replayed the night in my head.

“Mr. Dupri, sir.  There has been an accident…”

The sound of a blaring car horn startled me back into reality.  I hesitated for a breathe as the car barreled towards me, but jumped back onto the sidewalk expelling the air from my lungs.  This was no good.  I could feel the helplessness of earlier creeping back to the surface threatening to unsettle my momentary composure. 

I looked on either side of the street and spotted a bar with its lights still on.  I darted across the street, this time paying careful attention to the oncoming traffic.  There was light music seeping out of the bar onto the street outside. 

There wasn’t a bouncer so I just walked in and grabbed a seat at the bar and looked around.  It was nearly empty except for a couple sitting at a table in the corner and a few old timers sitting at the end of the bar talking to the bartender.  It was exactly what I needed.

“Well you look like shit,” one of the old guys barked with a grin.  “Didn’t your mama teach you to come in out of the rain.  You are as wet as a dog.”

I looked down at my soaked clothes, “I guess your right.”

“Lay off the boy Mike,” the bartender said as he walked over to me.

“What ya havin’?” he asked.

“Jack.  Straight up,” I replied.

I watched as he poured the drink and handed it to me. 

The lobby smelled like Lysol and I could feel my hands sweating. 

“So, what you doin’ at a bar in the middle of the week looking like you feel in a pool wit ya clothes on?”

“If you don’t mind, I didn’t really come here for conversation.” I spat back.

“Have it yo way.  You just looked like you needed to talk a bit,”  he said.

You can go in, but you should prepare yourself

I downed the whiskey and let its warmth thaw the chill in my chest before responding. 

“What is the use of talking it won’t change shit,” I said.  “All I want to do right now is have you refill my glass.  That would be a big help.  And this time make it a double.”

I offered him a crooked grin that didn’t reach my eyes along with my now empty glass.  He gave me a look, not buying my bullshit grin for a minute, and refilled my glass.  I picked it up I knocked it back without a wince.

“One more please.  You can put this one on ice,” I said smooth as silk. 

The bartender simply poured and headed back to the old timers.  I wrapped my hands around the glass and stared at the amber liquid. 

I stood in front of the door trying to will myself to take one more step.

I took a sip from my glass.  I could feel the effect of my previous two shoots starting to take effect and sighed as I could feel my mind drifting off.  Hiding from that room even in my thoughts. 

***

I don’t remember how long I staid at the bar, but I do know I was good and drunk when I left.  The bartender wanted to call me a cab, but I refused and stumbled my way back down the street.  The walk seemed even longer on the return trip and by the time I got back to the hospital my legs were about to give out. 

It took all of my remaining focus to retrace my earlier steps back through the winding corridors of the hospital.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  Until, I found myself standing back outside the door just as lost as before.  My hand trembled as I reached for the door handle, but I willed it still.  I opened the door, took a breathe, and walked in. 

-----------------


I promise to reveal who is in the bed at the hospital in the next chapter.  Lol, I know I have been dragging it out a bit, but I was trying to decide between a few things that I hope will make the wait worth it.

Echoes: Verse 10, Ted Hughes

Theology
by Ted Hughes

No, serpent did not
Seduce Eve to the apple.
All that's simply
Corruption of the facts.

Adam ate the apple.
Eve at Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.

The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise--
Smiling to hear
God's querulous calling.


Hughes, Ted.  "Theology."  Norton Anthology of Poetry.  Ed.  Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2005. (1813).

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Examination at the Womb-Door
by Ted Hughes

Who owns these scrawny little feet?  Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lings? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.


Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.
Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?  Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.


Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.


But who is stronger than death?
                                                  Me, evidently.

Pass, Crow.



Hughes, Ted.  "Examination at the Womb-Door."  Norton Anthology of Poetry.  Ed.  Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2005. (1813-1814).

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Ted Hughes was born in Mtholmroyd, South Yorkshire, England, and was raised in Mesborough, a coal-mining town in South Yorkshire.  He won a scholarship to Pembroke College, Cambridge, but served two years in the Royal Air Force before matriculating.  He studied English, archeology, and anthropology, specializing in mythological systems (an interest that informed much of his poetry).  He later worked as a gardener, night watchman, zookeeper, scriptwriter, and teacher.  In 1956, he married the American poet Sylvia Plath, and the couple spent a year in the United States before moving to England in 1959.  Plath committed suicide in 1963.  In 1970, Hughes settled on a farm in Devon.  In addition to poetry and books for children.  He also edited numerous collection of verse and prose, and was founding editor of Modern Poetry in Translation magazine.  He was poet laureate of England from 1984 until his death.  His poem vividly describe the beauty of the natural world, but celebrate its raw, elemental energies.  He often embodies the primal forces of nature as mythic animals sch as the pike, the hawk, and "Crow," a central character in a long cycles of poems.  His translation and recasting of Tales from Ovid was published to critical acclaim in 1997, and less than a year later he broke his silence on his relationship with Plath with the publication of Birthday Letters.  He received the Order of Merit from Queen Elizabeth II only twelve days before his death, from cancer.

Echoes: Verse 9, David Frechette

Safe Harbour by David Frechette

Though Destiny did not decree
That we become lovers
It's in your arms I find
Safe harbour from
A tidal wave of woes
Threatening to engulf me.

Your smiling eyes are my lighthouse,
Your lips seal out chaos.
The smoothness and warmth of your body
Keep the coarse chill of
The everday world at bay.
And I'm not afraid to christen you
My temporary shelter from the storm.


Frechette, David. "Safe Harbour." Brother to Brother: New Writing By Black Gay Men. Ed. Essex Hemphill. Conceived b Joseph Beam. Washington: RedBone Press, 2003. (80).

Get Ya Mind Right: To Be Black, Gay, and Happy

Question:  They say we're all on the same political boat.  We should be brothers.  But, before I accept his kinship, political, or otherwise, this is what I want to know.  Where does his loyalty lie?  Priorities, that's what I want to know.  Come the final throwback, what is he first, black or gay?

I was going through one of my old notebooks and stumbled across this question.  I am pretty sure I got it from a book somewhere, but I didn't make a note of where I got, but I do remember when I wrote it.  It was about three years ago when I was first struggling with my sexuality and its implications for the rest of my life, my friends, my family.  I had just taken genuine ownership of my Blackness and wore it like a coat of arms, proud and majestically draped in shades of green, red, and ebony.  And yet, here was the possibility that I didn't quite fit the mold of the strong Black man; a splash of fuchsia thrown across my mosaic of afrocentricity.

I was afraid to ask questions of myself or my family.  Afraid of rejection.  Afraid of having to choose between my life and culture for this foreign part of myself that I still didn't really understand.  Then I came across a film called Tongues Untied by Marlon Riggs and he gave me an answer to my unasked question.

How do you choose one eye over another, this half of the brain over that?  Or in words this brother might understand, which does he value most, his left nut or his right?

Simple and yet profound.   As I sit and write I actually think I might have pulled that earlier quote from the same film (and if I didn't it sure as hell would have fit).  For a very long time I kept trying to figure out how I would manage to incorporate this new thing about myself to the life that I had created.  How would I choose and it wasn't really until that film that I stopped to ask who was making me choose.

I came up with a laundry list of society, my culture, my family, but the truth was that the only one who was really making me chose was myself.  I didn't need to change.  I had always been this foreign thing and it didn't detract from the good of my life.  Oh that is not to say that there were not moments of...adjustment.  Like the first time a guy kissed me in public.  Or the moment when I finally told someone other then my first partner.

But those moments came and went.  And I survived.

For anyone still struggling with the question of how to live in both worlds I leave you with these words by Kendall Thomas from his article "Ain't Nothin' Like the Real thing": Black Masculinity, Gay Sexuality, and the Jargon of Authenticity published in Wahneema Lubiano's anthology The House that Race Built.

For all it's ambivalence, the example of "slender gay" James Baldwin taught some of us ohow to be gay men in, and of, black America.  the life and work of James Baldwin thus give the lie to the notion that black and gay identity are hostile to one another at all points.  They show, too, that while "[i]t is difficult to be despised," black gay men and lesbians must resist the demand (heard in some quarters) that we must choose between these two sources of the self and commit a kind of psychich suicide (Thomas 122).


Peace.

I.M.


Tongues Untied, prod. and dir. Marlon Riggs, 55 min., color, 1985, videocassette.

Thomas, Kendall.  " ' Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing': Black Masculinity, Gay Sexuality, and the Jargon of Authenticity."  The House that Race Built.  Ed. Wahneema Lubiano.  New York: random House, 1998.  (122).

Red Ink, Chapter 2

"Hey.  You getting in or not?" the cab driver asked.

I did not reply and instead simply climbed in the back seat of the car.  I had been standing outside for the last 10 minutes trying to hail a cab and I was dripping wet from the rain.

"You deaf or what?" the cab driver asked.

"What?" I said in a faint whisper.

"I said, 'Where to?'" he repeated.

"I need to go to Washington Circle.  Down by I and 23rd."  I replied.

"Down by the hospital right?"

"Yes," I said.  I was surprised by how calm I sounded.  I had spent the entire time pacing back and forth on the street trying to stop my brain from thinking.

The cab driver just nodded his head and pulled away from the curve.  I looked straight ahead while  trying to ignore the loud Arabic music coming from the radio.  I could see the cab driver looking back at me through the rear view mirror, so I turned my head at stared out the window.  The cab driver could sense my mood and did not attempt to engage me in conversation.  

The ride was uneventful and allowed me time to relax my nerves.  The woman on the phone had been vague.  It could be anyone at the hospital.  

"I could be anybody," I whispered to myself.

It was not long before the cab driver pulled up outside the hospital.  I tossed him a few bucks, hopped out, and made my way to the lobby of the emergency room.

"Hello sir.  May I help you?" asked one of the nurses behind the desk.

"I am not sure," I said as my voice unsteady.

"Well let's start with the basics honey.  What's your name?"

"Dupri.  Adonis Dupri," I replied.   

"Well, I am sure that we can figure out what you need.  Are  you hurt or sick?"  she gently asked.

I simply shook my head, not trusting my voice.

"Okay.  Are you here to see someone else?"

I gave a slight nod.    

"Do you know the name of the patient?"

"No."  I answered.  "I mean, I don't know.  I just got a call and they said there was an accident and I needed to come down.  Here."  I could feel my earlier calm slipping away.

"Okay sir.  Not to worry," she said.  "Let me just check my log book and we can see where you need to go.  You just go take a seat there sir and we will get you taken care of.  How does that sound?"

I walked over and collapsed into the seat she had indicated.  The lobby smelled like Lysol and was making me feel nauseous.  I looked down at my phone waiting to hear Chrisette's voice trying not to get nervous as I waited for the doctor.  

'Mr. Dupri?" I heard a voice ask.

I looked up and saw a young man in a white lab coat holding a clip board with a bunch of papers on it.

"Yes.  I am Mr. Dupri."

"Hello Mr. Dupri.  My name is Dr. Tate."  He reached out take shake my hand but I simply looked at him until he lowered his hand back to his side.

"Earlier this evening we had a patient who was brought the the ER.  They had been in a pretty serious car accident and suffered a great deal of trauma.  The patient has been in surgery for the last 3 hours and is now in recovery,  Now there..."  

I interrupted him and said, "I am sorry sir, but I still don't know why I am here."  

"Oh.  I am so sorry," he said.  "When the patient first arrived we couldn't find any identification.  The only thing we found was a cell phone.  We scrolled through the most recent calls and saw your number listed several times."

I tried to swallow but I could feel my throat tightening.

"We were hoping you could help us identify the patient."  The doctor looked at me but I simply looked at the ground avoiding his eyes.

I took a breathe to steady myself.  Then I looked back up to meet his gaze.  

"Alright then.  Show me where I need to go."

"Please follow me," he said leading me through a winding set of corridors.

"Now, I worn you you might want to brace yourself.  The patient suffered massive trauma and has been in surgery for the last few hours.  It's still very touch and go and they are very heavily sedated."

Sooner than I would have liked we were standing in front of one of the trauma rooms.  I could feel my chest constrict as he opened the door and stepped into the room.  I tried to fall him, but my legs wouldn't move.

'Mr. Dupri?  Sir, if you could just step into the room."

I tried to take another step but halted as I glanced into the room.  All I could see were tubes and bandages.  Black swollen skin and the smell of sickness.  And then I saw it and my foot froze mid-stride.

"I can't.  I can't I can't.  Can't can;t," my words began to jumble together and my resolve shattered.  All of the worry and pain I held been holding in swelled to the surface as my eyes focused on the hand lying on the bed.  On the index of the right hand I could just make out the gleam of a silver ring with a onyx setting.  I would know that ring anywhere.

"Mr. Dupri," the doctor urged.

"Can't..." I said as I burst into sobs and fled back down the hall blinded by the image of a silver ring against black skin.

Pen and Paper: Forbidden Fruit

an ode to love

 

 

you are

butter pecan

with a hint of mocha

blended into

a cosmopolitan delight

that eases the chill in my spine

replacing it with

desire that

runs through me like fever

and leaves behind

distilled tastes of innocence

purified perfection

tastes of royalty

not born of Kipling’s India

 

 

I’m talkin’ bout the

fruit of concrete jungles

of urban life

fruit of trees whose roots

cling to the South

drawing nourishment

from the shores of Oshun



to taste even the seeds of this tree

is a temptation

only a child of Eve

freed from false sin could extend

a new age pilgrim

I am

 

 

come

asking for

music

evanescent joy

transcendent sound

that can stimulate me

to an existential state

of

procreation

that impregnates the tongue

giving birth to truth

and ecstasy

that lingers in

mind body and soul

like footprints

in the sand on a beach

with no tide



timeless blessings

conveyed by the

hidden knowledge of the tree of life

knowledge of you

me

us



manifested in the curves

of your body

the essence of your being

conveyed by

the meeting of your lips

with mine



at your command

your time and place

I

will come

for

you

and in our union

we will

make long

everlasting

peace

Echoes: Verse 8, e.e. cummings

may i feel said he
by e.e. cummings

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
alot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome?said he
umm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)


cummings, e.e.  "may i feel said he."  The Norton anthology of Poetry. ed. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2005.  (1395-1396)
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since feeling is first
by e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays attention
to the syntax of things
wille never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fae
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.  Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
our eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

cummings, e.e.  "since feeling is first."  The Norton anthology of Poetry. ed. Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, and Jon Stallworthy. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2005.  (1394-1395).

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Edward Estlin Cummings was born on October 14, 1894 in Cambridge, Massachusetts to Edward and Rebecca Haskwell Clarke Cummings.  His writing style is one of the most innovative of the twentieth century. He uses distorted syntax and unusual punctuation to illustrate simple, and often satirical themes on either the decay of modern society, or on love.

Many say that cummings' multitude of love poems stem from his many marriages. On March 19, 1924, he married Elaine Orr, who he had had a daughter with some years earlier. He divorced her on December 4 of the same year. In 1927, he married Anne Barton. He later divorced her to marry model and actress Marion Morehouse, with whom he remained married until his death in 1962.

When considering the writing style of e. e. cummings, one must note his use of punctuation, sarcasm, rhyme and enjambment. The poetry of e. e. starts with the basic principle that punctuation is an art form all its own. He uses punctuation like a second alphabet, to add to the intensity of his poems, and to make points without using words. Perhaps a more commonly used form of poetic device is called enjambment, or the running-on of a sentence from one line to the next. Not only does e. e. use enjambment, but he uses it so freely that one sentence might be the entire poem, and might take up fifteen lines with nine words.

Pen and Paper: Poem for Huey

Poem for Huey

Need
A panther in my belly
Paws heavy in my gut
No peace
Just claws
Tearing at my insides
Always wanting
Freedom

Eclipse, Chapter 1

What follows is an on-going bedtime story I started telling someone the other night...

Eclipse, Chapter 1

Once upon a time before there was time.  Before man. Before words and deeds, there was a vast darkness simply known as The Void and at its center sat a single solitary Thought. 

The Void did not speak so the Thought spent its days in silent isolation surrounded by chaos and shadows.  The Thought tried to speak to The Void, but only heard a distorted echo of its own voice bounce back.  One day, tired of being alone, the Thought stirred in the void and reached out to the darkness and where it met The Void a great soundless wind began to blow.

Both The Void and the Thought stared on as the wind picked up speed drawing in some of the heat from Thought and the coldness of The Void into its center.  It churned and turned in upon itself, drawing the bits of the two onlookers into its core where a bright glow began to form.  The glow was streaked with golden rays and silver flashes that became the first light in the dark.  The glow became a glare and both The Void and the Thought backed turned away, blinded by the light.

As they parted the wind slowed and the glare dimmed until the light was no more than a warm glow. The Void and Thought looked back to find that there wasn't one glow but two!  The to approached the pair, careful not to touch each other for fear of what would happen.  As one they looked down at the two points of light that lay nestled together,

One of the pair appeared to be made of silver and diamonds.  The other was of pure gold and studded with rubies.  They lay wrapped in each other’s arms with their eyes shut as if the glare had been much for even them to endure.

Thought looked down and was curious.  This was the first new thing he had ever seen and he longed to wake the pair to see if they would help ease his loneliness.  He carefully reached out to the pair and waited.  When nothing happened he gently shook them awake.

Their eyes opened and stared into the face across from them. In that moment they both vowed without knowing to never let the other go. Thought saw the look in their eyes and was moved.  After moment, It decided to call it Love.  The Thought reached out and touched the minds of the two lights and the word took root in their minds. 

“Love” they said.

Their voices cut through The Void and became the first sound.  They nodded their heads in unison as the word bounced back to them.  Yes, Love sounded like just the word to use.  The Thought laughed to itself as it watched the two lights attempt to rise on wobbly legs.  They helped each other to their feet and their light flared brighter and brighter, each reflecting the glow of the other in rhythms that pulsed in time with their hearts. 

During all of this exchange, The Void maintained its silence and merely looked on.  It continued to keep its own counsel as The Thought scooped the lights up and took them back to the center of Its darkness.  It watched on as the lights pulsed in each other’s embrace careful not to let its mind wander, least Thought grow leery of It’s watchful eyes…

Echoes: Verse 7, Elvira A. Gasser

I have been wondering if I will have reason to say this anytime soon....

Don't Worry My Love....

by Elvira A. Gasser 

My love, our time is coming near
I can't wait until we are together
Sometimes you may feel lonely, but I am here
And I will be your best friend forever
Until the end of time my dear
Until the end of time, I will be here
To hold you in my arms
And kiss your soul
And we can walk holding eachothers hands
I wish you were here right now, my hands are cold
You're my best friend and the lover of my soul
Don't worry my love, the time is almost here
Soon we'll be one flesh, and together we'll grow old
I get desperate sometimes, I know
Because I miss you, my sexy soldier
And my love for you I can't wait to show
Do not worry my soulmate, that we will be together forever.

Under Construction

So, it has been a hot minute since the last time that I posted anything up here.  If you're wondering why please see my post entitled "The Resurrection of Calypso".  Anyway, I have decided to do a new feature, my Under-Construction pieces.  these are poems and short lines that I am working on.  More than any of my other pieces, I WANT PEOPLE TO COMMENT AND RESPOND TO THESE PIECES.  THese are raw poems that are in their infancy.  I am putting them up to see what people think and to get feedback on what I can do with them.  Please feel free to say what you want about them.  Remember, that this is still my damn blog so I will use what I want and ignore the rest.  I will try to at least respond to all comments, but what will make it to the editing table is up to me.  Thanks in advance.

Untitled 1

You step into the room
and my eyes swerve
for a side glance to
enhance my perspective
on this perception
of heaven
that strides, no
glides
as I sigh from the inside
releasing the tension
within and outside
my body.
Then palms meet
great
touch
clutch
and linger
with pssibilites unknown.
Only to part
leaving me alone
lost
unsure of unsure thoughts
about self:
self that was
self that is
and the self I want to be.
Lost for a time only
to meet again
to share a meal
and open the door to
self discovery.
You lead me
palm to palm
touching
clutching
and lingering
through the portal to new
ventures
that start with a kiss
lips on lips
lips on lips
lips on lips
reflections
dancing in dim light.
Angelic fingers
start from the ground
up
tracing the fault lines
of my doubt.
What is this between
He and Me?
This reflection of myself
tht touches
clutches
palm to palm
slides
and glides
while sighing from
my inside
lips to lips
hips to hips
anglic fingers
tracing
possibilites unknown
and bringing me
to joy
to self
to other
only to part
and meet again
What is this thing between
Me and He?
It' is concrete
poured into the falt lines
of my soul
cementing
the self that was
the self that is
the self yet to be
with the reflection
that
is me but not me
that touches
grasps
clasps
slides
glides
and sighs
from my inside
at the possibility.

The Resurrection of Calypso

So for those of you who aren't in the know, my poor MacBook Pro, Calypso finally kicked the bucket.  Her screen had been messed up for a while, but because I work for non-profit pay I didn't have a cool $1,000 just laying around to get her a face lift.  So instead of doing anything about the situation, I grabbed some tape and hoped for the best.

Well, she finally gave up and the screen no longer works.  The hard drive is still in tact though and yesterday I got the brilliant idea to nigga rig this joint and connect the hard drive to an old tv.  Voila.  A brand new makeshift monitor until I can afford to buy  new Mac. 

Yall let's hope she keeps it together for the next two paychecks and my tax return. 

Red Ink, Chapter 1

The lights were dim as I crept into the bedroom, the sound of my feet muffled by the steady beat of the rain outside my window. Despite the downpour outside, I was determined that everything be just right. It had been three months since I last saw Terrell and everything had to be perfect for our reunion. I wanted to call the airline one more time to check and see if his flight was still on time despite the heavy rain and thunder, but I had already called twice and knew I was just anxious. Instead, I turned on a little Erykah Badu, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.

Just as I started to calm my nerves, my cell phone began to ring. Unconsciously, I quickly glanced down to see who was calling. I did not recognize the number, so I immediately pressed ignore. Didn’t they know I was waiting for Terrell to call and let me know he was in a cab and on his way home? I didn’t have time to waste talking to some random ass caller.

I gave up on trying to shake my anticipation and nervously looked around the room, checking everything once more. As I turned around our apartment, my gaze fell on an old picture of us sitting on the dresser.

Terrel was wearing a snug pair of dark blue jeans, a fitted white tee that accented his tight frame, and a trim chocolate sports coat that complimented his caramel complexion. Everything about him dripped of urban sophistication and you couldn’t help but get caught up in his brownie-tinged eyes and ever present smile. Even two years later, a photo was enough to get my blood pumping. With all of that Hershey’s goodness to gaze at, it was easy to overlook the guy standing next to him.

I picked up the frame to get a closer look. My hair was a lot shorter in those days. Just a small neatly trimmed afro; nothing compared to my now shoulder length locks. Clean-shaven except for a well-groomed patch of hair nestled on my chin. Skin the color of roasted almonds, I was all business in my navy blue dress shirt, black slacks, and tie.

My phone began ringing again. I reminded myself that Terrell’s special ring tone was Chrisette Michele’s “Love is You” and quickly preceded to ignore the phone, loosing myself in the picture.

I started to smile to myself as I remembered the day we took the photo. It was the beginning of my junior year of college and I was at a New Student Orientation event, tabling for the Black Student Association. I hated doing these events and would have much rather been at home curled up in a chair with a book and Lauryn Hill playing in the background. I had already been sitting there for two hours, when in walked Terrell.

“Helloooo everyone. My name is Terrell Davis a.k.a. Mr. Personality a.k.a. The Truth. Nice to meet all of y’all,” he declared with a slightly southern drawl.

Conversation stopped as everyone turned to take in our new arrival. To say he woke me up would be an understatement.

I could hear as everyone, myself included, shook their heads and mouthed “This Negro.”

Terrell was not to be deterred though; he confidently walked into the room and proceeded to parade around introducing himself to everyone. I watched as he walked up to each table tossing his brilliant smile and hugs around like M&M’s, allowing them to slowly melt and spread their sweet taste all over the room. I sighed to myself.

I could not stand him.

I can not help but laugh as I recalled that little fact. It’s funny to think about it now, but when I first encountered Terrell he urked my nerves. I generally did not have a problem with people with an abundance of confidence. I was a Black man at an elite university, I was used to encountering people with an over abundance of self-esteem, but I felt Terrell was just being extra and making the rest of us more mild mannered Negroes look bad. I was tired of playing the role of the welcoming upperclassmen and decided to call it quits before I had to deal with another outburst of Mr. Personality.

As I began to pack up my flyers, I was interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. My name is Terrell,” he said with his hand extended.

“Hi,” I replied while silently thanking the powers that be that he didn’t attempt to put me in one of those hugs he was tossing around earlier. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, in case you didn’t notice my mocha complexion, I am a Black student and you seem to be from the Black Student Alliance. I want to know how I can sign-up.”

“Sure, here is our e-mail sign-up sheet,” I responded and pulled out the paperwork I had been putting away. “Let me grab you a pen.”

I was reaching for a pen in my bag when a girl with a camera interrupted us and asked, “Can I take a picture of you two for the paper? We are running a story on diversity programming during New Student Orientation and I need to take a picture of all the ethnic clubs.”

Before I could object Terrell shouted, “Of course, girl.”

He slipped around to my side of the table and put his arm around my waste.  I tried to subtly slip from his grasp, but he had a firm hold on me and I did not want to make a scene.

“How is this?” he asked.

Ring. Ring.

“Shit!” I said to the empty room, my daydream ruined. “Damn phone.”

I set the picture frame back on the dresser and reached for my phone more than a little irritated that my moment of nostalgia was being interrupted.

“Hello. This better be important,” I growled.

“Is this Mr. Dupri?”

“Yes. Who is this?” This had the makings of a telemarketing call and I had no time for that shit tonight. My beau was on his way home.

“Mr. Dupri. Sir, there has been an accident. We are going to need you to come to the hospital.”

My heart froze and the phone tumbled from my hands.

“Mr. Dupri? Mr. Dupri, are you still there sir?”

Snowballs, liquor, and cops...Oh my!

Walks up to street corner.  Looks both ways.

Carefully places wooden soap box down on the ground and climbs on top.

Clears throat.

White people are CRAZZZZZY!

Steps down from soap box.
-----------------------------------------------

I suppose that that first part begs an explanation.  Well it all began when this nameless Negro and my horde of alter egos decided to brave The District's snowpocalypse to have a little fun before I was going to be forced into solitary confinement in my house.  I should have known things were going to be trippy when I got to the metro and the power was out, but they were still letting people come in.   I ignored my inner old Black man also known as  Common Sense and held firmly to my desire to go and shake my groove thing.

20 minutes later I got a call from my friend Culito and was saddened to hear that our rendezvous point was closing early, but would that stop me and my entourage of alternative personalities, I think not.  So, rather than calling it a night I went to my local watering whole.  It was packed, the music was good, and bodies were shaking in ways that made me smile. After a beer or two I gave into the music and got lost in the crowd.  Found some fun dance partners and I let the music and good vibes loosen up some of the tension that had been building up the last few weeks.  Meanwhile my inner old Black Man was getting antsy.

After a few hours, the lights turned back on and the crowd was turned out to a Winter Wonderland. 

With the ground freshly covered in white powder, the folks from the bar did what came natural to them and started a moderately sized snowball fight.  Things were fine and dandy until a police car showed up and for those who know, The District has not had a lot of luck with spontaneous snowball fights and the police.

At first sight of the flashing lights, my inner old Black Man said it was time to wrap shit up and head on across the street to my house, but I was still in a state of euphoria and a little deaf from the music in the bar and I didn't hear him.  When the police showed up, I expected people to just start to disperse and head on home.  It was nearly 2:30 am and with recent history, I was not expecting much resistance from the crowd.  Then I was reminded of the difference between white folks and Negroes.

See (some) white people seem to have an unshakable belief that they can do what ever the hell they want to, whenever they want, and the hell if they are going to be told otherwise.  I am speaking in generalization of course.

*wink*

So armed with snow and a sense of infallibility, several folks decided now would be a good time to curse out the police with a few sprinkled shouts of "pigs".  And of course they weren't going to stop there, they also decided to throw a snowball of two at the cop car and the officers.  A few minutes later 4 more cop cars pulled up.  As you can imagine, my inner old Black Man had said fuck this shit a while a go and left my happy ass looking befuddled at what was unfolding before me.

I was so shocked by the fact that this crowd of drunken white people didn't give a fuck about the police.  Now, I  must admit that my folks work for the Fire Dept. and Police respectively, so I have a  bit of  respect for the boys in blue.  I by no means think that they are always right.  In fact, i hold them to a stricter standard because of my proximity to them.  With that said, I was still taught that as a young Black man, you don't fuck with the police because they will beat, shoot, or arrest your ass without a second thought.  And if our really lucky all three.  That isn't some self imposed myth, it's a simple reality of Negrocity.

After being antagonized by the crowd, the police did what they do and arrested to mofos.  And get this, the crowd had the balls to get pissed off.  I don't get it.

It is one thing if you weren't doing shit and are wrongfully imprisoned or intimidated by the police.  Just ask half the folks in the county lockup who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.   But, do not scream injustice if your ass is in the wrong.  Give that shit a rest.

I have a good deal of white friends, but they tend to display a good deal of common sense.  I know there must be others, they just weren't there last night.  Now if there is anyone out there who can explain to me the interesting phenomenon of (some) white folks not giving a fuck about the police, please let me know.

Meantime, I will try to catch up with my inner old Black Man and teach him how to drunk text, so I can avoid this shit in the future regardless of my state of bliss.

Echoes: Verse 6, Audre Lorde

So, one of my readers called me out on the fact that I had yet to give and Echoes feature to a female poet and I realized they were right. Here is my first attempt to correct that with a poem from one of the fiercest sisters to ever pick-up a pen.

*drum roll*

Power

by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being ready to kill

yourself

instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds

and a dead child dragging his shattered black

face off the edge of my sleep

blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders

is the only liquid for miles

and my stomach

churns at the imagined taste while

my mouth splits into the wetness of his blood

as it sinks into the whiteness

of the desert where I am lost

without imagery or magic

trying to make power out of hatred and destruction

trying to heal my dying son with kisses

only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens

stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood

and a voice said "Die you little motherfucker" and

there are tapes to prove it. At his trial

this policeman said in his own defense

"I didn't notice the size nor nothing else

only the color." And

there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man

with 13 years of police forcing

was set free

by eleven white men who said they were satisfied

justice had been done

and one Black Woman who said

"They convinced me" meaning

they had dragged her 4'10" Black Woman's frame

over the hot coals

of four centuries of white approval

until she let go

the firs real power she ever had

to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch destruction

within me.

But unless I learn to use

the difference between poetry and rhetoric

my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold

or lie limp and useless as a an unconnected wire

and one day I will take my teenaged plug

and connect it to the nearest socket

raping a 85 year old white woman

who is somebody's mother

and as I beat her senseless and set torch to her bed

a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time

"Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

Audre Geraldine Lorde was a critically acclaimed novelist, poet and essayist. She was born on February 18, 1924 in Harlem and died on November 17, 1992. Her parents were immigrants from Granada who seemed to continually plan to return to the Caribbean throughout most of Lorde's childhood. Lorde recalled that as a child, she spoke in poetry. When she couldn't find existing poems that expressed her feelings, she began to write poems at age twelve or thirteen. She attended Hunter College High School and then supported herself with low paying jobs. Her first lesbian affair was with a coworker at a factory in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She attended the National University of Mexico for a year, starting in 1954. Upon her return, she entered the "gay girl" scene in Greenwich Village but was often the only Black woman in the bars. She recalled that she did not try to build ties to the other three or four Black women in the scene as it seemed to threaten their status as exotic outsiders. She began to study at Hunter College, worked as a librarian, and, of course, wrote poetry. She attempted to join the Harlem Writers Guild but the overt homophobia of the group led her to leave. She received a BA in literature and philosophy from Hunter in 1959 and an MLS from Columbia University in 1960.

Lorde, Audre. "Power." The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. New York: W.W. Norton & Comapny, Inc., 1997. p. 215-216. Originally published in Between Our Selves. Eidolon, 1976.

Pen and Paper: Les eaux noires

In tribute to the Saints victory at the Super Bowl I dug up this poem I wrote just after Katrina hit.  We must not forget that there are still those who suffer, still those whose lives were forever altered, and still those in need.  I offer this poem as tribute for those lost in the hopes that by remembering them we can prevent ever seeing such devastation and such blatant disregard for the lives of the poor and colored from ever happening again.

Les eaux noires¹


Black water over jazz
my invisible city          hidden skyline       flowing away
into the sea you go.
I am here Mother.
Maman, ne laissant pas votre enfant.²


Mes frères, mon soeurs, ne vont pas.³
Siblings that share the blood of a vanishing mother
You are with the fled, si vous êtes blanc.⁴
But I, ľenfant foncé⁵, am with the forsaken.

Je suis oublié⁶, by all those I love.
Damned to have the sounds of
sidewalks, levees, and waterways flood my ears;
Ľeau remplissant ma bouche, ma gorge, mes poumons.⁷


Black waters over jazz
once blue and foamy white.
Backland waters, darkened
with my floating flesh.
Into the sea I go
because the white waters have filled my mouth
Ainsi personne ne peut m'entendre et me sauver.⁸


Wait for me.
Si vou plait, attente.⁹
______________________________________
¹ The black waters
²  Mommy, don't leave your baby
³  My brothers, my sisters, don't go
⁴  If you are white
⁵  The dark child
⁶  I am forgotten
⁷  Water filling my mouth, my throat, my lungs
⁸  So nobody can hear and save me
⁹  Please, wait.

Echoes: Verse 5, Paul Laurence Dunbar

Longing
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

If you could sit with me beside
     the sea to-day,
And whisper with me sweetest
     dreaming o'er and o'er;
I think I should not find the
     clouds so dim and gray,
And not so loud the waves com-
    plaining at the shore.

If you could sit with me upon the
    shore to-day,
And hold my hand in yours as in
    the days of old,
I think I should not mind the chill
    baptismal spray,
Nor find my hand and heart and
    all the world so cold.

If you could walk with me upon
    the strand to-day,
And tell me that my longing love
    had won your own,
I think all my sad thoughts would
    then be  put away,
And I could give back laughter
    for the Ocean's moan!

Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 - February 9, 1906) was a seminal African-American poet in the late 19th and early 20th century. Dunbar gained national recognition for his 1896 Lyrics of a Lowly Life. Born in Dayton, Ohio to parents who had escaped from slavery, Dunbar died from tuberculosis at 34.

Dunbar, Paul Laurence.  "Longing."  The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Ed. Joanne M. Braxton.  Charlottesville:  Universty of Virginia Press, 1993.  p. 21. 

Echoes: Verse 4, Michael Knoll

Prison Letter
by Michael Knoll

You ask what it's like here
but there are no words for it.
I answer difficult, painful, that man
die hearing their own voices.  That answer
isn't right though and I tell you now
that prison is a room
where a man waits with his nerves
drawn tight as barbed wire, an afternoon
that continues for months, that rises
around his legs like water
until the man is insane
and thinks the afternoon is a lake:
blue water, whitecaps, an island
where he lies under pale sunlight, one
red gardenia growing from his hands --

But that's not right either.  There are no
flowers in these cells, no water
and I hold nothing in my hands
but fear, what lives
in the absence of light, emptying
from my body to fill the large darkness
rising like water up my legs:

It rises and there are no words for it
though I look for them, and turn
on light and watch it
fall like an open yellow shirt
over black water, the light holding
against the dark for just
an instant: against what trembles
in my throat, a particular fear,
a word I have no words for.

       "After spending seven years in prison I wonder if the sameness of life here is so much different from the sameness which (Wallace) Stevens felt, and which fueled his desire to write.  In one of his poems, 'The Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour,' Stevens speculated that God and Imagination were one.  He envisioned a central imagination, a kind of room, in which all human beings were connected, a place where the candle of the imaginatin shone over the darkness of separation and discontent.  Here, for Stevens, the 'world imagined' was the 'ultimate good,'...
       As it did for Stevens, writing has given me the power to alter the dimensions of this world, to see beyond the myopia of prison into whatever exists beyond.  My poems, most of them, begin with a concrete, literal imge, and, when they work, expand outward to illuminate the territory of the imagination" 'a brief light in a sky above guntowers.'"  - Michael Knoll, May 1983

Knoll, Michael. "Prison Letter." The Light from Another Country: Poetry from American Prisons. Joseph Bruchac. New York: Greenfield Review Press, 1984. Print.

Definitions of Family

Family.

That word is multi-faceted and the people that I have come to associate with it do not all fit the “traditional” western interpretation of the term. So, I thought now would be a good time to introduce those people who make up my Family.  In the weeks and months to come I am sure each of them will have their stories told  But, for now a simple introduction will serve.

In the beginning....

I suppose I should begin with my grandmother Mecca. As her name implies she is the center of my family and the bond that unites us all. No matter where I am in the world, I can turn to her and feel a sense of peace and calm. That is not to say that Mecca is always tranquil. Sometimes she can be as full of rage and turmoil as any of the rest of us. Her past is full of both beauty and struggle, and the years have brought her greater wisdom, if not greater fortune.

It is from Mecca that Isis was born.  (This is my blog and my rules, so please don't try to come at me with the accuracy of my mythology and geographic history.  Thanks.  The Management).  Isis had it pretty rough growing up.  I will probably do a entire post on her alone, but for now I will stick to the basics.  She was the goddess who controlled all the major forces in my life, but like most gods, that also meant she was usually to busy running shit to intervene directly in my life.  It has only been in the last few years that I have begun to understand the mythos of my mother.  To see her as more than figure.  To recognize her as a person.

I have four siblings: Bigger, Blackbird, Pandora, and Confusion.  The boys are older and the girls are young, which leaves me smack dab in the middle.  I shall introduce them in turn.

The Boys

Bigger like his namesake, grew up filled with a rage he didn't quite understand, and thus was not able to fully control.  And like Bigger, he has wound up behind a set of steel bars.  Blackbird is a a pretty slick cat (mixed metaphor, so what bite me).  Unfortunately, Blackbird never really learned how to fly, mostly because people kept his wings clipped.  He never really had a lot of encouragement to succeed and follow his passions because his interest (b-ball and art) were regulated to pipedreams by my kin.  As he has gotten older though, his feathers have grown out and he has begun to test his wings.

The Girls

Pandora was the center of my world growing up and in a lot of ways still is my touchstone for home.  When she was a little girl, I gladly stepped into the role of big brother and her happiness was synonymous with my own.  Sadly as we have grown older, the kindness in our relationship has been replaced by an animosity and combative energy that I struggle to understand, but find myself helpless to resist.  Confusion is the baby and to be honest most of us don't really know what to do with her.  She is really trying to figure herself out and keeps drawing a blank.  I know in the end she will find her way, but in the meantime I worry.

(Side note, both Blackbird and Confusion are really my half cousins, but they were informally adopted by Isis.  Confused yet?)

This is where things get more interesting, because like most members of Negrocity (Negro Society), I entertain a host of play siblings and cousins.  If you don't know what a "play cousin" is here is urban dictionary for you.

1. play cousin
n. someone who you growed up around, who you know like family but ain't related to yaz.

These are my closest friends and confidants and they make up my High Council.

The High Council

I never really thought about it until now, but the Council is pretty much made up of women.  My little band of Amazonians, who give me advice on life.  The High Council is really governed for the most part by Peaches, Black Laces, Bella Bilar, Pinay,  Tigress, Eb, and Profesora.  I met Peaches, Black Laces, and Bella Bilar in my college days and they were a large part of how I made it through.  I really don't see them as much as I would like and have been working on visiting more frequently and I am sure that they are about ready to kick my ass for my negligence.  Pinay, Tigress,  Eb, and Profesora have known me since my Cali days and I can still turn to them to remember the old days and to share in the shit I find myself in now.

There are a handful of others who sometimes attend meetings of the High Council and there are definitely a few new editions that I think will be nominated for lifetime appointments (Pixie and Bubbles for example).  There are also three guys who have been voting members of the High Council from time to time: Waru (The Lost One), Puck (The Betrayer), and Apollo (The Fallen).

So these are my people. The ones who keep me going in more ways than they could possibly imagine.

My Family.

Echoes: Verse 3, Don Charles

Comfort
by Don Charles

When you looked and
          saw my Brown skin
Didn't it make you
         feel uncomfortable?

Didn't you remember that
         old blanket
You used to wrap up in
         when the nights go cold?

Didn't you think about that
         maplewood table
Where you used to sit and
         write letter to your daddy?

Didn't you almost taste that
         sweet gingerbread
Your granny used to make?
         (And you know it was good.)

When you looked and
         saw my Brown eyes
Didn't they look just like
        home?

Don Charles, twenty-nine (at the time this poem was published), lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where he was born and raised.  "My poetry reflects my personal experience as an unemployed gay black man trying to survive in a hostile society.  I'm sexually attracted to other men of color, and not ashamed to say so."

Charles, Don. "Comfort." Brother to Brother: New Writings By Black Gay Men. 1991. Essex Hemphill. Washington: Red Bone Press, 1991. Print.

Pen and Paper: Tryst and Open Letter

Here are two poems on love.  (Valentine's Day is coming up, so give me a break, lol). They sit in balance to one and other I think.  Please leave you're comments (good or bad).  Or better yet, write a poem in response.
_____________________________________________

Tryst

To be held and behold
in the grasp of hands
The floodgates of human desire
unnamed and unmanned
souls burning like cold embers
on the hearth
a breathe away from the flare of
recognition
left to sputter at the futility of
unrealized dreams and half
whispered thoughts,
the sweetest of
lies,  manifest sorrow that words
only begin to encompass
guilt and regret fail
to reflect
the pain of this moment before
illusion gives way to truth
when fond dreams are burned by
first lights fire
fast consumed by the present pressure
for release
an end to delusions of
self and others
and like infinity i move on
only to my beginning
and the ending
of a tryst
that should have never been

_________________________________________

Open Letter

Dear       ,

I sit here waiting
Always waiting
Waiting for the moment you return
With open arms and lips
Waiting
For
Mingled thoughts and tongues
That speak a language
Only two understand
Me
Waiting
For something that exists
Only
In thoughts
I sit
Waiting

With all my heart,

Pen and Paper: "-"

I had a great lunch with a friend today and he reminded me that a poet need not be estranged from his pen for too long.  So, here is an older poem that will be accompanied by a new piece in the morning. 

"-"

The clock struck one and woke me up from my daze
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked down at the blank page
Cursor flashing

Life as a hyphen I begin
But get lost in the space on both ends of the dash
Lost in what it means
To be anything
So wrapped up in the delusions of inclusion that lay
In the union of two words
That do not define me but confine me to an identity
Chanting and chanting

They say sticks and stone make break your bones
But words can ever hurt me
When the
Truth be
Words don’t hurt
They kill
With precision and no shame
Hurled by the mouths of the
Idiots and savants
Equally

Sticks stones bones
Breaking under the weight of a well crafted
Line
Or misused verse cast as a curse
Upon the infidel with nerve
To challenge and end the line with a question mark
-ing time with the passing of each life sacrificed
to un balanced conjunctions of
conflicting assumptions of who I am
imposed by  scribbles on a page

words don’t hurt they kill
ideas
and
dreams
slaughter peoples
and nations
when formed in minds warped by false assumptions
and presumptions
of justice and democracy
in le se faire bureaucracy that
that draw lines between
you, me, and the powers that be
that interconnect the three

Echoes: Verse 2, Jorge Luis Borges

Here is one of my favorite poems and a nice preface to my next post.  I will finish it up tonight and post it later.  I am feeling a little melancholy at the moment and don't feel like sharing the thoughts this poem invokes.  Maybe I will sleep it off.

Amorosa anticipación
Jorge Luís Borges

Ni la intimidad de tu frente clara como una fiesta
ni la costumbre de tu cuerpo, aun misterioso y tácito y de niña,
ni la sucesión de tu vida asumiendo palabras o silencios
serán favor tan misterioso
como mirar tu sueno implicado
en la vigilia de mis brazos.
Virgen milagrosamente otra vez por la virtud absolutoria del sueno,
quieta y resplandeciente como una dicha que la memoria elige,
me darás esa orilla de tu vida que tu misma no tienes.
Arrojado a quietud,
divisare esa playa ultima de tu ser
y te veré por vez primera, quizá,
como Dios ha de verte,
desbaratada la ficción del Tiempo,
sin el amor, sin mi.


----------------------------------------------
(for the non-spanish speakers)

Anticipation of Love
Jorge Luís Borges

Neither the intimacy of your look, your brow fair as a feast day,
nor the favor of your body, still mysterious, reserved, and childlike,
nor what comes to me of your life, settling in words or silence,
will be so mysterious a gift
as the sight of your sleep, enfolded
in the vigil of my arms.
Virgin again, miraculously, by the absolving power of sleep,
quiet and luminous like some happy thing recovered by memory,
you will give me that shore of your life that you yourself do not own.
Cast up into silence
I shall discern that ultimate beach of our being
and see you for the first time, perhaps,
as God must see you—
the fiction of Time destroyed,
free from love, from me.

(transl. by Robert Fitzgerald)

Surprises

Last week I went on a short vacation to visit family and old friends on the left coast.  It had been several months since last I'd seen anyone from my old stomping grounds so I was anticipating a trip full of spontaneous gatherings, excessive photos, and generally good vibes.  For the most part that is what I got.  There were a few exceptions including an awkward day with Waru (more on that later), but by my last day in Cali,  I had escaped any large scale drama and thought I was going to be able to leave with a pocket full of joy.  Enter my sister, Pandora. 

Pandora doesn't always intend to cause trouble, but as her name impies, it usually follows her whether she wants it to or not and this vacation (unfortunately) didn't end up being an exception.  BUt, I get ahead of myself.

On my last night I was planning on a nice night with the women in my family; my mom Isis, my youngest sister Confusion, Pandora, and I were all going to be home for dinner.  My brother's Blackbird and Bigger couldn't make it do to some obligations they couldn't get out of, but I'd spoken with both of them earlier that trip and it was all good.  (Look for a future post for explanations to the family's psuedonyms).  All in all, it was shaping up to be a nice farewell dinner until Pandora thought that this would be a perfect to time to invite my father Red.  

Now, one of my New Year's resolutions this year was to reconnect with one person that has drifted out of my life every month.  It could be someone I got into a fight with and never forgave, a friend who moved away that I don't get to see regularly, or that old mentor that used to inspire me that I kept meaning to write.  It seemed like a relatively simple task, but karma consulted with fate and decided to throw me a curve ball.  I didn't anticipate Red making it to this list.

My father and I have neither spoken nor seen each other in 6 years.  Pretty much the entire time I have lived on the east coast he has been nothing more than a ghost.  Ever since he and Isis got divorced when I was a little kid, he has not been actively involved in my life.  Only slipping in and out, sometimes with years in between.  In the last year or two however, he has been trying to reconnect with me and my siblings.

Personally I stopped looking for a father figure a long time ago and came to resent the notion that I should have to make room for him in my life when he felt it was important.   My mom and Pandora have both been advocates of me establishing a relationship with him, but everytime I asked them (and myself) why should I, all I got was blank stares and vague comments that he is my father and that is reason enough.

I am not sorry to say that I harbor a mix of ambivalence and anger.  The man fucked up and instead of being there for me when I really did need him, he disappeared.  I do not feel like I owe him a damn thing.  Some may say this is a selfish stance, but fuck it.  He was pretty damn selfish when he walked away from his family too.  All I am doing is serving as an agent of karma.

I still remember very vividly the last time I saw him before he went on his first hiatus.  Me and Pandora were maybe 10 and 11 years old respectively and we were waiting outside on my front porch for him to pick us up.  In those days I used to worship that man and was a daddy's boy through and through.   Bags packed two nights before, me and Pandora waited on the porch with great anticipation.

We waited all that morning, skipping breakfast because we didn't want to be running late when he showed up.

We waited into the warm afternoon and started to pick through the snacks my mom had packed for us to take over to his house.  Neither of us wanted to leave the porch in case he'd gotten lost and couldn't remember which house was ours.

We waited as the warmth of the day faded into the creeping chill of the evening.   My sister started to shiver a bit, her jacket in the house (why would we need to wear our jackets during the day), so I draped my arm around her to warm her up.  

I could hear my mother at the door looking out on us huddled on the porch steps.  I turned back to face her as she began to speak and the words dried up in her mouth.   She looked at us in silence and turned away, returning a few moments later with a blanket.

We waited until the street lights came on and my sister gave into the rumble in her stomach and went into the house to grab leftovers.

We became I and still I waited.

Little did I know that I would have to wait for years to come.  Wait for the excuse, the apology, the visit, the call, the letter.  Something, anything to explain why.

I waited for years until I forgot why I was waiting.  The image of the man everyone said I resembled began to blur around the edges and I went back into the house, to the people who loved me and didn't make me wait in the dark.

Pandora didn't mean to bring trouble in her wake and perhaps her forced encounter with Red will lead to a reconciliation in the future.  For now, he can take my place on the porch; I am already home and am done waiting for a ride to see the people I love.