Musical guides:
Lizz Wright's "Salt"
Outside's "the rough and the smooth"
Ephraim Lewis' "Skin"
Cassandra Wilson's "Glamoured"
& Swing Out Sister's "The Living Return"
mood magic:
sage
candlelight only
pen and journal
a place that feels like home
______________________________________
spirit moved me to write this:
last minutes of 2005
overwhelmed by the gift of life
so much that
this may be the least
i have written
about a year so full
life, like jazz
is improvisational
best when we have faith
that our rhythm is guided
by God's grace
by the well-wishes of ancestors
by stubborn belief
in things not seen
i am experiencing
love so fully
i question my comprehension of it
in the years before
i am healthy
and have reason to believe
i will always be
i love that my family
struggles to love me
as unconditionally
as i've only known
to love them
the seeds of prosperity are planted
for the home I will build
for me and mine
i know i can be more courageous
less insecure
live more joyously
shimmy to life's dance
eyes closed and assured
tomorrow will hold me better
than today
i can challenge spaces of fear
so fiercely
that any weapon formed against me
cowers against the fullness
of my shine
this time
there are no explanations
no predictions or claims
just the certainty
that i am loved
that i am love
that i love
that i am
regenerating more of whatever
is the essence of God
in me
i am already allright
will offer more praise
for blessings believed
and even those
not yet received
years removed from any clamour
that i am unworthy
of even the simple joy
of a next breath
i exhale a smile,
my next lullaby,
faith in my loving
the man i have chosen to love
and who patiently loves me
(and well)
i am thankful
for friendships that do not crumble
under the pressure of time
or the wait of distance
so i sing
O Happy Day
and write of
O Dreams no longer deferred
and feel
O what a blessing it is
2 B
2 Believe
2 B Believing in Living
these first minutes of 2006
and then some
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Affection: Too little, Too much?
I grew up in a huge family where, each night, my mother insisted that we give kisses, huggs, and tell each other "I love you". 8 siblings, 17 years, each night.... you do the math. It was more than easy most of the time; effortless when the huggs and warm words come like next breaths. I suppose my mother knew we'd need all this "gushiness" given the economic, social, and psychological barriers to growing up healthy, functional black children in the rural South.
My parents were very affectionate.... when they were (together). Juxtaposed to the bouts of domestic violence we witnessed as often as the slow-dancing or holding, i suppose the warmth witnessed was all the more cherished. I suppose seeing this planted some expectation in lil Tim'm's mind about how things should or shouldn't be.
I remember leaving home for college. the seeming absence of baby bruh or sis "needing" me, feeling comforted and more safe because of me, was emotionally devastating. I sought out ways to fill the void. The best instances of which were endearing friendships with people who became adopted family, given the physical (and sometimes emotional) distance from my own. But there was another side to that affection that, once explored, would lead to even greater complications. The first kiss, the first time that I held someone's hand, the first time I cuddled, it seemed to surpass even the safety i felt from my family in that house off the dirt road in Arkansas. It was the sweetest symbolic gesture and then some.
I suppose it didn't so much matter that the person really loved me or not. I brought a whole range of feelings TO that (e)motion of spooning, cuddling, caressing, and yes, sex. And this is where things get murky: sorting out the distinction between the sign and the signified, the act of affection and the love it represents, is a task that I think i'm still grappling with.
At best, sometimes I provide myself that warmth (I love pillows), or am able meet needs for affection through platonic friends or a special someone. Admittedly, there's something about being a teacher-- about knowing that more than a few students each day will extend arms for a hugg or tell you that they love and appreciate you-- that I like having access to (trust me... I'm probably EXTRA-cautious about THAT boundary). But there's something terribly disturbing to me lately about the "need" for it. When I don't feel I'm getting enough affection in my life, my self-esteem and self-image suffer. So in truth, the affection I experienced as a child has haunted me as both a blessing and a curse.
So at worst, I've invited people to hold me who didn't have the best intentions, or who didn't have intentions at all beyond filling some unidentified void of their own. At worst I've been sexual with people when all I really wanted was to hold someone or be held-- the sense of emotional safety. I figured that sometimes sex was the means to the end. Maybe I saw the cuddle as my reward for being a sexual stud. But I'm older and a bit more self-critical now. I have few issues with saying that it's (only) affection that i desire. But something's got me all stuck on stuck about it-- feeling like a punk or that i'll come across as too needy if I want a hugg that lasts for more than a few seconds.
There's this woman at my job who gives the best huggs; so much that they make me a little uncomfortable. She huggs me and stays and humms... and I really feel the sincerity of it. She makes me miss my mother, and I suppose that's why it bothers me. I'd like to have huggs like that in my life on the daily. Is that being too needy? Should I request them? Is that asking too much?
My dad, interestingly, is more gushy than my mom. He was the pinacle of masculinity for me, and yet so warm and affectionate. I think I'm a lot like him. A punk who gets punked by his own desire for affection. I'd like to learn to be okay with my inheritance, understanding that it requires different things from me depending on the people I'm with. However, I don't like that I've become fearful of asking for it, offering it, even needing it.
A few more considerations:
Should all affection be purposeful? Should it mean something? And what is too much or too little? Is it okay to ask for it? And if you really have to ask for it, then is it "pure"?
I wonder about this as I encounter people in my life, with perhaps different family histories around affection. What is the relationship between what we grow up seeing/experiencing and what we come to expect as adults, especially in our friendships and intimate relationships. When do our own expectations to duplicate what we are accustomed to become selfish and inconsiderate? Or is it about finding people with the same affection-orientation? Personally, I have friends on both sides of the spectrum. I can't say I value the gushy friends more than the anti-cupids.
When my homie Cenzo lived with me, we cared for his two cats. Inky was gushy and cuddled with me while watching basketball or crawled in the bed at night. Ms. Gorgeous was feline queen of the anti-cupids. Yet, when I couldn't find Ms. G around the house, I was as worried as if it were Inky. Gushy wasn't her style. Over time, I came to appreciate how she showed affection: feed her, spank her, a slight touch there, leave her alone (repeat cycle every few hours). LOL. But I think some people are like that. I try not to pity them. LOL
I've been more affectionate than most of the male partners I've had, as affectionate as most of the female partners. I've never felt the need for affection when with women, whereas I always feel I (can) never get enough with guys. Is it a gender thing? Does affection make men feel too vulnerable? Maybe I just haven't dated the non-affectionate women.
The beauty of affection for me is that you CAN feel vulnerable and there's the TRUST and SECURITY that the one who holds, huggs, kisses you.... is really holding it down... they've got your back. And there are times when I shouldn't need that to feel emotionally safe. There are other times when I feel I am lacking far too much of that-- that I've become a wimp to my fear of needing what may, perhaps, be a healthy, daily dose of affection-substance. I am fearful of admitting that I sleep better with it, I wake up better with it, and go about my day stronger with it. And it's not just through the touching, but the sentiment that words can carry: the tone, the inflection, the gestures that complement... can be sunshine where there's little light otherwise.
so what now? I suppose I'm trying to find balance. I'm learning to find affection in ways that I don't traditionally recognize. Sometimes the eyes or the frequency of calls is someone else's equivalent to my huggs and kisses. My current "special-someone" makes me laugh alot, whereas my sense of humor is kinda....well.... of the dry, sarcastic, witty sort. Humor is the glue, I feel, that keeps us most happy, healthy, and optimistic about what we're exploring. I hope to experience a lot more of that. When we're not finding ways to laugh, things are usually tense, dull, unhealthy.
I'm learning to accept that some of the people who've loved me most may not have been the most affectionate... and that maybe I have to open up to seeing things differently, even as I articulate my desire for more physicality and warmth. Yes.... I'm King Tim'm from the land of GUSH. But I'd like to think that there's some space between the "touchy-feelies" and the "anti-cupids" that's a nice happy medium. Finding that balance is what requires communication: finding the courage to explore our affection histories, where we feel they are connected to how we feel about affecton in the present. I'd like to become more comfortable saying what is too little affection for me, and accepting what may be too much for someone else. (And I'm admittedly biased: "too-much affection" sounds like an oxymoron).
and all this "soapboxing" because I hugged a student and her mother today, and wondered if, over these holidays and away from blood-family, I'd have to wait until January to get as gracious an embrace again... the kind offered to me... hands extended... knowing I'll stay, fall into it, enjoy it for more than a few seconds. You know the kind?! Gushy.... like we gushy people like it.
My parents were very affectionate.... when they were (together). Juxtaposed to the bouts of domestic violence we witnessed as often as the slow-dancing or holding, i suppose the warmth witnessed was all the more cherished. I suppose seeing this planted some expectation in lil Tim'm's mind about how things should or shouldn't be.
I remember leaving home for college. the seeming absence of baby bruh or sis "needing" me, feeling comforted and more safe because of me, was emotionally devastating. I sought out ways to fill the void. The best instances of which were endearing friendships with people who became adopted family, given the physical (and sometimes emotional) distance from my own. But there was another side to that affection that, once explored, would lead to even greater complications. The first kiss, the first time that I held someone's hand, the first time I cuddled, it seemed to surpass even the safety i felt from my family in that house off the dirt road in Arkansas. It was the sweetest symbolic gesture and then some.
I suppose it didn't so much matter that the person really loved me or not. I brought a whole range of feelings TO that (e)motion of spooning, cuddling, caressing, and yes, sex. And this is where things get murky: sorting out the distinction between the sign and the signified, the act of affection and the love it represents, is a task that I think i'm still grappling with.
At best, sometimes I provide myself that warmth (I love pillows), or am able meet needs for affection through platonic friends or a special someone. Admittedly, there's something about being a teacher-- about knowing that more than a few students each day will extend arms for a hugg or tell you that they love and appreciate you-- that I like having access to (trust me... I'm probably EXTRA-cautious about THAT boundary). But there's something terribly disturbing to me lately about the "need" for it. When I don't feel I'm getting enough affection in my life, my self-esteem and self-image suffer. So in truth, the affection I experienced as a child has haunted me as both a blessing and a curse.
So at worst, I've invited people to hold me who didn't have the best intentions, or who didn't have intentions at all beyond filling some unidentified void of their own. At worst I've been sexual with people when all I really wanted was to hold someone or be held-- the sense of emotional safety. I figured that sometimes sex was the means to the end. Maybe I saw the cuddle as my reward for being a sexual stud. But I'm older and a bit more self-critical now. I have few issues with saying that it's (only) affection that i desire. But something's got me all stuck on stuck about it-- feeling like a punk or that i'll come across as too needy if I want a hugg that lasts for more than a few seconds.
There's this woman at my job who gives the best huggs; so much that they make me a little uncomfortable. She huggs me and stays and humms... and I really feel the sincerity of it. She makes me miss my mother, and I suppose that's why it bothers me. I'd like to have huggs like that in my life on the daily. Is that being too needy? Should I request them? Is that asking too much?
My dad, interestingly, is more gushy than my mom. He was the pinacle of masculinity for me, and yet so warm and affectionate. I think I'm a lot like him. A punk who gets punked by his own desire for affection. I'd like to learn to be okay with my inheritance, understanding that it requires different things from me depending on the people I'm with. However, I don't like that I've become fearful of asking for it, offering it, even needing it.
A few more considerations:
Should all affection be purposeful? Should it mean something? And what is too much or too little? Is it okay to ask for it? And if you really have to ask for it, then is it "pure"?
I wonder about this as I encounter people in my life, with perhaps different family histories around affection. What is the relationship between what we grow up seeing/experiencing and what we come to expect as adults, especially in our friendships and intimate relationships. When do our own expectations to duplicate what we are accustomed to become selfish and inconsiderate? Or is it about finding people with the same affection-orientation? Personally, I have friends on both sides of the spectrum. I can't say I value the gushy friends more than the anti-cupids.
When my homie Cenzo lived with me, we cared for his two cats. Inky was gushy and cuddled with me while watching basketball or crawled in the bed at night. Ms. Gorgeous was feline queen of the anti-cupids. Yet, when I couldn't find Ms. G around the house, I was as worried as if it were Inky. Gushy wasn't her style. Over time, I came to appreciate how she showed affection: feed her, spank her, a slight touch there, leave her alone (repeat cycle every few hours). LOL. But I think some people are like that. I try not to pity them. LOL
I've been more affectionate than most of the male partners I've had, as affectionate as most of the female partners. I've never felt the need for affection when with women, whereas I always feel I (can) never get enough with guys. Is it a gender thing? Does affection make men feel too vulnerable? Maybe I just haven't dated the non-affectionate women.
The beauty of affection for me is that you CAN feel vulnerable and there's the TRUST and SECURITY that the one who holds, huggs, kisses you.... is really holding it down... they've got your back. And there are times when I shouldn't need that to feel emotionally safe. There are other times when I feel I am lacking far too much of that-- that I've become a wimp to my fear of needing what may, perhaps, be a healthy, daily dose of affection-substance. I am fearful of admitting that I sleep better with it, I wake up better with it, and go about my day stronger with it. And it's not just through the touching, but the sentiment that words can carry: the tone, the inflection, the gestures that complement... can be sunshine where there's little light otherwise.
so what now? I suppose I'm trying to find balance. I'm learning to find affection in ways that I don't traditionally recognize. Sometimes the eyes or the frequency of calls is someone else's equivalent to my huggs and kisses. My current "special-someone" makes me laugh alot, whereas my sense of humor is kinda....well.... of the dry, sarcastic, witty sort. Humor is the glue, I feel, that keeps us most happy, healthy, and optimistic about what we're exploring. I hope to experience a lot more of that. When we're not finding ways to laugh, things are usually tense, dull, unhealthy.
I'm learning to accept that some of the people who've loved me most may not have been the most affectionate... and that maybe I have to open up to seeing things differently, even as I articulate my desire for more physicality and warmth. Yes.... I'm King Tim'm from the land of GUSH. But I'd like to think that there's some space between the "touchy-feelies" and the "anti-cupids" that's a nice happy medium. Finding that balance is what requires communication: finding the courage to explore our affection histories, where we feel they are connected to how we feel about affecton in the present. I'd like to become more comfortable saying what is too little affection for me, and accepting what may be too much for someone else. (And I'm admittedly biased: "too-much affection" sounds like an oxymoron).
and all this "soapboxing" because I hugged a student and her mother today, and wondered if, over these holidays and away from blood-family, I'd have to wait until January to get as gracious an embrace again... the kind offered to me... hands extended... knowing I'll stay, fall into it, enjoy it for more than a few seconds. You know the kind?! Gushy.... like we gushy people like it.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Out the Box in New Jersey!!!
Had an amazingly intense show at the New Jersey Pride Center! Thanks for all who came out to support and show love; and for a special friend who accompanied me on the journey ;-)
There should be an audio recording of the show available of the set really soon. Among the great things that came out of the experience was a few new writings. It's always great to be inspired.
Out the Box
(for Pandora Scooter and my Jersey crew)
i like jewish jokes
(even when I don't quite get them)
i like spaces where white girls
pay homage to Ntozake
where talkers spit on open mics
to get open
where sirens equipped with sound systems
prepare me for the lullaby
the next full moon will echo
i like O.Gs who tell jokes
with the effortlessness
of grandpas greying eyes
i like places that help me feel alive
that make me write love poems
inspired by the breath between
one solstice
and another.
i like the shift of guitar riffs
the humm of acoustic strums
and i like thinking
i have produced, witnessed
the unduplicatable moment
the perfect day
made it permanent
because i dare to dream
ink on page
cuddle my pen
write a poem out the box
to feel the space.
There should be an audio recording of the show available of the set really soon. Among the great things that came out of the experience was a few new writings. It's always great to be inspired.
Out the Box
(for Pandora Scooter and my Jersey crew)
i like jewish jokes
(even when I don't quite get them)
i like spaces where white girls
pay homage to Ntozake
where talkers spit on open mics
to get open
where sirens equipped with sound systems
prepare me for the lullaby
the next full moon will echo
i like O.Gs who tell jokes
with the effortlessness
of grandpas greying eyes
i like places that help me feel alive
that make me write love poems
inspired by the breath between
one solstice
and another.
i like the shift of guitar riffs
the humm of acoustic strums
and i like thinking
i have produced, witnessed
the unduplicatable moment
the perfect day
made it permanent
because i dare to dream
ink on page
cuddle my pen
write a poem out the box
to feel the space.
Friday, December 09, 2005
A Year on DC's FRONT PORCH!
Thanks for supporting the 1st Anniversary of the Front Porch on December 1st (World AIDS Day) held at Busboys and Poets in DC. Stay tuned for news about our new home!!!
December 2004 - June 2005: Mocha Lounge, WDC
July 2005 - November 2005: Cafe Mawonaj, WDC
December 2005 (Anniversary Show): Busboys and Poets, WDC
Next? (We are looking for a place to call home).
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
wasted words?
(something for blog zealots to ponder)
i don't blog everyday.
people say update. update. update.
(they reiterate reiteration)
i say:
words are like minutes,
like last seconds
if you've ever lived like you were dying
you'd want every word
like the minutes or seconds
to matter
to be substantive
weighty
stick to people's ribs
sneak in their blood-memory
hold meaning
like lovers that find their reflection
in a spoon
so I could chat about coaching basketball
or how tired I am after teaching 14 year olds all day
or how much I love waking up to do it again
or the bills I have to postpone
or how I feel I will not have these money woes for long
or why i don't have scrilla to publish my next book
or the updates on the (amazing) love I'm pursuing
or the lessons I'm learning for the first time because I'm learning patience
or how I sometimes think about finishing my Ph.D. (but remember why I'm not)
or what pisses me off about conservatives (or liberals)
or why I miss my family, but feel a need to have distance with them at present
or the next or
but I choose to share
me
when spirit calls me to
share me
when i feel the words
come forth unforced
like minutes or seconds
that remind
I gots time
not to waste time
or words.
feel me?
i don't blog everyday.
people say update. update. update.
(they reiterate reiteration)
i say:
words are like minutes,
like last seconds
if you've ever lived like you were dying
you'd want every word
like the minutes or seconds
to matter
to be substantive
weighty
stick to people's ribs
sneak in their blood-memory
hold meaning
like lovers that find their reflection
in a spoon
so I could chat about coaching basketball
or how tired I am after teaching 14 year olds all day
or how much I love waking up to do it again
or the bills I have to postpone
or how I feel I will not have these money woes for long
or why i don't have scrilla to publish my next book
or the updates on the (amazing) love I'm pursuing
or the lessons I'm learning for the first time because I'm learning patience
or how I sometimes think about finishing my Ph.D. (but remember why I'm not)
or what pisses me off about conservatives (or liberals)
or why I miss my family, but feel a need to have distance with them at present
or the next or
but I choose to share
me
when spirit calls me to
share me
when i feel the words
come forth unforced
like minutes or seconds
that remind
I gots time
not to waste time
or words.
feel me?
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Today is World AIDS Day!
as is every other day that i wake up with its reality...
i am just very thankful to be (still) here. each dose a toast to all i give and share, everyone I love and those who generously love me, each prayer an extension of my faith in the bright future that lies ahead for me.
in light of this, I've been thinking alot about and recontextualizing the lyrics to a song by one of my favorite artists, Omar
www.omarmusic.net
____________________________________
Winner
show me how
I want to make things grow
and I'll live my life
and you can let me know
feel the strength in me
to take the full control
of the trials of my life
until my body's old
I'm a winner (X 4)
i feel it deep inside
i been handed the man's blessing
i had it told to me in truth
gave my life better meaning
many lessons of life
so many well worth teaching
i'm gonna share all i can
or my life ain't worth living
come with me
through life's long corridors
and I'm sure we'll find
one of those secret doors
making sense of time
so that there'll be some more
of that passion in our lives
let everybody know
i'm a winner!
i am just very thankful to be (still) here. each dose a toast to all i give and share, everyone I love and those who generously love me, each prayer an extension of my faith in the bright future that lies ahead for me.
in light of this, I've been thinking alot about and recontextualizing the lyrics to a song by one of my favorite artists, Omar
www.omarmusic.net
____________________________________
Winner
show me how
I want to make things grow
and I'll live my life
and you can let me know
feel the strength in me
to take the full control
of the trials of my life
until my body's old
I'm a winner (X 4)
i feel it deep inside
i been handed the man's blessing
i had it told to me in truth
gave my life better meaning
many lessons of life
so many well worth teaching
i'm gonna share all i can
or my life ain't worth living
come with me
through life's long corridors
and I'm sure we'll find
one of those secret doors
making sense of time
so that there'll be some more
of that passion in our lives
let everybody know
i'm a winner!
Saturday, November 26, 2005
optimist?
(because i believe people can find courage to change)
someone recently said to me:
"that's optimistic of you"
that if i've seen the best of anyone
i hold to it
despite their past,
their struggles to overcome themselves
beyond the ways
fear
shackles people to past pain
despite people's inevitable
imperfection
or their fear of change itself
even when it's for their own good
in spite of the ways that living
and loving this way
has burned me
like a phoenix from ashes
maybe I emerge from the rubble
an optimist
maybe i believe
someone
believes i can live to get 80
be loved as intensely as I love
forgive myself for the ways I fail
to change
be as perfect as I strive to be
find others
as optimistic as me.
someone recently said to me:
"that's optimistic of you"
that if i've seen the best of anyone
i hold to it
despite their past,
their struggles to overcome themselves
beyond the ways
fear
shackles people to past pain
despite people's inevitable
imperfection
or their fear of change itself
even when it's for their own good
in spite of the ways that living
and loving this way
has burned me
like a phoenix from ashes
maybe I emerge from the rubble
an optimist
maybe i believe
someone
believes i can live to get 80
be loved as intensely as I love
forgive myself for the ways I fail
to change
be as perfect as I strive to be
find others
as optimistic as me.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
re verb
i look
he look back
i look away
we see saw
eyes say what
mouths will not
he look again
we get caught
being absent
we stop caring
we be scurred
we re verb
then i call
he don't answer
nigga's busy
he black gypsy
need to be heard
he call back later
i stare at the number
being a hater
i pay back
don't pick up
he wonderin' now
if he messed up
we play these
silly games
we grow closer
we refrain
grown ass men
it's absurd
and these three words
we reverb
we together
we a part
things sabotaged
before things start
needing one another
need our hearts
so they beat
our love sparks
and they flutter
sometimes hurt
and they wonder
why love lurks
left to right
bend and curve
dance like words
we re verb
he look back
i look away
we see saw
eyes say what
mouths will not
he look again
we get caught
being absent
we stop caring
we be scurred
we re verb
then i call
he don't answer
nigga's busy
he black gypsy
need to be heard
he call back later
i stare at the number
being a hater
i pay back
don't pick up
he wonderin' now
if he messed up
we play these
silly games
we grow closer
we refrain
grown ass men
it's absurd
and these three words
we reverb
we together
we a part
things sabotaged
before things start
needing one another
need our hearts
so they beat
our love sparks
and they flutter
sometimes hurt
and they wonder
why love lurks
left to right
bend and curve
dance like words
we re verb
untitled
(for those who remind me that my smile is poetic)
sometimes
i need to pick up the phone
replay messages
remind myself of the way
the moon holds my shadow
remember the way friends smile
stuttering on my name
the ways i manage to be
missed
remembered
cherised
as beautiful
for just being me.
sometimes
my focus is so locus i'm loco
fail to remember what it feels like
to blush
lose track of those who love my scent
my musky cocoa butta frankincense
sometimes i see life
as so urgent
i trip on my own lazily tied shoestrings
longing for the affirmation
of a main stream
then I remember
at any point in a given day
some 14 year old
prefers being taught, my way
some man or woman
adores the way my eyes smile
someone seeking safety
reads my poem in mean while
so I am learning
to remember that I am the polish
for my shine
my confidence? my magnetism
for fingers that find
and push the tension
out of my back
through a tender embrace
sometimes more than that
when I sit still enough
to shake the worry from my frown
fall into arms that hold me up
when I let myself down
and my passion is a wellspring
of hopefulness
for a life so blessed
my smile is the sunshine
for someone upset
my tone is the lullaby
stumping someone's nightmare
my joyfulness is a lighthouse
for souls lost out there
and i am most blessed
when I forget i am
when the burden of my spiriling
about what I can not change
makes me lose sight of
what I can:
i can claim the happiness
the goodness
i so deserve
and make it so
i can remember i am cherished
when I'm feeling most low
sometimes
i need to pick up the phone
replay messages
remind myself of the way
the moon holds my shadow
remember the way friends smile
stuttering on my name
the ways i manage to be
missed
remembered
cherised
as beautiful
for just being me.
sometimes
my focus is so locus i'm loco
fail to remember what it feels like
to blush
lose track of those who love my scent
my musky cocoa butta frankincense
sometimes i see life
as so urgent
i trip on my own lazily tied shoestrings
longing for the affirmation
of a main stream
then I remember
at any point in a given day
some 14 year old
prefers being taught, my way
some man or woman
adores the way my eyes smile
someone seeking safety
reads my poem in mean while
so I am learning
to remember that I am the polish
for my shine
my confidence? my magnetism
for fingers that find
and push the tension
out of my back
through a tender embrace
sometimes more than that
when I sit still enough
to shake the worry from my frown
fall into arms that hold me up
when I let myself down
and my passion is a wellspring
of hopefulness
for a life so blessed
my smile is the sunshine
for someone upset
my tone is the lullaby
stumping someone's nightmare
my joyfulness is a lighthouse
for souls lost out there
and i am most blessed
when I forget i am
when the burden of my spiriling
about what I can not change
makes me lose sight of
what I can:
i can claim the happiness
the goodness
i so deserve
and make it so
i can remember i am cherished
when I'm feeling most low
Monday, October 17, 2005
Creature of Habit
1.
before him
i couldn't stand text messages
preferred the tonal quality
carried in a baritone
but these days letters appear
on cell phone screens
my fingers clumsily return
their reminders of grace
new typing lessons I give myself
because I'm willing to learn
can relish the simple joy of alphabets
arranged to say "home"
without spelling it
i am no teckie
but this device curls my mouth
into grinning
so graciously
that my heart speeds up
eyes sometimes tear with joy
consider how I can offer
a more clever, unexpected reply
make him gushy-mushy too
i'm competitive like that.
2.
before him
i hated to love
father, son, and holy ghost
built a shrine to avoid synagogues
named my own disciples
but these days I pray all times of day
imagine a god I love to love
a savior stronger than pulpit bullshit
an amazing grace
sweeter than the sound
of voices singing their redemption
and there's this substance
more present than things seen
something like spirit
pinching my gut,
ticklin' my heartstrings
tellin' me I'm already alright
guiding me to thanksgiving for family
moving me to bravery
and isn't it ironic
that something deemed a sin
could be the source of my feeling
born again?
3.
before him
i believed that I could control
even my delusions of control
trick my heart into thinking
that not feeling
meant not hurting
these days I open myself
more fully to myself
cry when I feel like it
laugh when it's funny
caress this hurt-so-good
with the same fingertips
that text messages
that clasp hands to pray over meals,
over meds, over these miracles
that are full proof that god is good
and even a creature of habit
can be made to believe again
can find courage to learn
to trust and believe
that things for this "him" I am loving
may have been a little different
before me.
before him
i couldn't stand text messages
preferred the tonal quality
carried in a baritone
but these days letters appear
on cell phone screens
my fingers clumsily return
their reminders of grace
new typing lessons I give myself
because I'm willing to learn
can relish the simple joy of alphabets
arranged to say "home"
without spelling it
i am no teckie
but this device curls my mouth
into grinning
so graciously
that my heart speeds up
eyes sometimes tear with joy
consider how I can offer
a more clever, unexpected reply
make him gushy-mushy too
i'm competitive like that.
2.
before him
i hated to love
father, son, and holy ghost
built a shrine to avoid synagogues
named my own disciples
but these days I pray all times of day
imagine a god I love to love
a savior stronger than pulpit bullshit
an amazing grace
sweeter than the sound
of voices singing their redemption
and there's this substance
more present than things seen
something like spirit
pinching my gut,
ticklin' my heartstrings
tellin' me I'm already alright
guiding me to thanksgiving for family
moving me to bravery
and isn't it ironic
that something deemed a sin
could be the source of my feeling
born again?
3.
before him
i believed that I could control
even my delusions of control
trick my heart into thinking
that not feeling
meant not hurting
these days I open myself
more fully to myself
cry when I feel like it
laugh when it's funny
caress this hurt-so-good
with the same fingertips
that text messages
that clasp hands to pray over meals,
over meds, over these miracles
that are full proof that god is good
and even a creature of habit
can be made to believe again
can find courage to learn
to trust and believe
that things for this "him" I am loving
may have been a little different
before me.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Gumbo
(for those who held me in Jackson, MS)
his palate misses
the 72 hour stew
conjured by warriors
who lay hands on
speak in tongues over
kiss with full lips
share with unsuspecting hearts
gumbo
a displaced reddirter
longs to lick the spoon
savors being so close to home
that he knows not the difference
yes, these are his folks
so he laughs a full laugh
slaps his knees
runs out the room
this kind of happiness
resurrects a child
who disremembers heart-hurt
oft mistaken for Yankee
he comin' back
like a prodigal son
remembering his shine
in order to remember his tongue
thick and drawled out
country with little regard
that there's any other way to be
stirs his sugar tea with knifes
like it's kool-aid
he recalls spirits that speak
through read clay
in Mississippi or Memphis
studies the imprint
as if it were holy script
dark-palms and full noses
have special sensibility
for their own
prophets
he leaves
almost wishing he never came
returns to the concrete cityscape
from whence he came
questioning
why he ever left home
in the first place
if there was possibility
of feeling so full
in the very place he felt so empty
and alone
he remembers their gumbo
prepared by cornfed, cornbread deacons
singin hyms and prayers as grace
he relishes the memory
feeling so warm
stirred and watched with careful eyes
like gumbo
licked off colored boy fingertips
who'll miss his boondock bohemian flavor
as sorely as he misses home
his palate misses
the 72 hour stew
conjured by warriors
who lay hands on
speak in tongues over
kiss with full lips
share with unsuspecting hearts
gumbo
a displaced reddirter
longs to lick the spoon
savors being so close to home
that he knows not the difference
yes, these are his folks
so he laughs a full laugh
slaps his knees
runs out the room
this kind of happiness
resurrects a child
who disremembers heart-hurt
oft mistaken for Yankee
he comin' back
like a prodigal son
remembering his shine
in order to remember his tongue
thick and drawled out
country with little regard
that there's any other way to be
stirs his sugar tea with knifes
like it's kool-aid
he recalls spirits that speak
through read clay
in Mississippi or Memphis
studies the imprint
as if it were holy script
dark-palms and full noses
have special sensibility
for their own
prophets
he leaves
almost wishing he never came
returns to the concrete cityscape
from whence he came
questioning
why he ever left home
in the first place
if there was possibility
of feeling so full
in the very place he felt so empty
and alone
he remembers their gumbo
prepared by cornfed, cornbread deacons
singin hyms and prayers as grace
he relishes the memory
feeling so warm
stirred and watched with careful eyes
like gumbo
licked off colored boy fingertips
who'll miss his boondock bohemian flavor
as sorely as he misses home
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Waking (a work in progress)
Waking up is a Lalah Hathaway ballad serenading a dream through a jammed alarm clock. It mocks her contralto even as it does not disturb its perfection. Waking is looking carefully for just the right moment to go beyond opened eyelids to fuller presence: shower-rain, toothbrush, the ouch of warm feet on cool-morning tile. Waking seemed crudely impossible but necessary, in the way that people sometimes find the courage to die or like taking medicine that makes you sick to keep you from getting sick.
He watched the intervals pass: six-fifty-one, six fifty-five—all the while knowing that his life was fifteen minutes faster than it was supposed to be. He was one of those cats who wanted to outrun the future so that he’d feel safer. He wanted to master the science of time and interaction, so they nothing would catch him off guard. He wanted the calculus of life simplified as a fraction—not half empty or half-full, just half. Just half wouldn’t feel happy or sad, so he would be spared the bite of extremities. Neither heaven nor hell seemed places he’d want to retire his spirit, so he waited a few minutes more before spinning his body around to meet to crisp air that awaiting his nakedness outside the down comforters.
His room was predictable, orderly in a way that masked the dust lingering about the space. It was a conceited IKEA showroom that wanted privacy. He diligently choreographed the space, as stubborn to change as his ears were to Incognito and Maysa’s “Deep Water” on their Positivity CD. There was a disturbing addition to the kind of blues that created more shadow than light in this room without a window. But there was sunlight: his poetry, the shine off his computer screen, pictures of people who loved him dancing about the walls.
Most of the rooms he’d slept in all his life had that same feel—except for the room he shared with his ex. There were lots of things he missed about that room; about having to suspend the certainty of how it'd be found, like the imprint of his lover's nap there upon coming home. Loving somehow helped him get over this delusion of predictability. But that was his old life—it had escaped his consciousness on purpose. He simply disremembered it. Those memories haunted him, reminded him of the ways his heart had tricked or failed him. The guise of cool and resolve has a habit of snapping him awake-- waking him up at three-thirty a.m., reminded that he hates sleeping alone—hates the hollow echo of clock ticking or the couple upstairs stirring into and out of boot-knocking.
He once met a therapist with a crazy theory that super-orderly people create order in spaces to offset the chaos they experience with things they can’t control: who they love, those loud glances at Metro stops, people with intentions to mask evil with blue suits. It simply wasn’t that deep for him. This room, this safe-sanctuary was one of the few things that had never failed him, left him lonely, grown overburdened with his affection.
He watched the intervals pass: six-fifty-one, six fifty-five—all the while knowing that his life was fifteen minutes faster than it was supposed to be. He was one of those cats who wanted to outrun the future so that he’d feel safer. He wanted to master the science of time and interaction, so they nothing would catch him off guard. He wanted the calculus of life simplified as a fraction—not half empty or half-full, just half. Just half wouldn’t feel happy or sad, so he would be spared the bite of extremities. Neither heaven nor hell seemed places he’d want to retire his spirit, so he waited a few minutes more before spinning his body around to meet to crisp air that awaiting his nakedness outside the down comforters.
His room was predictable, orderly in a way that masked the dust lingering about the space. It was a conceited IKEA showroom that wanted privacy. He diligently choreographed the space, as stubborn to change as his ears were to Incognito and Maysa’s “Deep Water” on their Positivity CD. There was a disturbing addition to the kind of blues that created more shadow than light in this room without a window. But there was sunlight: his poetry, the shine off his computer screen, pictures of people who loved him dancing about the walls.
Most of the rooms he’d slept in all his life had that same feel—except for the room he shared with his ex. There were lots of things he missed about that room; about having to suspend the certainty of how it'd be found, like the imprint of his lover's nap there upon coming home. Loving somehow helped him get over this delusion of predictability. But that was his old life—it had escaped his consciousness on purpose. He simply disremembered it. Those memories haunted him, reminded him of the ways his heart had tricked or failed him. The guise of cool and resolve has a habit of snapping him awake-- waking him up at three-thirty a.m., reminded that he hates sleeping alone—hates the hollow echo of clock ticking or the couple upstairs stirring into and out of boot-knocking.
He once met a therapist with a crazy theory that super-orderly people create order in spaces to offset the chaos they experience with things they can’t control: who they love, those loud glances at Metro stops, people with intentions to mask evil with blue suits. It simply wasn’t that deep for him. This room, this safe-sanctuary was one of the few things that had never failed him, left him lonely, grown overburdened with his affection.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Faithful (for charles everick)
in 1970 on this day
a blackboy was born
almost two years later I came
his first permanent gift
an introspective boy-toy
making beats on high chairs
and throwing rattles
at Mr. Rodgers
he'd always pick up
after me
bring whatever i threw
back to me
let me shake and release again
and there were few words
just a double-chin grin
and his joy
at spoiling me
maybe testing his hypothesis
these first experiments
me believing that all good things return
until it was time for him to teach
that few things are forever
so learning early
that many things we love
are unrequited
that just as you begin to trust them
like next breaths
these routines
like habits or heartstrings
almost always break
but some never do
some are special like that
faithful
30 some-odd years later
we exchange as few words
as we did back in the day
me measured by months
and him at two
at 33 and 35
we don't play anymore
I hardly see him
except for in dreams or prayers
yet with no less endearment
than the day I first called him
"brah"
or gave him dimes for nickles
because he said they were smaller
there are things I want
to shake and toss
have him bring them back to me:
memories
of our black boyhood
bicycle gangs and hookey
football and jheri curls
buzzer beaters
fights with niggas
or crushes on girls
adolescent innocence
wrestles with the holy ghost
and there are all those things
I never told him
that i always wanted to
so on this his 35th birthday
i find courage
to shake and toss
news of a new love
hopes of the home I hope to build
evidence of my litany for survival
and all the strength I've gained
from the weak moments
he has, too,
lived through bridges
breaking under pressure
and I am broke
so today I wish for him
a quarterback hail mary
he can catch
run back to me
redeem my faith
that there must be someone
out there
as faithful as he
the first boy
I probably ever loved.
______________________
Happy Birthday Brah!
a blackboy was born
almost two years later I came
his first permanent gift
an introspective boy-toy
making beats on high chairs
and throwing rattles
at Mr. Rodgers
he'd always pick up
after me
bring whatever i threw
back to me
let me shake and release again
and there were few words
just a double-chin grin
and his joy
at spoiling me
maybe testing his hypothesis
these first experiments
me believing that all good things return
until it was time for him to teach
that few things are forever
so learning early
that many things we love
are unrequited
that just as you begin to trust them
like next breaths
these routines
like habits or heartstrings
almost always break
but some never do
some are special like that
faithful
30 some-odd years later
we exchange as few words
as we did back in the day
me measured by months
and him at two
at 33 and 35
we don't play anymore
I hardly see him
except for in dreams or prayers
yet with no less endearment
than the day I first called him
"brah"
or gave him dimes for nickles
because he said they were smaller
there are things I want
to shake and toss
have him bring them back to me:
memories
of our black boyhood
bicycle gangs and hookey
football and jheri curls
buzzer beaters
fights with niggas
or crushes on girls
adolescent innocence
wrestles with the holy ghost
and there are all those things
I never told him
that i always wanted to
so on this his 35th birthday
i find courage
to shake and toss
news of a new love
hopes of the home I hope to build
evidence of my litany for survival
and all the strength I've gained
from the weak moments
he has, too,
lived through bridges
breaking under pressure
and I am broke
so today I wish for him
a quarterback hail mary
he can catch
run back to me
redeem my faith
that there must be someone
out there
as faithful as he
the first boy
I probably ever loved.
______________________
Happy Birthday Brah!
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Marvin K. White's "Dream Book on Water"
because sometimes I'm at a loss of words to describe how I feel about certain things... like the array of emotions, wrongs, bravery, hopes that surround our peoples down in Naw'leans right about now.... i can turn to other word magicians who say it perhaps mo' beautifully than I could have imagined. I'm proud to know Marvin and am one of his students. Enjoy... and remember that as much as they need our charity, they need our belief, our faith, our conviction.
Dream Book on Water
__________________________
Water - if flowing water, such as a river or stream, increased romance.
If water is murky, one is unsure of one's own feelings.
Let us shed tears that celebrate life. Let us do something brave. Let
us do something kind. Let somebody see it. Let our love and our
bravery and our kindness be an island for some soaked southern soul to rest
on. Let our acts impact the universe. Lets remind moon that it can
pull back waters. Ain't nobody powerless in this.
Even if all we got is words.
Even if all we got are bodies which are as much water as the flood.
Even if all we got are prayers.
I hope somebody, somewhere in the South, my recent past, the birth and
burial place of my people, the Whites, the Blows, the Fords, the
Draughns, the Browns, the Broussards, the Sherrills, can feel me comforting
them.
Marvin K. White
Poet, Artist and Arts Organizer
Last Rights(2004 Redbone Press)
Nothin' Ugly Fly(2004 Redbone Press)
www.marvinkwhite.com
Dream Book on Water
__________________________
Water - if flowing water, such as a river or stream, increased romance.
If water is murky, one is unsure of one's own feelings.
Let us shed tears that celebrate life. Let us do something brave. Let
us do something kind. Let somebody see it. Let our love and our
bravery and our kindness be an island for some soaked southern soul to rest
on. Let our acts impact the universe. Lets remind moon that it can
pull back waters. Ain't nobody powerless in this.
Even if all we got is words.
Even if all we got are bodies which are as much water as the flood.
Even if all we got are prayers.
I hope somebody, somewhere in the South, my recent past, the birth and
burial place of my people, the Whites, the Blows, the Fords, the
Draughns, the Browns, the Broussards, the Sherrills, can feel me comforting
them.
Marvin K. White
Poet, Artist and Arts Organizer
Last Rights(2004 Redbone Press)
Nothin' Ugly Fly(2004 Redbone Press)
www.marvinkwhite.com
Monday, August 29, 2005
Coming to Reading....
The first book I ever fully read was the Bible. I am the son of a preacher who shunned all things secular, so our world growing up was filtered through the rigid lens of a circumscribed Christianity. I must have been born a rebel, or became one quite early. Having what seems an early sense of awareness about all things that were wrong with the world-- my family's poverty, racism, my father's righteous patriarchy, and even my sense that who I might choose to love as an adult would deem me a moral criminal-seemed to color the lens through which I read this book that was the meat and potatoes of conversation 7 days a week. I hated this book as much as I loathed my given name. I stuttered on m's and eventually renamed myself. The name Timothy never felt welcome in my mouth; it referenced some biblical apostle who honored the God who hated me, so I got over the speech impediment but changed my name. This practice of deconstructing language to create new language was as much about seeing world beyond the one described at church and family discussions about sinners.
I was a child who loved finding the contradiction in things, because my reality seemed so contradictory. A loving God would not have me and so many others live in such destitution and shame-so this awareness was the foundation for my penchant for literary criticism. I learned to love to read to dismantle and deconstruct. I longed to find the words between the lines, the items that may have been edited out, whatever the author didn't want me to know. I wanted a deeper understanding than the books provided where the fairy tale ended and there was no complexity beyond the joyous redemption of some tragic hero, be it Jesus or Job, Cinderella or Snow White. So I hated most books for whatever ideas I felt they left out.
I don't know what it was about the book “Grendel”, this attempt at giving voice to this creature slain by the mighty Beowolf, but it was among the first book that captured my attention. I wanted to know the story behind the big bad wolf, behind with evil witches, behind Lucifer-wanted them humanized and themselves worthy of redemption, forgiveness, a good life. “Grendel” offered the other story-attempted to give voice to the unnamable, the invisible, the abject, and so I identified with its complex attempt at creating empathy for the “villain”. I wrote my first poetry after reading this book as a young teen. I knew that there must have been other stories that people were writing that were on somebody's “banned” list. Those are the books I wanted to read. Those were the books I wanted to write. I've learned that most of the banned books are, interestingly, also the great books.
I no longer believe that I'm hellbound or that God hates me; though I am not Christian either. It's not my intention to connect my love for literacy to this more painful struggle towards self-acceptance, but it is relevant. When I got to college, I sought out the opinions and ideas that I had been sheltered from for my own “supposed” protection that left me without a lens to clearly see myself-see myself as beautiful, worthy of a good life, capable of being somebody else's hero or “savior”. I am now able to translate this penchant for literary criticism into any and everything I read; so this loathing for force-fed literature (be in the bible, or the canonical works of high school English) enabled me to see all literature as something that would tell a story beyond its actual words, beyond the intention of the author. Reading became a tool for moving hidden, scorned, abject things to spaces of visibility.
As an English teacher, I am often concerned about how to make literature “relevant” to students who often don't see what they are reading as “relevant”. There's a nugget there for everyone, and the task of the good teacher is to help the student get in touch with whatever is said, unsaid, or needs to be said that can transform their world-view. It's kind of like reading the bible these days, without the criminalizing subtext of fire and brimstone, but empowered to look critically at even a biblical apostle like Timothy, and imagine him a beautiful, fallible, stuttering human-trying desperately, like most of us, to find the roadmap to his heaven. Books prior to the “Grendel” moment were essentially the monstrous impositions of the world as other people wanted me to see it-with multiple choice answers about which characters did what when. Boring…. I want the good scandalous stuff; the debate, the devils advocate, the controversy-not so much for the sake of argument, but because somebody somewhere might find themselves in that brave space to speak against what is accepted as normative; and write a new book: a “color purple”, a “giovanni's room”, a “native sun”, a “history or sexuality”, or a “coming to writing”.
How someone's interpretation of a monster thinking, talking, having feeling, could awaken such feelings and a love for literature is perhaps still a bit of an enigma to me. I don't even remember Grendel's author or many of its finite details. But there are lots of other authors, who I may have never found had I not found “Grendel”. No, I am not a monster. Maybe I am just an author seduced by some teacher many moons ago to read this “Grendel” book. Maybe I'm a teacher who will guide some kid who is hiding from themselves, the impetus to be okay with whatever reality they live with, and locate the larger communities of hope waiting for their story to be told.
I was a child who loved finding the contradiction in things, because my reality seemed so contradictory. A loving God would not have me and so many others live in such destitution and shame-so this awareness was the foundation for my penchant for literary criticism. I learned to love to read to dismantle and deconstruct. I longed to find the words between the lines, the items that may have been edited out, whatever the author didn't want me to know. I wanted a deeper understanding than the books provided where the fairy tale ended and there was no complexity beyond the joyous redemption of some tragic hero, be it Jesus or Job, Cinderella or Snow White. So I hated most books for whatever ideas I felt they left out.
I don't know what it was about the book “Grendel”, this attempt at giving voice to this creature slain by the mighty Beowolf, but it was among the first book that captured my attention. I wanted to know the story behind the big bad wolf, behind with evil witches, behind Lucifer-wanted them humanized and themselves worthy of redemption, forgiveness, a good life. “Grendel” offered the other story-attempted to give voice to the unnamable, the invisible, the abject, and so I identified with its complex attempt at creating empathy for the “villain”. I wrote my first poetry after reading this book as a young teen. I knew that there must have been other stories that people were writing that were on somebody's “banned” list. Those are the books I wanted to read. Those were the books I wanted to write. I've learned that most of the banned books are, interestingly, also the great books.
I no longer believe that I'm hellbound or that God hates me; though I am not Christian either. It's not my intention to connect my love for literacy to this more painful struggle towards self-acceptance, but it is relevant. When I got to college, I sought out the opinions and ideas that I had been sheltered from for my own “supposed” protection that left me without a lens to clearly see myself-see myself as beautiful, worthy of a good life, capable of being somebody else's hero or “savior”. I am now able to translate this penchant for literary criticism into any and everything I read; so this loathing for force-fed literature (be in the bible, or the canonical works of high school English) enabled me to see all literature as something that would tell a story beyond its actual words, beyond the intention of the author. Reading became a tool for moving hidden, scorned, abject things to spaces of visibility.
As an English teacher, I am often concerned about how to make literature “relevant” to students who often don't see what they are reading as “relevant”. There's a nugget there for everyone, and the task of the good teacher is to help the student get in touch with whatever is said, unsaid, or needs to be said that can transform their world-view. It's kind of like reading the bible these days, without the criminalizing subtext of fire and brimstone, but empowered to look critically at even a biblical apostle like Timothy, and imagine him a beautiful, fallible, stuttering human-trying desperately, like most of us, to find the roadmap to his heaven. Books prior to the “Grendel” moment were essentially the monstrous impositions of the world as other people wanted me to see it-with multiple choice answers about which characters did what when. Boring…. I want the good scandalous stuff; the debate, the devils advocate, the controversy-not so much for the sake of argument, but because somebody somewhere might find themselves in that brave space to speak against what is accepted as normative; and write a new book: a “color purple”, a “giovanni's room”, a “native sun”, a “history or sexuality”, or a “coming to writing”.
How someone's interpretation of a monster thinking, talking, having feeling, could awaken such feelings and a love for literature is perhaps still a bit of an enigma to me. I don't even remember Grendel's author or many of its finite details. But there are lots of other authors, who I may have never found had I not found “Grendel”. No, I am not a monster. Maybe I am just an author seduced by some teacher many moons ago to read this “Grendel” book. Maybe I'm a teacher who will guide some kid who is hiding from themselves, the impetus to be okay with whatever reality they live with, and locate the larger communities of hope waiting for their story to be told.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Shut UP!
(for eric)
Shut up!
you are wrong about me, nigga!
i don't always say what I feel
sometimes i swallow the words
before they erupt
and the gush flows like lava
sometimes I break the synaptic connection
between my heart and brain
so despite what you think
I don't always say what I feel
nigga!
but I do feel
and I do feel you
so intensely i wish it didn't feel
so full
and sometimes
even when i try to snatch words
out of the air
before they fall on your ears
or sing (a joyful song)
and joke (to mask these tears of joy)
or listen (cuz even our silence is music)
i know I need to hold up
back back
let you build the confidence in me
I have in myself
but sometimes I need you to
Shut Up!
cuz you be wrong about me, nigga!
sometimes
the words come involuntary
like hick-up or ka-choo
they get beyond my intention
to enslave them to my fear
that you will fear this
assurance I'm feeling
this cocky, Shaft-like, Superman
"I gots you, BABY
.....I handles mine!"
so Shut Up!
for as sure as I need to sing
i would never do anything
but want happiness for you
even if it wasn't with me, baby.
so I know you need time
to pace
and be cautious
be silly-fabulous
so that you don't do
what I'm failing so horribly
at doing:
stopping myself from expressing
how much
I adore you.
yes, dear
before you tell me to shut up, nigga?
Shut Up!
Shut up!
you are wrong about me, nigga!
i don't always say what I feel
sometimes i swallow the words
before they erupt
and the gush flows like lava
sometimes I break the synaptic connection
between my heart and brain
so despite what you think
I don't always say what I feel
nigga!
but I do feel
and I do feel you
so intensely i wish it didn't feel
so full
and sometimes
even when i try to snatch words
out of the air
before they fall on your ears
or sing (a joyful song)
and joke (to mask these tears of joy)
or listen (cuz even our silence is music)
i know I need to hold up
back back
let you build the confidence in me
I have in myself
but sometimes I need you to
Shut Up!
cuz you be wrong about me, nigga!
sometimes
the words come involuntary
like hick-up or ka-choo
they get beyond my intention
to enslave them to my fear
that you will fear this
assurance I'm feeling
this cocky, Shaft-like, Superman
"I gots you, BABY
.....I handles mine!"
so Shut Up!
for as sure as I need to sing
i would never do anything
but want happiness for you
even if it wasn't with me, baby.
so I know you need time
to pace
and be cautious
be silly-fabulous
so that you don't do
what I'm failing so horribly
at doing:
stopping myself from expressing
how much
I adore you.
yes, dear
before you tell me to shut up, nigga?
Shut Up!
Thursday, August 11, 2005
The Families we choose, The Family we don't.
i recently found out from my pops that my aunt keeps stirring up my moms emotions by reminding her that I'm going to hell, if they don't get me to convert back to womyn. In all honestly, I'm too old and tired of this (came out at 17, I'm 33). My mom, being the "good Christian" woman she is, loves her son, so wouldn't say a word about this to me.... My mom asked my dad if he could help me change... to which my dad responded... "you have a perfect son who is the way god meant him to be". my father is a minister.
I don't know that I can deal with this familial pity. (interestingly, it only comes from the women in my family. My pops and brothers are, surprisingly, cool as icebergs (we talk about my current relationship, they ask questions, they offer support, they insist on building a relationship with guys I develop a serious interest in... we can all hang out. it's cool.
but the womyn... they're only cool when I'm single and unattached. I guess, in their minds, I'm not "sinning" if it's not active. They've gone as far as to ask me not to come home if with my partner (in the past); and the one time I did, several of the womyn wouldn't shake his hand... one dashed the home with holy water (or something) after. As ridiculous as this may seem to some, ITS INCREDIBLY HURTFUL to experience.
there just comes a point when its not okay to agree to disagree... in particular, when the very fabric of who you are and how you envision your life (with a partner, potentially children, etc...) is seen as an inherent, irreversable, embarrasing flaw/demon/abberation. How am I "shaming" my family because I choose to live honestly? And we wonder why people are DL... If I could do it again, sometimes I wonder.
we've had the conversations before... but I'm just tired of being tired of it now. I want to maintain a realtionship with them, but if they refuse to know who I am, fully, then what's the use? I'm not the 17 year old who left home for college 16 years ago.
Most recently, word got back to me that I was "shaming" the family because of how open I have been in my writing and music about my sexuality, my HIV status, etc...
Just yesterday in NC, I had a great time with my siblings..... and when I'm with the family, we can sing and act a fool and all is cool. But there's a very painful, hurtful gap there... I want more with my family than nostalgic memories. I want a relationship, in particular with the women in my family, where we can deal honestly with my PRESENT. I'm not saying they gotta like it.... I just want them to stop praying and wishing for me to change. It essentially feels like them sayin... "we love everything about you, except (him/that)..." 6 years ago I was given a year if I didn't get on supermeds for HIV. I decided then that to continue to supress me, for peace sake, was no kind of peace at all.
and the love the sinner (and who ain't?) hate the sin (which is?)....
it just don't work for me anymore. My father is a minister in Richmond, VA. who believes in a compassionate, loving ministry that accepts everyone unconditionally. He gets ridiculed for it, but i think it's a way he honors his struggles to see me as the same good black man he raised, even though I aspire a life partnership with a guy.
maybe I'm just asking for a little encouragement. Should I explain to my mother how this makes me feel? I think my one particular womyn in my family is a lesbian who has sacrificed her "life" to live a "good Christian" life... and expects everyone else to. She's vehement and unrelenting about this. I was hospitalized for depression in 2001 after a series of "this is what hell looks like" pamphelts sent me over the edge (and this after a breakup). I don't disrespect her decision to deal with it the way she choses, but to expect the same from me.... and to constantly keep stuff going with family who are struggling to try to accept and love me.... it's really awful.
if i didn't love these women, it wouldn't matter.... but i do.
forgive the rant.
I don't know that I can deal with this familial pity. (interestingly, it only comes from the women in my family. My pops and brothers are, surprisingly, cool as icebergs (we talk about my current relationship, they ask questions, they offer support, they insist on building a relationship with guys I develop a serious interest in... we can all hang out. it's cool.
but the womyn... they're only cool when I'm single and unattached. I guess, in their minds, I'm not "sinning" if it's not active. They've gone as far as to ask me not to come home if with my partner (in the past); and the one time I did, several of the womyn wouldn't shake his hand... one dashed the home with holy water (or something) after. As ridiculous as this may seem to some, ITS INCREDIBLY HURTFUL to experience.
there just comes a point when its not okay to agree to disagree... in particular, when the very fabric of who you are and how you envision your life (with a partner, potentially children, etc...) is seen as an inherent, irreversable, embarrasing flaw/demon/abberation. How am I "shaming" my family because I choose to live honestly? And we wonder why people are DL... If I could do it again, sometimes I wonder.
we've had the conversations before... but I'm just tired of being tired of it now. I want to maintain a realtionship with them, but if they refuse to know who I am, fully, then what's the use? I'm not the 17 year old who left home for college 16 years ago.
Most recently, word got back to me that I was "shaming" the family because of how open I have been in my writing and music about my sexuality, my HIV status, etc...
Just yesterday in NC, I had a great time with my siblings..... and when I'm with the family, we can sing and act a fool and all is cool. But there's a very painful, hurtful gap there... I want more with my family than nostalgic memories. I want a relationship, in particular with the women in my family, where we can deal honestly with my PRESENT. I'm not saying they gotta like it.... I just want them to stop praying and wishing for me to change. It essentially feels like them sayin... "we love everything about you, except (him/that)..." 6 years ago I was given a year if I didn't get on supermeds for HIV. I decided then that to continue to supress me, for peace sake, was no kind of peace at all.
and the love the sinner (and who ain't?) hate the sin (which is?)....
it just don't work for me anymore. My father is a minister in Richmond, VA. who believes in a compassionate, loving ministry that accepts everyone unconditionally. He gets ridiculed for it, but i think it's a way he honors his struggles to see me as the same good black man he raised, even though I aspire a life partnership with a guy.
maybe I'm just asking for a little encouragement. Should I explain to my mother how this makes me feel? I think my one particular womyn in my family is a lesbian who has sacrificed her "life" to live a "good Christian" life... and expects everyone else to. She's vehement and unrelenting about this. I was hospitalized for depression in 2001 after a series of "this is what hell looks like" pamphelts sent me over the edge (and this after a breakup). I don't disrespect her decision to deal with it the way she choses, but to expect the same from me.... and to constantly keep stuff going with family who are struggling to try to accept and love me.... it's really awful.
if i didn't love these women, it wouldn't matter.... but i do.
forgive the rant.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
this brilliant possibility
i don't know what he did
beyond smile
but I'm stuck now
finger flippin through the index of
there'll never be another for me
to imagine the brilliant possibility
not of a lifetime
for we have lived
before there was any we
just the next time
there'll be a next time
to be in his company
cuz, i've learned, loved, and lost
enough to know
to count blessings in single digits
so today
i'm smiling brighter
because I believe he is
today
i'm falling cuz i feel like it
feel like I got wingspan enough
to catch myself
and because I'd lose points with him
if I didn't
i have no explaination
for the way time works
the perfect timing of floodgates opening
just when I've become man enough to cry
and sometimes this current joy is such that
I have no other option:
grab the pillows
hold them against my beating heart
and dream that this feeling will stay
and him too
such sweet syncopation
like the undiscovered harmonies we find
in songs we sentimentally share
that all the sudden sound different
such easy listening
and perhaps the greatest joy we've known
is waiting for our courage to be shown
so I'm here
chest stuck out
willing to go to war
in order to keep feeling
this feeling
this brilliant possibility
so check it...
i'll continue to bask in the glow
of this gem I've found
til it loses it's shine
even then I'll spit shine and refine
for time is the good counsel of wine
and I've willed this joy in heart and mind
during heart-hurts and romantic decline
when I could not find the will to be kind
especially to myself
so unready for the good loving
of anyone else
but that was yesterday
and today,
i'll remind this man in whatever ways i can
that this is worth the wait,
these perfect imperfections
piecing this puzzle together
and i'll continue to remind myself
that this feels so good
because I've longed for it so
because my eyes long for tears of joy
because they river down my face
and the pain, the wait, make sense
the hurt, the loneliness I remember
so that I can forget it
all the sudden, make sense
and if in just a few short days
his smile can make me brave enough to say
I wanna be stronger than past pain
stripped down and bare
unscripted and adoring like anyone who sees
these eyes on him
then it is nothing short of a miracle
that has patiently been waiting
for the right time
to reveal itself to me
no, I am no longer afraid to see
this brilliant possibility
beyond smile
but I'm stuck now
finger flippin through the index of
there'll never be another for me
to imagine the brilliant possibility
not of a lifetime
for we have lived
before there was any we
just the next time
there'll be a next time
to be in his company
cuz, i've learned, loved, and lost
enough to know
to count blessings in single digits
so today
i'm smiling brighter
because I believe he is
today
i'm falling cuz i feel like it
feel like I got wingspan enough
to catch myself
and because I'd lose points with him
if I didn't
i have no explaination
for the way time works
the perfect timing of floodgates opening
just when I've become man enough to cry
and sometimes this current joy is such that
I have no other option:
grab the pillows
hold them against my beating heart
and dream that this feeling will stay
and him too
such sweet syncopation
like the undiscovered harmonies we find
in songs we sentimentally share
that all the sudden sound different
such easy listening
and perhaps the greatest joy we've known
is waiting for our courage to be shown
so I'm here
chest stuck out
willing to go to war
in order to keep feeling
this feeling
this brilliant possibility
so check it...
i'll continue to bask in the glow
of this gem I've found
til it loses it's shine
even then I'll spit shine and refine
for time is the good counsel of wine
and I've willed this joy in heart and mind
during heart-hurts and romantic decline
when I could not find the will to be kind
especially to myself
so unready for the good loving
of anyone else
but that was yesterday
and today,
i'll remind this man in whatever ways i can
that this is worth the wait,
these perfect imperfections
piecing this puzzle together
and i'll continue to remind myself
that this feels so good
because I've longed for it so
because my eyes long for tears of joy
because they river down my face
and the pain, the wait, make sense
the hurt, the loneliness I remember
so that I can forget it
all the sudden, make sense
and if in just a few short days
his smile can make me brave enough to say
I wanna be stronger than past pain
stripped down and bare
unscripted and adoring like anyone who sees
these eyes on him
then it is nothing short of a miracle
that has patiently been waiting
for the right time
to reveal itself to me
no, I am no longer afraid to see
this brilliant possibility
the healers
(for zaki, aunt everlean, ivah, marcus and countless others)
i pray that we remember
the lessons we were taught by healers
when the time comes
for them to be healed
for I know black womyn
so fierce in their loving
that it burdens the body
the excesses of their love
bleed beyond their poetry
beyond the kitchen scents they conjure up
beyond the hugging they do with eyes
like when they start to miss you
before you leave
so i am saying a prayer
for these womyn who weep sometimes in silence
that some of the courage they'll need
to get past these uncertain diagnoses
these little lumps
that threaten to spread
that lurk like doubt does in our heads
until carved out
when we sometimes
have to carve out space
between the rock and hard space
i pray our prayers will be enough
to heal healers.
yes, I hope for the leap of faith
that those who love the healers must take
to get beyond these hurdles
be strong for womyn who've shown
nothing but strength
then we can grant them permission to be
scared, weak, afriad
because we are stong enough
not to be
for their sake
because we believe in miracles
blessed as holy water
sacred as olive oil
on pentecostal foreheads
because we were taught well by womyn
who dare to envision our safety
so fiercely
they make it so
yes, i pray that we remember
the lessons we were taught by healers
when the time comes
for them to be healed
i pray that we remember
the lessons we were taught by healers
when the time comes
for them to be healed
for I know black womyn
so fierce in their loving
that it burdens the body
the excesses of their love
bleed beyond their poetry
beyond the kitchen scents they conjure up
beyond the hugging they do with eyes
like when they start to miss you
before you leave
so i am saying a prayer
for these womyn who weep sometimes in silence
that some of the courage they'll need
to get past these uncertain diagnoses
these little lumps
that threaten to spread
that lurk like doubt does in our heads
until carved out
when we sometimes
have to carve out space
between the rock and hard space
i pray our prayers will be enough
to heal healers.
yes, I hope for the leap of faith
that those who love the healers must take
to get beyond these hurdles
be strong for womyn who've shown
nothing but strength
then we can grant them permission to be
scared, weak, afriad
because we are stong enough
not to be
for their sake
because we believe in miracles
blessed as holy water
sacred as olive oil
on pentecostal foreheads
because we were taught well by womyn
who dare to envision our safety
so fiercely
they make it so
yes, i pray that we remember
the lessons we were taught by healers
when the time comes
for them to be healed
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Ever crushed on somebody so hard it hurt....?
I met someone this weekend and there's a pain in my chest that won't go away. I always seem to get stuck there, only to get cold feet or see a red flag, whichever comes first. at present, I'm just hoping to hear from him again today.
so I never reported back about the shows in Chicago. Much love there... I did a Black Pride Conference Workshop, a poetry SLAM (judge and performer), a park festival, and brought my "Front Porch" event to Chicago's Spoken Word Cafe. Time with my boy Ernest (ATL) was nice, though I sense at this point that he has interpreted it differently. I suppose it's better to sort this kind of thing out early in the exploration rather than later. no hard feelings. we are who we be; and I've no apologies about being me. He's a good guy. I'm happy for the time there we shared.
Also hung out with some okayplayers "in the life" in Chi:
www.okayplayer.com
ahmsofunky, sonjevity, tyler madison, unique1ne, and some other fly peeps from Lalah Hathaway's PANK room, like Dreadlock, DMoSoul, Controversy, and NewKeith. I'm so fortunate to meet some of the people I do... and, more than this, have them respect the legacy I'm building, word by word.
so then i returned to DC...and it's sort of weird. I started a new job teaching at Cesar Chavez High School for Public Policy it seems hours after I returned from Chi (July 4th, bombs bursting in air, and ain't I proud to be an American?! yeah, yeah, yeah).
The school seems pretty cool:
www.cesarchavezhs.org
It's a professional shift in many ways, but it's where my heart is. It's also a pay cut, but I really enjoy it. I don't think i would have accepted any of the jobs I've had if it was only about money. I'm glad for people like us with "madd" ability but who sometimes choose unpaved paths where lost souls require our guidance to build their bridges and pathways. It ain't a breeze. I've been having some difficulty adjusting to the early mornings, because I'm a night owl (6+ years of graduate school will do that)... so it's terribly hard for me to go to bed early... I stress about not being sleepy and then that makes it worse. But I'm excited about greeting the students and opening their minds and hearts to especially their own brilliance. My sense is that the expectations for these students are low; and I honestly have some (racialized) concerns about that... but I push my students, and most of them are really rising to the challenge or exceeding it. I think they know that I'm fun guy, but expect a lot. It's a good place for me now.
It's funny how just a week into teaching the word "fag" flies out of somebody's mouth, and you're in that position of bursting the closet door at school. I didn't "come out", I just offered a lesson on the origins of the term and the bigotry that compliments it. My students don't know I'm gay (unless they're reading my blog or website. LOL) and there's been plenty of evidence of this: "Mr. West... you're such a sensitive, good guy. The womyn must be crazy about you." Mr. West "that's cool that you don't hate gay people". Lil man felt horrible and apologized to the class. He didn't mean any harm. Some would have sent him to the detention with no real engagement of the incognizance of his slip; and the word was targeted at no one.
Yes, it's Mr. West. The tough-guy, sensitive teacher with the bleeding he-art. The womyn are crazy about me... and so are lots of the guys. LOL. I'm sure I'll cross that bridge soon. I'm a better teacher when I'm "out", but don't care to "prompt" the conversation or make it an "issue" worthy of discussion. It's simply a fact of who I am... and if and when the right conversation arrives, I'll deal with it appropriately and professionally.
so my birthday was actually Wednesday (almost a week ago), and because people knew I was celebrating it at the July Front Porch (July 7th), it turned out to be a rather depressing and uneventful day. I waited at home for somebody to actually call and drag me out of the house (a movie, a drink, somethin).... and no one did... at least no one who I expected or wanted to call. Sometimes I can be oddly passive/aggressive about my desire for good/loving company. My Oakland people know this, so a few good hours with no contact and them nukkas gone be banging on my door. LOL. I miss that. I miss being missed with that level of urgency.
Lately I've been wanting more substantive, quality contact.... or prefer to be alone altogether. I like my time alone.... but the relationship bugg is biting as strong as ever. I desire the consistency of a voice that I believe has my best interests at heart... and without condition. I'm open to that now... but once and again i meet a cutie, and the red flag goes a waving.... and I run back inside my shell and say.... "oh, hells no!" I don't want anything (again) if it doesn't feel good. Why do people who want to be involved thrive on things like guilt, manipulation, shame, and drama? Sorry... it's just not the way I wanna do things anymore. I believe that things can be happy, supportive, communicative, and with mutual understanding and trust in people's intentions (even or especially where words or actions fail..... because they almost always do... and I want a love that respects my intentions).
so..... in other, mushy, platonic-friend news, my boy Derrick Stubberfield had a little birthday gathering for me on Saturday (July 9th). It's nice to spend time around people who you don't necessarily see as often as you'd like, but whose friendship purely shows evidence of its rootedness. We could have been at a mall in Durham as college boyz, were it not for my amassing frame and daddy embellishments. D. hasn't changed a bit... and that's a good thing. It was good that Cenzo and Chad came through... and another special someone too, though I was honestly faced with the uncomfortable reality that some affections I have will always remain unrequited. I wondered what that does to the heart, if you hang on for too long. Is it like Hughes' dream deferred? I want wine these days, not raisins. I want the sweet stuff that is the reward of my time, patience, and integrity; not the quick fix sweetness the armored knight provides-- his fleeting presence a mere reminder of the perverse inadequacy of his absence. I want the stuff that sticks and that I think about all day... and that gives me focus in both work and play. I want the perfect timing the cosmos will provide, when I'll ask him out for a simple meal... and give in to the ghosts of the poems I romance... and open up enough to ask "can I see, speak, share some air with you tomorrow, or the next day? can I call you to say goodnight or good morning?".... And when it happens I think I'll cry... and be okay about that.
the thought alone, nearly brings me to tears. cuz it's been years... and I've been through some shit i haven't had the courage to talk about. and some who I've loved the most might suggest that I didn't love hard at all...
nonetheless, there's somethign about this present, this cancerian season that is giving me courage to imagine I have wings for this jump...
and fall.
ya'll will all know when I have. I have never been able to keep good love a secret. and I've been quiet, except for the muse of a possibility here or there, for too long.
it's time. and I'm claiming it to the universe.
so I never reported back about the shows in Chicago. Much love there... I did a Black Pride Conference Workshop, a poetry SLAM (judge and performer), a park festival, and brought my "Front Porch" event to Chicago's Spoken Word Cafe. Time with my boy Ernest (ATL) was nice, though I sense at this point that he has interpreted it differently. I suppose it's better to sort this kind of thing out early in the exploration rather than later. no hard feelings. we are who we be; and I've no apologies about being me. He's a good guy. I'm happy for the time there we shared.
Also hung out with some okayplayers "in the life" in Chi:
www.okayplayer.com
ahmsofunky, sonjevity, tyler madison, unique1ne, and some other fly peeps from Lalah Hathaway's PANK room, like Dreadlock, DMoSoul, Controversy, and NewKeith. I'm so fortunate to meet some of the people I do... and, more than this, have them respect the legacy I'm building, word by word.
so then i returned to DC...and it's sort of weird. I started a new job teaching at Cesar Chavez High School for Public Policy it seems hours after I returned from Chi (July 4th, bombs bursting in air, and ain't I proud to be an American?! yeah, yeah, yeah).
The school seems pretty cool:
www.cesarchavezhs.org
It's a professional shift in many ways, but it's where my heart is. It's also a pay cut, but I really enjoy it. I don't think i would have accepted any of the jobs I've had if it was only about money. I'm glad for people like us with "madd" ability but who sometimes choose unpaved paths where lost souls require our guidance to build their bridges and pathways. It ain't a breeze. I've been having some difficulty adjusting to the early mornings, because I'm a night owl (6+ years of graduate school will do that)... so it's terribly hard for me to go to bed early... I stress about not being sleepy and then that makes it worse. But I'm excited about greeting the students and opening their minds and hearts to especially their own brilliance. My sense is that the expectations for these students are low; and I honestly have some (racialized) concerns about that... but I push my students, and most of them are really rising to the challenge or exceeding it. I think they know that I'm fun guy, but expect a lot. It's a good place for me now.
It's funny how just a week into teaching the word "fag" flies out of somebody's mouth, and you're in that position of bursting the closet door at school. I didn't "come out", I just offered a lesson on the origins of the term and the bigotry that compliments it. My students don't know I'm gay (unless they're reading my blog or website. LOL) and there's been plenty of evidence of this: "Mr. West... you're such a sensitive, good guy. The womyn must be crazy about you." Mr. West "that's cool that you don't hate gay people". Lil man felt horrible and apologized to the class. He didn't mean any harm. Some would have sent him to the detention with no real engagement of the incognizance of his slip; and the word was targeted at no one.
Yes, it's Mr. West. The tough-guy, sensitive teacher with the bleeding he-art. The womyn are crazy about me... and so are lots of the guys. LOL. I'm sure I'll cross that bridge soon. I'm a better teacher when I'm "out", but don't care to "prompt" the conversation or make it an "issue" worthy of discussion. It's simply a fact of who I am... and if and when the right conversation arrives, I'll deal with it appropriately and professionally.
so my birthday was actually Wednesday (almost a week ago), and because people knew I was celebrating it at the July Front Porch (July 7th), it turned out to be a rather depressing and uneventful day. I waited at home for somebody to actually call and drag me out of the house (a movie, a drink, somethin).... and no one did... at least no one who I expected or wanted to call. Sometimes I can be oddly passive/aggressive about my desire for good/loving company. My Oakland people know this, so a few good hours with no contact and them nukkas gone be banging on my door. LOL. I miss that. I miss being missed with that level of urgency.
Lately I've been wanting more substantive, quality contact.... or prefer to be alone altogether. I like my time alone.... but the relationship bugg is biting as strong as ever. I desire the consistency of a voice that I believe has my best interests at heart... and without condition. I'm open to that now... but once and again i meet a cutie, and the red flag goes a waving.... and I run back inside my shell and say.... "oh, hells no!" I don't want anything (again) if it doesn't feel good. Why do people who want to be involved thrive on things like guilt, manipulation, shame, and drama? Sorry... it's just not the way I wanna do things anymore. I believe that things can be happy, supportive, communicative, and with mutual understanding and trust in people's intentions (even or especially where words or actions fail..... because they almost always do... and I want a love that respects my intentions).
so..... in other, mushy, platonic-friend news, my boy Derrick Stubberfield had a little birthday gathering for me on Saturday (July 9th). It's nice to spend time around people who you don't necessarily see as often as you'd like, but whose friendship purely shows evidence of its rootedness. We could have been at a mall in Durham as college boyz, were it not for my amassing frame and daddy embellishments. D. hasn't changed a bit... and that's a good thing. It was good that Cenzo and Chad came through... and another special someone too, though I was honestly faced with the uncomfortable reality that some affections I have will always remain unrequited. I wondered what that does to the heart, if you hang on for too long. Is it like Hughes' dream deferred? I want wine these days, not raisins. I want the sweet stuff that is the reward of my time, patience, and integrity; not the quick fix sweetness the armored knight provides-- his fleeting presence a mere reminder of the perverse inadequacy of his absence. I want the stuff that sticks and that I think about all day... and that gives me focus in both work and play. I want the perfect timing the cosmos will provide, when I'll ask him out for a simple meal... and give in to the ghosts of the poems I romance... and open up enough to ask "can I see, speak, share some air with you tomorrow, or the next day? can I call you to say goodnight or good morning?".... And when it happens I think I'll cry... and be okay about that.
the thought alone, nearly brings me to tears. cuz it's been years... and I've been through some shit i haven't had the courage to talk about. and some who I've loved the most might suggest that I didn't love hard at all...
nonetheless, there's somethign about this present, this cancerian season that is giving me courage to imagine I have wings for this jump...
and fall.
ya'll will all know when I have. I have never been able to keep good love a secret. and I've been quiet, except for the muse of a possibility here or there, for too long.
it's time. and I'm claiming it to the universe.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
So I turned 33 today!
not sure how I feel. mostly good. wrote something playful:
33 is numerical matrix miracle
afterglow post-sex bedsheet material
almost as seductively spiritual
as lexicon diaries i scan for d'lyricals
my nukkas suggest that sheddin th cynicals
provides half a chance romance to dance
flipped versatile as my b-boy stance
banji realness to house beatz: now prance!
open corner-kissed by cupid's shadow dance
a rise in the pants upon his suggestive glance
i'm just a flirt, there's no need to advance
heart's been safer feeling that feeling I've banned
cupid's a crunk ass nukka, no bow and arrow
just a heart transplant for reddirter's sorrow
my third eye remains keenly aware of this tension
hopes that someday I live to embrace my redemption
yes I want the wedding the cake and the kids
yes I want due props for my reddirt biz
Osun tells me that if I hold out and just LIVE
I'll receive all the he-art, I so freely give
a keystyle for friendz who inspire my smile,
know the source of my pain is real, not a style
and who'll help me to 66, cherished memories filed
i plan to get there, stay near me a while...
Love ALL Ya'll NUKKAS!
33 is numerical matrix miracle
afterglow post-sex bedsheet material
almost as seductively spiritual
as lexicon diaries i scan for d'lyricals
my nukkas suggest that sheddin th cynicals
provides half a chance romance to dance
flipped versatile as my b-boy stance
banji realness to house beatz: now prance!
open corner-kissed by cupid's shadow dance
a rise in the pants upon his suggestive glance
i'm just a flirt, there's no need to advance
heart's been safer feeling that feeling I've banned
cupid's a crunk ass nukka, no bow and arrow
just a heart transplant for reddirter's sorrow
my third eye remains keenly aware of this tension
hopes that someday I live to embrace my redemption
yes I want the wedding the cake and the kids
yes I want due props for my reddirt biz
Osun tells me that if I hold out and just LIVE
I'll receive all the he-art, I so freely give
a keystyle for friendz who inspire my smile,
know the source of my pain is real, not a style
and who'll help me to 66, cherished memories filed
i plan to get there, stay near me a while...
Love ALL Ya'll NUKKAS!
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Okay.... So I'm still missing relationships. Notes on The Perfect Partner.
I think that finding the perfect partner is about
first learning to be the perfect partner... even
without one.
I'd have to say that I'm probably the most optimistic
that I've been all my life about the prospect of
sharing life with someone. Namely because I'm having
one of the greatest relationship "vacations" ever
(going on 3 years). Yeah, for some of you that's
nothing, but here's the context. I'm one of those cats
who loves to be in love. I spent the late part of my
teens through most of my 20s being a serial
monogamist... but after some very painful break-ups
(all minimized as such cuz I'm not the weeping type)
I've taken some time to re-evaluate my issues, my
expectations, the choices I've made when considering
being involved with black men.
When I've fallen, I fall hard. I'm the kind of brotha
that can't imagine being in love with a brotha and not
wanting my mama and the whole world to know it. It's
kinda complicated being a hip hop/poetry boho
basketball fag with as many straight friends as gay
ones and dating in this culture where black gay
masculinity is so perversely aligned with DL. Being
masculine doesn't make you DL. You don't HAVE to hide
it, you CHOOSE to (and sometimes for good reason, so
no hating there). All that to say...
I think that my next partner will emerge from a number
of the men I've met over the past few years who have
been consistent, warm, sometimes sexual, sometimes
not, honest in ways we're conditioned not to be,
exploratory in terms of their notions of what a
relationship between two people can involve (e.g.,
other people, children, etc...). Most importantly,
loving me won't be the shield that protects him from
more deep seated self-esteem issues. I have been the
psychoanalysit hubby before who helps my partner come
to "vast realizations" about his life and experience
"immense personal growth". I became revered. it made
me less sexy. damn intense and spiritual... but not
the exciting cat with the mean mugg in the club he
pleaded with to smile.
We don't arrive perfect, but we can at least have a
sense of what our issues are and be in process. I
think it's sexy for man to be real in that way. I
have met very few who bear their souls without the
fear of rejection. many of us hide behind templates
for relationships that were never intended for black
men who love each other in the first place. I dare to
venture beyond those confines to a deeper, spiritual
sharing... but it's not about making somebody feel
warm-fuzzy. It's about safety. It's revealing who I
really am... and not holding back for fear of losing
someone. it's about being too busy trying to love
dude that it hasn't occured to me that i might lose
him. And i have before... in that same way. But i
wouldn't do it any differently. so sometimes I'm too
out, or too poz, or too social, or too struggling
artist for some brothas looking for their Huxtabellian
relationship... and I've been there and done that, so
I'm cool.
I'd pretty much been in jaded space for some time...
and it's been a little off-putting when I've met
brothas in DC who are like "all you need is a brotha
who gone love you right" (as if I've never heard that
before or missed the pickup line in cheesy
Blaxploitation sitcom). They are seriously on some
instant lover shit like it's instant oatmeal. So I
back back to working on nurturing the friendships i
have with black men. Most are platonic, some are a
little more. I realized that I'd fallen in love with
men I didn't particularly like. I realized that
sexual chemistry can not alone keep a relationship
going. And i begin to be real about my needs for
intimacy and affection. If I'm feeling lonely, it
doesn't mean I want a relationship... maybe just a
cuddle or some company. I have friends who I can get
that from... (and then some, with some). I've found
that a man who is a good friend to his friends will
more likely be a good lover... and one with few
friends, or who "can't stand" every other person at
the damn club... I'm scurred of them...
Okay.... before the monogamy/"we're just like straight
people, just gay" zealots come out of the batcave with
that ridiculous argument and call me ho ho ho, like
it's Christmas Eve, consider this: I'm on the verge
of turning 33, well-educated, half-way attractive,
POZ, out of the closet, and a damn beast in the
bedroom..., praise Jebus. none of those are changing
anytime soon and some are essential to who I am. So
am I concerned about growing old and single? No.
While I have my moments now when I miss the focus and
clarity sometimes provided with a life-partner (i'm
damn good alone, even better when a brotha's lookin
out for me), I've found a certain peace of mind and
spirit in just doing me... and knowing that when he
comes, I'll know. He won't read off his resume or
boast about how much better he gone be that I've ever
experienced, he'll reciprocate a warmth and patience
that says "yeah, I'm willing to take time with this,
I'm a little anxious too; but damnit, we're both
falling, and I'm willing to float under this parachute
as long as you'll let me" (the proverbial parachute
is: context, timing, moment, chemistry, and emotional
safety granted to those patient enough to have it
appear. it takes time to build a parachute you can
trust will keep you safe in the fall).
I know. It sounds more warm-fuzzy than me on hip hop
stages or basketball courts (grrrrr. don't tell my
homies, yo.). but deep down, I want it again... and i
think I'll have it too... and it won't be scary. no
more fear-based love for me. it'll be easy because
there's nothing that makes me more proud than sharing
my life with him and knowing I'm getting a damn good
deal too. it'll be a love grounded in freedom not
restriction. no room for jealousy. I'll long to love
all that he wants to be an do, inasmuch as he returns
the same. It's a concept called "compersion"...
pretty interesting if you google it. I think it was
used in the batman movie and I plan to go back to see
if I heard it right (plus, it was a damn good BATMAN).
Allright, Tim'm... .shut up!
(now if i could only believe what i write beyond the
writing of it. There's this notion in philosophy
called interpellation where the thing itself becomes
actualized because it was spoken, claimed. black
grandmas would just say "claim it"... like saying "I
do", and really meaning it. So I'm claiming it...
there's just no urgency. It'll be damn good and more
lasting than those times before, so I welcome his
patience in showing up for me, and letting me reveal
myself.
(verklempt. grrrrrr. butch it up, nukka).
peace.
tim'm
www.reddirt.biz
first learning to be the perfect partner... even
without one.
I'd have to say that I'm probably the most optimistic
that I've been all my life about the prospect of
sharing life with someone. Namely because I'm having
one of the greatest relationship "vacations" ever
(going on 3 years). Yeah, for some of you that's
nothing, but here's the context. I'm one of those cats
who loves to be in love. I spent the late part of my
teens through most of my 20s being a serial
monogamist... but after some very painful break-ups
(all minimized as such cuz I'm not the weeping type)
I've taken some time to re-evaluate my issues, my
expectations, the choices I've made when considering
being involved with black men.
When I've fallen, I fall hard. I'm the kind of brotha
that can't imagine being in love with a brotha and not
wanting my mama and the whole world to know it. It's
kinda complicated being a hip hop/poetry boho
basketball fag with as many straight friends as gay
ones and dating in this culture where black gay
masculinity is so perversely aligned with DL. Being
masculine doesn't make you DL. You don't HAVE to hide
it, you CHOOSE to (and sometimes for good reason, so
no hating there). All that to say...
I think that my next partner will emerge from a number
of the men I've met over the past few years who have
been consistent, warm, sometimes sexual, sometimes
not, honest in ways we're conditioned not to be,
exploratory in terms of their notions of what a
relationship between two people can involve (e.g.,
other people, children, etc...). Most importantly,
loving me won't be the shield that protects him from
more deep seated self-esteem issues. I have been the
psychoanalysit hubby before who helps my partner come
to "vast realizations" about his life and experience
"immense personal growth". I became revered. it made
me less sexy. damn intense and spiritual... but not
the exciting cat with the mean mugg in the club he
pleaded with to smile.
We don't arrive perfect, but we can at least have a
sense of what our issues are and be in process. I
think it's sexy for man to be real in that way. I
have met very few who bear their souls without the
fear of rejection. many of us hide behind templates
for relationships that were never intended for black
men who love each other in the first place. I dare to
venture beyond those confines to a deeper, spiritual
sharing... but it's not about making somebody feel
warm-fuzzy. It's about safety. It's revealing who I
really am... and not holding back for fear of losing
someone. it's about being too busy trying to love
dude that it hasn't occured to me that i might lose
him. And i have before... in that same way. But i
wouldn't do it any differently. so sometimes I'm too
out, or too poz, or too social, or too struggling
artist for some brothas looking for their Huxtabellian
relationship... and I've been there and done that, so
I'm cool.
I'd pretty much been in jaded space for some time...
and it's been a little off-putting when I've met
brothas in DC who are like "all you need is a brotha
who gone love you right" (as if I've never heard that
before or missed the pickup line in cheesy
Blaxploitation sitcom). They are seriously on some
instant lover shit like it's instant oatmeal. So I
back back to working on nurturing the friendships i
have with black men. Most are platonic, some are a
little more. I realized that I'd fallen in love with
men I didn't particularly like. I realized that
sexual chemistry can not alone keep a relationship
going. And i begin to be real about my needs for
intimacy and affection. If I'm feeling lonely, it
doesn't mean I want a relationship... maybe just a
cuddle or some company. I have friends who I can get
that from... (and then some, with some). I've found
that a man who is a good friend to his friends will
more likely be a good lover... and one with few
friends, or who "can't stand" every other person at
the damn club... I'm scurred of them...
Okay.... before the monogamy/"we're just like straight
people, just gay" zealots come out of the batcave with
that ridiculous argument and call me ho ho ho, like
it's Christmas Eve, consider this: I'm on the verge
of turning 33, well-educated, half-way attractive,
POZ, out of the closet, and a damn beast in the
bedroom..., praise Jebus. none of those are changing
anytime soon and some are essential to who I am. So
am I concerned about growing old and single? No.
While I have my moments now when I miss the focus and
clarity sometimes provided with a life-partner (i'm
damn good alone, even better when a brotha's lookin
out for me), I've found a certain peace of mind and
spirit in just doing me... and knowing that when he
comes, I'll know. He won't read off his resume or
boast about how much better he gone be that I've ever
experienced, he'll reciprocate a warmth and patience
that says "yeah, I'm willing to take time with this,
I'm a little anxious too; but damnit, we're both
falling, and I'm willing to float under this parachute
as long as you'll let me" (the proverbial parachute
is: context, timing, moment, chemistry, and emotional
safety granted to those patient enough to have it
appear. it takes time to build a parachute you can
trust will keep you safe in the fall).
I know. It sounds more warm-fuzzy than me on hip hop
stages or basketball courts (grrrrr. don't tell my
homies, yo.). but deep down, I want it again... and i
think I'll have it too... and it won't be scary. no
more fear-based love for me. it'll be easy because
there's nothing that makes me more proud than sharing
my life with him and knowing I'm getting a damn good
deal too. it'll be a love grounded in freedom not
restriction. no room for jealousy. I'll long to love
all that he wants to be an do, inasmuch as he returns
the same. It's a concept called "compersion"...
pretty interesting if you google it. I think it was
used in the batman movie and I plan to go back to see
if I heard it right (plus, it was a damn good BATMAN).
Allright, Tim'm... .shut up!
(now if i could only believe what i write beyond the
writing of it. There's this notion in philosophy
called interpellation where the thing itself becomes
actualized because it was spoken, claimed. black
grandmas would just say "claim it"... like saying "I
do", and really meaning it. So I'm claiming it...
there's just no urgency. It'll be damn good and more
lasting than those times before, so I welcome his
patience in showing up for me, and letting me reveal
myself.
(verklempt. grrrrrr. butch it up, nukka).
peace.
tim'm
www.reddirt.biz
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Today... I miss "married" life.
for all of my huckle buckle scipperphilosophy and singledom playnigga embellishments, I miss the focus and (false?) security of having someone whose responsibility it was to look out for me and ax how I'm doing at the end of the day. I miss meals together and my moms asking how "we're" doing. I miss my nephew asking when he can visit me and my dude and play X-box or basketball. I miss the random phone messages during the day. I miss the feeling i used to get when someone asked about my sig. other and we'd just made some bomb-diggety love the night before and morning of... and then some... I miss talking about how we were going to raise children and planning a future. I miss how focused my work was when I was partnered and how he'd make me chill out when life seemed to be getting the best of me. i miss the money you save when you have two professional adults in one household. i miss thinking other people were attractive, but squashing the thought when I considered what I had at home...
(but I don't miss a lot of things too). But today I miss the good things. Today it hurts a little to miss the good things. Easier to justify this space I'm in by reminding myself of the messed up stuff.
i'm in a bit of a funk... and I think that's what I miss.
damn them nukkas. damn them.
that's all.
(but I don't miss a lot of things too). But today I miss the good things. Today it hurts a little to miss the good things. Easier to justify this space I'm in by reminding myself of the messed up stuff.
i'm in a bit of a funk... and I think that's what I miss.
damn them nukkas. damn them.
that's all.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Learning to Dance Again
(for ernest brown. thank you!)
he is
a lost soul
basking in the after-funk
of heartbreak
spirit strugglin
to remember rhythm
recall the joy
of unshakled, bad-ass
Carl Lewis-like feet:
they understand
what it means to be free
like they understand
the texture of earth
and love
his heart
like his feet
have hardened.
but someone
whose smile shines tenderness
helps him dance again,
some Dunham, Chuck-Davis remix
with capoiera sensuality,
some Tyrone Aiken, Robert Moses
foot-arch
some harlem renaissance shuffle,
some b-boys blues shaken off
on cardboard
or baby-powder scented dancefloors.
so he sweats
for all the crying
his eyes have failed to see.
lets go enough
to see his journey reflected
a small town boy
with a big heart
accent still thick
like the one his mouth has forgotten
and arms strong enough
to absorb the weight
of his memory:
what it felt like
to have someone he loved
fall out
of love with love itself
life is lighter
learning to move
this way
remembering rhythm
to forget it
so that it could be found again
like a heartbeat
like somebody making him blush
or dance again
consistent
as sun comes back
and joy too!
he is
a lost soul
basking in the after-funk
of heartbreak
spirit strugglin
to remember rhythm
recall the joy
of unshakled, bad-ass
Carl Lewis-like feet:
they understand
what it means to be free
like they understand
the texture of earth
and love
his heart
like his feet
have hardened.
but someone
whose smile shines tenderness
helps him dance again,
some Dunham, Chuck-Davis remix
with capoiera sensuality,
some Tyrone Aiken, Robert Moses
foot-arch
some harlem renaissance shuffle,
some b-boys blues shaken off
on cardboard
or baby-powder scented dancefloors.
so he sweats
for all the crying
his eyes have failed to see.
lets go enough
to see his journey reflected
a small town boy
with a big heart
accent still thick
like the one his mouth has forgotten
and arms strong enough
to absorb the weight
of his memory:
what it felt like
to have someone he loved
fall out
of love with love itself
life is lighter
learning to move
this way
remembering rhythm
to forget it
so that it could be found again
like a heartbeat
like somebody making him blush
or dance again
consistent
as sun comes back
and joy too!
Marriage = 1 man and 1 woman? Nukka Please!
yeah... I know i'm "doin too much" with this post, but why not dream a bit sometimes.
I'm looking for 2 wives and 2 husbands. any takers?
that way nobody gets on my nerves.
okay... before you have a heartattack, this is my strategy. I'll dream of what I'd want in a different world and move back to reality as much as is needed.
what I'm looking for/guidelines/rules:
* super intelligence required. must understand some variation of postmodernism, Negritude, or postcolonial studies. No need to understand Spivak's intro to grammatology or anything, but at least be able to talk about how crazy some of Dyson's and West's boho-conjugations are.
* everyone has to find everybody else equally hot.
* college educated (call me bourgie boho. oh well)
* must know the whole chronology of De La, KRS, and Roots Manuva
* must have very high tolerance for garage, house, breakbeatz, trip hop...and have a good sense of rhythm. Masters at Work, has to be more than education update, pa (and ma)
* no consecutive cuddles or freekydeeks (enough goodies to go around)
* no prioritizing (communal shooky shooky. don't get shook).
* my mama must approve of the womyn (at least pretend to love Jesus, praise the Lord...)
* my brothas must approve of the men (intricate knowledge of black american athleticism, weightlifting, boxing, and shit-talking, and 80s samari and karate cinema helps). Beat-boxers and capoiera heads encouraged. please be able to handle the rock.
* must be down with homeschooling (ain't sending my kids to no schools here... and I'm an educator).
* i guess you'd have to be bicycular (bisexual) for this to all work, right?
* no hating on my extensive 80's collection of one hit wonder pop icons.
* be thick or we won't click. and prefer thickness. if you ain't cornfed, go find the cornbread.
* penchant for poetry (know the Beats, Black Arts, the Renaissance, (substantive, not theatrick SLAM), good hip hop lyricism.
* must submit an application that must be approved by Angela Davis and Carl Hancock Rux
* no excessive femininity. girls butch it up. boys, butch it up. but keep it cute. grrrrrr
* womyn must appreciate a good tounge lashing
* men must submit to weekly salad tossing
* feminist sensibilities help, but nothing fanatic
* southern a plus
* nice lips a big plus
* women must be comfortable with being bottoms and tops. same for men.
* I'm POZ, so we only play safe...
* if this doesn't quite work out... we cool. still be our friends, but you gotta find a replacement before you can bounce, yo.
okay.... I'm tired.
that's why my black ass is single.
worth a try though.
Tim'm
I'm looking for 2 wives and 2 husbands. any takers?
that way nobody gets on my nerves.
okay... before you have a heartattack, this is my strategy. I'll dream of what I'd want in a different world and move back to reality as much as is needed.
what I'm looking for/guidelines/rules:
* super intelligence required. must understand some variation of postmodernism, Negritude, or postcolonial studies. No need to understand Spivak's intro to grammatology or anything, but at least be able to talk about how crazy some of Dyson's and West's boho-conjugations are.
* everyone has to find everybody else equally hot.
* college educated (call me bourgie boho. oh well)
* must know the whole chronology of De La, KRS, and Roots Manuva
* must have very high tolerance for garage, house, breakbeatz, trip hop...and have a good sense of rhythm. Masters at Work, has to be more than education update, pa (and ma)
* no consecutive cuddles or freekydeeks (enough goodies to go around)
* no prioritizing (communal shooky shooky. don't get shook).
* my mama must approve of the womyn (at least pretend to love Jesus, praise the Lord...)
* my brothas must approve of the men (intricate knowledge of black american athleticism, weightlifting, boxing, and shit-talking, and 80s samari and karate cinema helps). Beat-boxers and capoiera heads encouraged. please be able to handle the rock.
* must be down with homeschooling (ain't sending my kids to no schools here... and I'm an educator).
* i guess you'd have to be bicycular (bisexual) for this to all work, right?
* no hating on my extensive 80's collection of one hit wonder pop icons.
* be thick or we won't click. and prefer thickness. if you ain't cornfed, go find the cornbread.
* penchant for poetry (know the Beats, Black Arts, the Renaissance, (substantive, not theatrick SLAM), good hip hop lyricism.
* must submit an application that must be approved by Angela Davis and Carl Hancock Rux
* no excessive femininity. girls butch it up. boys, butch it up. but keep it cute. grrrrrr
* womyn must appreciate a good tounge lashing
* men must submit to weekly salad tossing
* feminist sensibilities help, but nothing fanatic
* southern a plus
* nice lips a big plus
* women must be comfortable with being bottoms and tops. same for men.
* I'm POZ, so we only play safe...
* if this doesn't quite work out... we cool. still be our friends, but you gotta find a replacement before you can bounce, yo.
okay.... I'm tired.
that's why my black ass is single.
worth a try though.
Tim'm
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
shortcircuted soulmate (for malik)
for malik ameer
www.malikameer.com
1.
in some other lifetime
or galaxy
we led tribes of warriors
to write literary legacies together
soundbombing soul-sonnets
harnessing haikus to power
new forms unimagined
and i feel
the intimacy of that galaxy
and this one
imploding the earth
if we don't sort out
joint purpose:
we should be shaking the world
out of its sleep.
I somehow feel my solo tremor
will not have the same impact
so let us quake and quiver
as if it were
our first kiss
2.
whenever i remember you
i remember aspects
I don't think you show yourself
that beautiful, fuzzy shit
like your notebook-scribble
it disobeys boundaries
has its own style
is obvilious to any eyes
that might judge it
incorrectly
and my ears beg to hear
sanctified poetix
the imaginable wild-style
your smile makes
when happiness slips
out your eyes and into mine
3.
sometimes
when i'm alone
and wanting to be close
to some body
i can be silent with
someone who talks back
in sleep
and holds me
without touch
i think...
he is something other
we could be something other
i miss him
and I think to myself:
damn boy!
when you coming home?
www.malikameer.com
1.
in some other lifetime
or galaxy
we led tribes of warriors
to write literary legacies together
soundbombing soul-sonnets
harnessing haikus to power
new forms unimagined
and i feel
the intimacy of that galaxy
and this one
imploding the earth
if we don't sort out
joint purpose:
we should be shaking the world
out of its sleep.
I somehow feel my solo tremor
will not have the same impact
so let us quake and quiver
as if it were
our first kiss
2.
whenever i remember you
i remember aspects
I don't think you show yourself
that beautiful, fuzzy shit
like your notebook-scribble
it disobeys boundaries
has its own style
is obvilious to any eyes
that might judge it
incorrectly
and my ears beg to hear
sanctified poetix
the imaginable wild-style
your smile makes
when happiness slips
out your eyes and into mine
3.
sometimes
when i'm alone
and wanting to be close
to some body
i can be silent with
someone who talks back
in sleep
and holds me
without touch
i think...
he is something other
we could be something other
i miss him
and I think to myself:
damn boy!
when you coming home?
Friday, May 06, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
This is what Tim'm's Brain Looks Like under Osun's Microscope
it is saturated in thoughts about love and devotion to memory and the search for love, happiness, fairness. so it sometimes journals... not organized thoughts that I could put in a book or article... but just random thoughts. that is what these blogs are for, right?
So today is Thursday. I just returned from a rally for "Campaign to End AIDS" in front of the White House (www.endaidsnow.org). Hundreds of AIDS activists(?) from around the nation met to drop off shoes in front of the white house as a symbolic gesture accounting for the countless number of people who've been lost to AIDS/HIV and an administration that perpetually turns its head away from the epidemic (e.g., no progressive policy to provided better resources to Africa, and a declining effort to assist prevention efforts here in the U.S.). It's pretty shameful... but today there were hundreds of people, most of the black folk (which made me happy, given the populations disproportionately affected/infected) chanting, mobilizing, angry, visible, many of them People Living with AIDS like me... and i felt, maybe there is some hope in these next 4 years that people will begin to "get up, stand up", nawmean? I was invited to speak, but instead I rhymed and did a singy thing. some looked confused cuz I was feelin my flow and some ears didn't seem to adjust from speeches to lyricism very easily... others seemed elated at the break from the traditonal speeches. I felt glad just to be there "representin'". It's been almost 6 years since I got the news that if I didn't get help I might not see 2005.
This protest/rally participation is all ironic, because I was recently quoted in the Washington Blade as saying I'm "too old to be angry"...
http://www.washblade.com/2005/4-29/arts/feature/revolution.cfm
and I don't know that I'm "too old" for anything, but being in my 30's has been somewhat of a journey towards realizing what affect I can have. Perhaps my idealism has waned a bit. Perhaps it has everything to do with becoming somewhat of a revolutionary protest child at 17 and for the next ten years prioritizing social struggle over personal ones. i took this picture in college at 19: bare-chested except for an AIDS ribbon; and with scrabble letters in front of me dispersed just enough to allude to the slurs "faggot" and "nigger"... and me holding my headache as a way of suggesting that both the struggles were too hard for any blackboy to bear. Well... most people at the time only commented that the image was powerful or that I had a nice chest... but looking at that picture now, I think I should have been having more fun back then. Not the philsopher-activist in route to iconic status.
Then ten years after 17 (almost to the day) you find out you've got AIDS... and for the first time in your life, you REALLY want to live... so it's been a bit tiring. Sometimes I feel like I have limited time to leave a legacy and that sand from the hourglass is not thick enough to hold my wait. Sometimes I'm content that my name will be remembered, and that people will remember me as loving, in spite of my being so busy... but mostly I feel that i have a lot more to do. I moved to DC cuz things got so heavy for me... so mental and calculated. I suppose I'm expected to find ways here to tap into my joy (that hopeful, romantic 16 year old energy that gets to be careless, spontaneous, drunk on life a bit).
I'm not a hopeless romantic anymore... I do believe people can make change, but I'm also less willing to put my body and energies on the front lines... I suppose I'm seeking some lightness, exchanging philosopy books for ESPN playoff games. I haven't enjoyed enough of my life... so yeah... this is a ramble-- little logic to what thread of thought will follow the next... but that's something I applaud. It would be like not making up my bed: a triumph denoting that order and overprocessing isn't such a healthy way to mask pain and chaos.
And maybe that's it. I'm unlearning the idea that learning more will make things less complicated (perhaps the contrary is more true). So if you see me out dancing looking spaced out... or smiling... or I forget your name, or grab your booty, congratulate me: I'm having fun. If I forget to say hi it's not shade... maybe I'm somewhere off in happy land... let me stay there for a moment and don't fuss. Remind me later that you saw me freestylin or singing on U street-- content with the arch of my "daddy-in-training" tummy, dreadlocks bouncin', thinkin of how to conjure out the next blues.
happiness these days has come in the form of a cat named Inky who entered my life with his wonderful owner (and my new roomate) Cenzo. They don't really demand a lot of me. I come in most days too exhausted to remember to even sit down and watch the Wizards blow a 20 pt lead (Inky hates the Wizards... or is that projection?). So i come home and stand... and they ask, usually with eyes, if I'm okay... and sometimes I don't lie: the eyes are heavy with thoughts about things that could be better (or worse). but I'm happy for them being in my life and letting me feel free enough to feel it all (even when I enter my room and shut the door).
and i'm happy for people like patrick who lets me be alone but kidnap him for an impromptu trip to baltimore... or men like joe who i love so much it hurts (though he doesn't seem to realize this)... or even the young man who will go unnamed here who I'm practically in love with but who cannot seem to bare the intensity of my fall. or my dear friend jamil who is just pure sweetness (though he's learning how to let his language reflect it. LOL)... or my "little brother" Ryan Canty who always looks out for me, though I have to little time to reciprocate the guy-dance. or my boyz DDC who are among the more talented, brilliant black men I know... or Michael Smith who has been the most consistent man in my life since I left home for college. or the boyz who will wonder why i didn't mention them. or the countless womyn who nurture, compliment, and whose softness curls the frown out of my brow (ingrid rivera you are beautiful. doria roberts... being around you is like being home).
i want more good things for myself... and the recognition of this (alone) is a step in the right direction. I can't do everything. I do too much. I don't make enough time for time. I can't carry other people's baggage even if my shoulders think they're strong enough to amass their stuff.
I went dancing last night...and it was really quite beautiful! I danced with a few handsome brothas... it was a rather old school party... brown brothas, deep house, some flirting, some eye-closed soul escapism while my feet guided my feeling and memory... and ultimately remembering there that whatever pains me about being on this here sometimes bitter earth, it still feels good to "feel"!
So today is Thursday. I just returned from a rally for "Campaign to End AIDS" in front of the White House (www.endaidsnow.org). Hundreds of AIDS activists(?) from around the nation met to drop off shoes in front of the white house as a symbolic gesture accounting for the countless number of people who've been lost to AIDS/HIV and an administration that perpetually turns its head away from the epidemic (e.g., no progressive policy to provided better resources to Africa, and a declining effort to assist prevention efforts here in the U.S.). It's pretty shameful... but today there were hundreds of people, most of the black folk (which made me happy, given the populations disproportionately affected/infected) chanting, mobilizing, angry, visible, many of them People Living with AIDS like me... and i felt, maybe there is some hope in these next 4 years that people will begin to "get up, stand up", nawmean? I was invited to speak, but instead I rhymed and did a singy thing. some looked confused cuz I was feelin my flow and some ears didn't seem to adjust from speeches to lyricism very easily... others seemed elated at the break from the traditonal speeches. I felt glad just to be there "representin'". It's been almost 6 years since I got the news that if I didn't get help I might not see 2005.
This protest/rally participation is all ironic, because I was recently quoted in the Washington Blade as saying I'm "too old to be angry"...
http://www.washblade.com/2005/4-29/arts/feature/revolution.cfm
and I don't know that I'm "too old" for anything, but being in my 30's has been somewhat of a journey towards realizing what affect I can have. Perhaps my idealism has waned a bit. Perhaps it has everything to do with becoming somewhat of a revolutionary protest child at 17 and for the next ten years prioritizing social struggle over personal ones. i took this picture in college at 19: bare-chested except for an AIDS ribbon; and with scrabble letters in front of me dispersed just enough to allude to the slurs "faggot" and "nigger"... and me holding my headache as a way of suggesting that both the struggles were too hard for any blackboy to bear. Well... most people at the time only commented that the image was powerful or that I had a nice chest... but looking at that picture now, I think I should have been having more fun back then. Not the philsopher-activist in route to iconic status.
Then ten years after 17 (almost to the day) you find out you've got AIDS... and for the first time in your life, you REALLY want to live... so it's been a bit tiring. Sometimes I feel like I have limited time to leave a legacy and that sand from the hourglass is not thick enough to hold my wait. Sometimes I'm content that my name will be remembered, and that people will remember me as loving, in spite of my being so busy... but mostly I feel that i have a lot more to do. I moved to DC cuz things got so heavy for me... so mental and calculated. I suppose I'm expected to find ways here to tap into my joy (that hopeful, romantic 16 year old energy that gets to be careless, spontaneous, drunk on life a bit).
I'm not a hopeless romantic anymore... I do believe people can make change, but I'm also less willing to put my body and energies on the front lines... I suppose I'm seeking some lightness, exchanging philosopy books for ESPN playoff games. I haven't enjoyed enough of my life... so yeah... this is a ramble-- little logic to what thread of thought will follow the next... but that's something I applaud. It would be like not making up my bed: a triumph denoting that order and overprocessing isn't such a healthy way to mask pain and chaos.
And maybe that's it. I'm unlearning the idea that learning more will make things less complicated (perhaps the contrary is more true). So if you see me out dancing looking spaced out... or smiling... or I forget your name, or grab your booty, congratulate me: I'm having fun. If I forget to say hi it's not shade... maybe I'm somewhere off in happy land... let me stay there for a moment and don't fuss. Remind me later that you saw me freestylin or singing on U street-- content with the arch of my "daddy-in-training" tummy, dreadlocks bouncin', thinkin of how to conjure out the next blues.
happiness these days has come in the form of a cat named Inky who entered my life with his wonderful owner (and my new roomate) Cenzo. They don't really demand a lot of me. I come in most days too exhausted to remember to even sit down and watch the Wizards blow a 20 pt lead (Inky hates the Wizards... or is that projection?). So i come home and stand... and they ask, usually with eyes, if I'm okay... and sometimes I don't lie: the eyes are heavy with thoughts about things that could be better (or worse). but I'm happy for them being in my life and letting me feel free enough to feel it all (even when I enter my room and shut the door).
and i'm happy for people like patrick who lets me be alone but kidnap him for an impromptu trip to baltimore... or men like joe who i love so much it hurts (though he doesn't seem to realize this)... or even the young man who will go unnamed here who I'm practically in love with but who cannot seem to bare the intensity of my fall. or my dear friend jamil who is just pure sweetness (though he's learning how to let his language reflect it. LOL)... or my "little brother" Ryan Canty who always looks out for me, though I have to little time to reciprocate the guy-dance. or my boyz DDC who are among the more talented, brilliant black men I know... or Michael Smith who has been the most consistent man in my life since I left home for college. or the boyz who will wonder why i didn't mention them. or the countless womyn who nurture, compliment, and whose softness curls the frown out of my brow (ingrid rivera you are beautiful. doria roberts... being around you is like being home).
i want more good things for myself... and the recognition of this (alone) is a step in the right direction. I can't do everything. I do too much. I don't make enough time for time. I can't carry other people's baggage even if my shoulders think they're strong enough to amass their stuff.
I went dancing last night...and it was really quite beautiful! I danced with a few handsome brothas... it was a rather old school party... brown brothas, deep house, some flirting, some eye-closed soul escapism while my feet guided my feeling and memory... and ultimately remembering there that whatever pains me about being on this here sometimes bitter earth, it still feels good to "feel"!
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Get Well Presence (for Kaya)
8.28.03
tim’m t. west
A Savior, I am not…
But I do have presence for you
Have showed it when you swore
I’d forgotten…
Bay bridge trips
After hip hop slips
and appointments
Intentions for coffee
As an excuse
To avoid staring in each others
gaze
This guttural nigga
Has already wailed for you
But you,
Weary and wondering
If black can love you back
Question my presence
A multi-cultural candle
Some scent between Bombay and Kingston
Has burned to see you better
And a message was left
Perhaps delivered by someone
Unable to carry the sentiment,
Breathing just barely
Struggling to press 7 digits
Tongue too thick and boondock to say
oncology
So as much as I want to try
I cannot visit you…. not like that
I fear that while my words
Can do many things:
Make niggas fall in love
Make people release they shame in an exhale
See they reflection break lose in a tear
Still, they cannot heal you
But I stubbornly push words out
Searching for the next lyrical inadequacy
Kaya Nati,
just like blakkboy or reddirt
Slip off my tongue
Like it sticks to my tongue
Juicy and black
And lollypop
Brother, warrior, fierce spirit
Why have I always been afraid?
Why have I convinced myself
That it was not worth losing you
To your collapse into yourself
And so losing myself before I can notice
You are missing
Me, other brothers, yourself even
Your movement has been too swift for we
Slips like the turn-back
To see one’s own shadow
Chasing and hiding from itself at once
Magnetix soul
Bamboo djembe rhythm and ballet slippers
And you, an embodied medium
Carrying the wait
Of their sound and fury
Will you pray for me
So that I am strong enough to hold you
When you get better?
Can you promise to act like
however tight or loose
The embrace
or whatever nigga or art-thang
be pre-occupying my wandering spirit
that you know deep down
That I have never let go
Of anything I’ve believed to be beautiful.
tim’m t. west
A Savior, I am not…
But I do have presence for you
Have showed it when you swore
I’d forgotten…
Bay bridge trips
After hip hop slips
and appointments
Intentions for coffee
As an excuse
To avoid staring in each others
gaze
This guttural nigga
Has already wailed for you
But you,
Weary and wondering
If black can love you back
Question my presence
A multi-cultural candle
Some scent between Bombay and Kingston
Has burned to see you better
And a message was left
Perhaps delivered by someone
Unable to carry the sentiment,
Breathing just barely
Struggling to press 7 digits
Tongue too thick and boondock to say
oncology
So as much as I want to try
I cannot visit you…. not like that
I fear that while my words
Can do many things:
Make niggas fall in love
Make people release they shame in an exhale
See they reflection break lose in a tear
Still, they cannot heal you
But I stubbornly push words out
Searching for the next lyrical inadequacy
Kaya Nati,
just like blakkboy or reddirt
Slip off my tongue
Like it sticks to my tongue
Juicy and black
And lollypop
Brother, warrior, fierce spirit
Why have I always been afraid?
Why have I convinced myself
That it was not worth losing you
To your collapse into yourself
And so losing myself before I can notice
You are missing
Me, other brothers, yourself even
Your movement has been too swift for we
Slips like the turn-back
To see one’s own shadow
Chasing and hiding from itself at once
Magnetix soul
Bamboo djembe rhythm and ballet slippers
And you, an embodied medium
Carrying the wait
Of their sound and fury
Will you pray for me
So that I am strong enough to hold you
When you get better?
Can you promise to act like
however tight or loose
The embrace
or whatever nigga or art-thang
be pre-occupying my wandering spirit
that you know deep down
That I have never let go
Of anything I’ve believed to be beautiful.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Remembering Kaya
my friend Kaya.... the way his spirit is reminding me to remember him: a movement, a dance, an intensity, a brotha, a friend (and then some)... I will carry his legacy in the arch of letters I write that curve not as graciously as he moved in Jamaica or East Oakland.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
My friend Kaya transitioned...
beautiful spirit
beautiful dance
a wind
a thought held for a beautiful moment
has left to continue through me
i'm a bit cried out,
but remember
the feel of their names in my mouth:
wanda alston, nate "issac" manigualt, kaya nati
i remember
and remain inspired
ya'll pray for a brotha. I need it.
tim'm
beautiful dance
a wind
a thought held for a beautiful moment
has left to continue through me
i'm a bit cried out,
but remember
the feel of their names in my mouth:
wanda alston, nate "issac" manigualt, kaya nati
i remember
and remain inspired
ya'll pray for a brotha. I need it.
tim'm
Monday, April 04, 2005
In Memory of Nate
Play Mate
(for nate)
April 5, 2005
(c) 2004 tim'm t. west/red dirt publishing
I loved my friend
He went away from me
There's nothing more to say
The poem ends
soft as it began,-
I loved my friend"
- Langston Hughes
he could have left us another way
the unfortunate news coming
like a rumor or "guess what?"
but it came like a sign
something larger than life itself
and left an impression
of what we should never again
take for granted
the precious breath of life
a simple game
we choose to play or not
as he played
till there was no breath left
it could have come in an email
or newspaper clipping...
or channel 9 news
but we were fortunate enough
to be there
angels around him
and watching over us
loving him enough to encourage
next breaths
hold his hand
and selfishly hope
like we've never hoped before
that it was not his time to leave us
so perhaps the creator chooses
the time
the place
chose us to be there
joyous moments
of love and basketball
and the smile we should never forget
in the moments before...
perhaps we were chosen
to be students
for lessons he so unselfishly taught
through his actions:
sitting out so we could play,
encouraging from the side lines,
planning moments beyond the court
for fellowship and support,
or the way he played
through pain in the knee
because we simply insisted
because we were comfortable admitting
we needed him.
next up
is someone who has been waiting
to play
but cautiously,
and without pride, courage
or confidence
that this game is meant for them to play
and he remains their guide
and mine and ours
fixed in our memories and hearts
the inspiration for life's next moves.
so we can choose to play
or stay stuck
refusing to get the point
without question
continuing to play this game of life
is what our friend
would deem a win, a victory,
a full smile
hearty as a Charleston Sunday dinner
strong as arms and backs that
rebound
over and again
knowing that our lives
much like our friend's
offers not many play mates
more precious.
(for nate)
April 5, 2005
(c) 2004 tim'm t. west/red dirt publishing
I loved my friend
He went away from me
There's nothing more to say
The poem ends
soft as it began,-
I loved my friend"
- Langston Hughes
he could have left us another way
the unfortunate news coming
like a rumor or "guess what?"
but it came like a sign
something larger than life itself
and left an impression
of what we should never again
take for granted
the precious breath of life
a simple game
we choose to play or not
as he played
till there was no breath left
it could have come in an email
or newspaper clipping...
or channel 9 news
but we were fortunate enough
to be there
angels around him
and watching over us
loving him enough to encourage
next breaths
hold his hand
and selfishly hope
like we've never hoped before
that it was not his time to leave us
so perhaps the creator chooses
the time
the place
chose us to be there
joyous moments
of love and basketball
and the smile we should never forget
in the moments before...
perhaps we were chosen
to be students
for lessons he so unselfishly taught
through his actions:
sitting out so we could play,
encouraging from the side lines,
planning moments beyond the court
for fellowship and support,
or the way he played
through pain in the knee
because we simply insisted
because we were comfortable admitting
we needed him.
next up
is someone who has been waiting
to play
but cautiously,
and without pride, courage
or confidence
that this game is meant for them to play
and he remains their guide
and mine and ours
fixed in our memories and hearts
the inspiration for life's next moves.
so we can choose to play
or stay stuck
refusing to get the point
without question
continuing to play this game of life
is what our friend
would deem a win, a victory,
a full smile
hearty as a Charleston Sunday dinner
strong as arms and backs that
rebound
over and again
knowing that our lives
much like our friend's
offers not many play mates
more precious.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Have you seen my friends? I haven't. LOL
the Phab 4: Yourn Truly, Bravette, Chad, and Harry in DC (May 2004). Don't we look like a band? LOL
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Nostalgia
stands on the edge of
the most endearing things about yester-year
smiles and tears alike mesh into memories
that strip them of any hurtful residue
and we are shaman and goddesses
never doubting our power to make memories
sweeter than the event itself.
we are a sometimes broken people who long
to remember remembering
the echo of a neglected moment
and hold it like an infant
a puppy, a promise, a civil right
and preserve it as if its passing
was the death of hope itself.
we are nostalgic because we are hopeful
because we need to be reminded
that there are many reasons
to relish next breaths
create new memories
recall the simple brilliance of our living.
the most endearing things about yester-year
smiles and tears alike mesh into memories
that strip them of any hurtful residue
and we are shaman and goddesses
never doubting our power to make memories
sweeter than the event itself.
we are a sometimes broken people who long
to remember remembering
the echo of a neglected moment
and hold it like an infant
a puppy, a promise, a civil right
and preserve it as if its passing
was the death of hope itself.
we are nostalgic because we are hopeful
because we need to be reminded
that there are many reasons
to relish next breaths
create new memories
recall the simple brilliance of our living.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Learning to Cry
I have waited for my tears to come for a long time
Never really fought for love, when it seemed to slip away
I never let myself cry over broken hearts
Sucked it up like a man’s man- unmanned
Developed some script of strength
A guise of guardedness
A mask
A pretense of resolve
But inside I had been breaking
Excess boiling over
A residue of emotions building
exploding
trying to own my shit and not blame
coping with the losses unexplained
So between midnight and 3am these days
I allow the tears to do more than well up
suck up courage to help them get unstuck
take my own advice
and remember to breathe
before wiping them tenderly away
Understanding these are first steps
towards a new day
I learn to smile through their falling
a good hurt
And stay up relishing memories
of all things good about being held well
remembering that good love is loving good
Even when things don't seem as they should
When loving don’t make sense
When there is no evidence of your loving
beyond your own confidence
And I think
Someday,
I may have water enough from tears
To baptize myself in the safety
of a love (again)
Like I’ve never been hurt at all
Never really fought for love, when it seemed to slip away
I never let myself cry over broken hearts
Sucked it up like a man’s man- unmanned
Developed some script of strength
A guise of guardedness
A mask
A pretense of resolve
But inside I had been breaking
Excess boiling over
A residue of emotions building
exploding
trying to own my shit and not blame
coping with the losses unexplained
So between midnight and 3am these days
I allow the tears to do more than well up
suck up courage to help them get unstuck
take my own advice
and remember to breathe
before wiping them tenderly away
Understanding these are first steps
towards a new day
I learn to smile through their falling
a good hurt
And stay up relishing memories
of all things good about being held well
remembering that good love is loving good
Even when things don't seem as they should
When loving don’t make sense
When there is no evidence of your loving
beyond your own confidence
And I think
Someday,
I may have water enough from tears
To baptize myself in the safety
of a love (again)
Like I’ve never been hurt at all
Friday, March 11, 2005
Black and Blue?
Here's one remedy. There's the compilation that i contributed music to, also featuring the work of Hanifah Walidah and Mrk Drkfthr (both based in NYC). The 2004 Election deepened whatever blues many of us were already experiencing. I'm not so naive that I believe the system itself isn't flawed-- but after many over-intellectualized years of not voting (my excuse: voting demonstrates my investment in a system that has consistently disenfranchised so many people, even as it provides small gains to a few tokens willing to forgive the impress of a racist, sexist, homophobic legacy... blah blah blah) . Well I saw this bumper sticker a few years back that said: "Don't Vote? Don't Bitch!"... and that was motivation enough for me. It wasn't enough that my "ancestors worked so hard for the right to vote"-- since most of my direct ancestors died penniless and disillusioned with the small gains made by generations in my family whose work and diligence would never be compensated by a "lesser of two evils" vote at the poll. Still, voting for me has become symbolic. I vote because I want to have the right to bitch and complain about all that's wrong, and also applaud what's moving in the right direction (dissent and revolution, are as patriotic as uniform flag-bearing). I want to hold "leaders" accountable... and since I still think the system is a mess, one way I've responded to this is through my he-art. Me and some very talented friends created this compilation that more or less moves through three sensibilities: thoughts, actions, love (cuz we should never lose sight of the fact that some good shooky-shooky-now, can make us forget which white guy is in office and what war or legislation they're endorsing). I love the blend of the music and the opportunity to include new material on the compilation. The music is beautifully complemented by interviews of other artists responding to the election (my favorite of which is the finale' "Bling Bling Revolutionary"). From me, Check out "Negrolosophy" (with ButtaFlySoul), "Movin'" a track I did with Deep Dickollective from Proto-Negroes, and a rare, jazzy and vocal number with Raymond Jones on piano about love escaping social madness called "Paradise". Even as jaded as I am, i listen to the song and am reminded that whatever the political climate and chaos in the world... it's better to feel love when things fall apart than to be falling apart and not have love enough to hold you up. I've been held together by some very beautiful people over the years; and have been especially grateful in those streaks of depressive feelings, insomnia, and exhaustion when I forget my shine. So "Blue State" is my hopeful thank you to all of you-- a foreshadowing of the "Paradise" I want for us all. Also... this blog is your opportunity to comment on what you think about the work there (which will be availble for sale VERY shortly). Critique and applause are both welcome. Preview at: www.soultrotta.com. Listen and let in.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Monday, February 28, 2005
Noir Reflections
I was in a post-Funk downspiral, my blues overshadowing the colorful existence I've created for myself in DC. Sometimes it's far to easy to lose sight of your blessings. a health scare or lonely night can make one overlook how much life has to offer those willing to let the lessons show up through the pain. so I reached out. it was some aol ramble to a friend about needing more substantive connection with brothas who were willing to dig deeper than usual chat about the state of the "scene" or struggles of securing someone as warm and lasting as fantasies about the knight. i knew that time in West Virginia would be great, if only just to get away from the city and be amidst nature-- something I sorely miss, being an arkansas, country-boy. but i ran into some people there; familiar faces I'd seen at the club or on personals pages that reduced our essence to a headline like "down to earth brotha... seeks blah thug blah". and we went so much further to discern what lies beneath or titles, our jobs, our struggles, our educations, our anxieties about loving and longings for it... and I left with some 15 new friends, all unexpected gifts for having held on long enough to have them show up. Noir Reflections-- a retreat for black men sponsored by Us Helping Us-- was about finding pieces of myself in brothas who each shared something similar and yet, were a whole lot different: a drummer, the blunt devil's advocate with multiple personalities, a courageous quiet spirit who "opened up", and in doing so, gave us permission to do so, a brilliant, strong, and wordly long-term dis/ease survivor, a wrist reader, an closet actor and poet, a pharmacist, a "don't ask, don't tell" active duty military officer, and three wise men to guide our journey. I seldom am at a loss of words for experiences, but one of the brothas who attended the retreat felt inspired.... and shared.... and took words out of my head and heart and let them guide his fingers. i honor bruh lawrence in sharing his poetic articulation of our collective blessing with you:
Just Bruhs
loving, holding, knowing my thoughts
owning our bond like a hot wheel car from childhood
old and weathered with many play miles
it sits on my shelf as manifested memories
no one else knows its worth
but i do
i re-collect the moment of first encounters
i smile
warmth engulfs me knowing that first encounters were judged correctly
cool immediately overtakes me
i am reminded of a break
i choose the warmth...it brings me back to who you are
who i am learning you to be
right now i see a depth i could drown in
is it love, lust, friendship...?
Definitions R constricting
suffocating terms that run away a moment in time
turns fleeting possibilities into something crushed
i acknowledge this
I am allowed to title it for now
as
Just Bruhs
Just Bruhs
loving, holding, knowing my thoughts
owning our bond like a hot wheel car from childhood
old and weathered with many play miles
it sits on my shelf as manifested memories
no one else knows its worth
but i do
i re-collect the moment of first encounters
i smile
warmth engulfs me knowing that first encounters were judged correctly
cool immediately overtakes me
i am reminded of a break
i choose the warmth...it brings me back to who you are
who i am learning you to be
right now i see a depth i could drown in
is it love, lust, friendship...?
Definitions R constricting
suffocating terms that run away a moment in time
turns fleeting possibilities into something crushed
i acknowledge this
I am allowed to title it for now
as
Just Bruhs
Heteros Though, Can't Tell from Our Clothes/Scaring Girls in Sacramento!"
So they pick me up from the airport in Sac and we head to downtown for Food and "Faces"; and this str8 (white) girl, when we inquired about places to eat, told us: "it's kind of a gay over there, but the food is good". And we, much to her surprise, replied "Perfect!, We're Gay!" And she gaggath, and Butta said (under his breath): "Burst, Bietych!"
4 reasons why I miss Oakland, California
...and yeah, i know,.... one of them is why I miss NYC: l-r: ButtaFlySoul (NYC), SoulNubian (Oakland), Solis (Oakland), PointfiveFag (Oakland) of Deep Dickollective.
"People All Over the World"......RECOGNIZE!
Deep Dickollective in action at UC Davis (Feb 19, 2005).
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
DC Dis/ease
tossing and turning
like my stomach
that won't keep food down
(3 days straight)
I remember everything
except to take meds
that may be doing
more harm than good
tired of this dis/ease
stats going in the wrong direction
first-time high blood pressure
and I have not been
this afraid in a while
that my body
like mother earth
may be too exhausted
might be crashing on itself
body
has forgotten how to feed itself
broccoli
arkansas well-water
mother's cheerful dialect
somebody from Oakland missing me
like I miss Lake Merritt
or good sex
body
has forgotten how to hold itself
well enough
to push its recovery
ahead of any thoughts
that I am down-spiraling
running from something
faster than my feet
and lost
not knowing what I need today
beyond peace.
like my stomach
that won't keep food down
(3 days straight)
I remember everything
except to take meds
that may be doing
more harm than good
tired of this dis/ease
stats going in the wrong direction
first-time high blood pressure
and I have not been
this afraid in a while
that my body
like mother earth
may be too exhausted
might be crashing on itself
body
has forgotten how to feed itself
broccoli
arkansas well-water
mother's cheerful dialect
somebody from Oakland missing me
like I miss Lake Merritt
or good sex
body
has forgotten how to hold itself
well enough
to push its recovery
ahead of any thoughts
that I am down-spiraling
running from something
faster than my feet
and lost
not knowing what I need today
beyond peace.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Insomnia
eyelids almost
but not quite
heavy enough
to take me
from the dream i live to dream
into the dream itself
i long
to smile
with such happiness
i drool
and am proud
of the traces
on my pillow.
my mouth
craving
somethin' sweeter
than honeycomb,
or butter pecan
somethin' sweeter
than memory of a lover's insistence
or his seduction
to come
be
remembered
in this here present
my touch
wanting to feel
something softer
than keyboard clicking
something
pre-linguistic
something simply
less calculated
than the calculus of poetry
or its failure
to hold my hand
write me the poem
no one has written
me
thoughts of this thinking
fumble
like some deferred cuddle call
some awe-inspired calling
a third chapter or 7th breath
waiting to ex hell
at 2:00 a.m.
and counting...
my body
caresses itself against the mattress
arms fold under arms
that have promised to hold me
better than others have
let me slip away
tonight
I am feeling
not so strong
un-sexy
like tomorrow is taking too long
to give birth to my next smile
(what I would give to smile
as effortlessly as I spell it)
my insomnia
is the body's insistence
that these arms will not trick,
tease, sex
this body
into thinking I am enough
tonight
I cannot save myself
hold myself up
measure the distance
between the drum beats of my
he-art
tonight
i reject others
who would love
to try
to love
tonight
i want to be
enough for me
tonight
but i am not...
don't
feel safe enough to cry
stong enough wait for night
to come
as surely as it passes
so eye stay up
like the yawn waiting to come
with mourning...
when eye done grown
so tired
of being open
that eye curl back
into the promise...
of a new salvation
and the darkness morphs
into a chance
to maybe
do it better
next night
but not quite
heavy enough
to take me
from the dream i live to dream
into the dream itself
i long
to smile
with such happiness
i drool
and am proud
of the traces
on my pillow.
my mouth
craving
somethin' sweeter
than honeycomb,
or butter pecan
somethin' sweeter
than memory of a lover's insistence
or his seduction
to come
be
remembered
in this here present
my touch
wanting to feel
something softer
than keyboard clicking
something
pre-linguistic
something simply
less calculated
than the calculus of poetry
or its failure
to hold my hand
write me the poem
no one has written
me
thoughts of this thinking
fumble
like some deferred cuddle call
some awe-inspired calling
a third chapter or 7th breath
waiting to ex hell
at 2:00 a.m.
and counting...
my body
caresses itself against the mattress
arms fold under arms
that have promised to hold me
better than others have
let me slip away
tonight
I am feeling
not so strong
un-sexy
like tomorrow is taking too long
to give birth to my next smile
(what I would give to smile
as effortlessly as I spell it)
my insomnia
is the body's insistence
that these arms will not trick,
tease, sex
this body
into thinking I am enough
tonight
I cannot save myself
hold myself up
measure the distance
between the drum beats of my
he-art
tonight
i reject others
who would love
to try
to love
tonight
i want to be
enough for me
tonight
but i am not...
don't
feel safe enough to cry
stong enough wait for night
to come
as surely as it passes
so eye stay up
like the yawn waiting to come
with mourning...
when eye done grown
so tired
of being open
that eye curl back
into the promise...
of a new salvation
and the darkness morphs
into a chance
to maybe
do it better
next night
Monday, February 14, 2005
Where Love Is?
i'm still looking... but I think I might be on to something in my search. the following was written almost two years ago. Interestingly, I was very much in love with someone and we were really struggling to come to some resolve about how we imagined love... our similarities and differences and our challenges in spite of and because of those things. It's been two years and who woulda thunk I'd still be single (mr. serial monogamy?)
anyhow... this poem makes me a little sad today. i've really loved anyone I've ever loved... and sometimes i remember what that felt like... even when things weren't at best, but you wanted to try and try again to make things work.
maybe next time, huh? maybe there'll be a next time... and if not... i still got lots of love in my life
__________________
Where Love Is…
Tim’m
02/02/03
Where is love?
if not between the falling in and out
nestled there firmly affixed to the heart
like a first joyous gaze upon a first love
or patience for a favorite meal...
if not somewhere
between the first and last line
of a cherished poem.
Where is love?
if not underneath a memory
of a first night hug or kiss or last glance back
before the eye met you
and merely anticipated
a gracious givingness of the heart
to even a perfect stranger
willing to surrender a smile...
Where love is...
is straddling the space
between be mine and be you
pulling you close and letting you go
me being happy and we being happy.
Love often chooses not to choose...
once released it can never be returned
Unconditional
love gets burdened by
expectation, anticipation, selfish longings
delusions of fairness, reciprocity,
or possession.
Love just wants to love
have it be accepted without explanation.
It is not so very different
than other loves.
Humble
it demands no speciality...
for it accepts
that it is no less special
than what it is:
the shine glistening rhythmically
with the water's shimmy on a lake
the pitch of a laugh
that rises and falls
with the release of a breath.
Love is there.
anyhow... this poem makes me a little sad today. i've really loved anyone I've ever loved... and sometimes i remember what that felt like... even when things weren't at best, but you wanted to try and try again to make things work.
maybe next time, huh? maybe there'll be a next time... and if not... i still got lots of love in my life
__________________
Where Love Is…
Tim’m
02/02/03
Where is love?
if not between the falling in and out
nestled there firmly affixed to the heart
like a first joyous gaze upon a first love
or patience for a favorite meal...
if not somewhere
between the first and last line
of a cherished poem.
Where is love?
if not underneath a memory
of a first night hug or kiss or last glance back
before the eye met you
and merely anticipated
a gracious givingness of the heart
to even a perfect stranger
willing to surrender a smile...
Where love is...
is straddling the space
between be mine and be you
pulling you close and letting you go
me being happy and we being happy.
Love often chooses not to choose...
once released it can never be returned
Unconditional
love gets burdened by
expectation, anticipation, selfish longings
delusions of fairness, reciprocity,
or possession.
Love just wants to love
have it be accepted without explanation.
It is not so very different
than other loves.
Humble
it demands no speciality...
for it accepts
that it is no less special
than what it is:
the shine glistening rhythmically
with the water's shimmy on a lake
the pitch of a laugh
that rises and falls
with the release of a breath.
Love is there.
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