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.
Monday, October 17, 2005
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.
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