Noir Reflections '06

(photo by emile benjamin)

we came to hills where cometh our strength, riding the wave of whatever change was awaiting permission to be sparked. we brought our burdens there: full hearts and blues boxes with songs from the key of life and salt. we came committed to be the change we dream: living in our fullness where others filled their emptiness with next cocktails, cocks or tails. sober, we understood the necessity of feeling with the clarity of vultures sighting sustinence. holding one another close, we understood that expressions of intimacy don't require nakedness, risk, or self-sacrifice. we held one another so closely that it hurt to let go. in the after... we will have to call on the memory of such protectedness.

we needed to pray together-- build a shrine with our inspirational quotes, taboos, tears, ghetto-antics, and cuddles. we needed to believe we were the product of a loving and living God, full of grace and endowing us with peace of mind to enact the revolutions that would reflect in our mirrors, homes, and families. we came to find refuge in friends and left with the certainty of brothas who would hold us in the falls or at the edge of heartbreaks. we arrived single and partnered to leave committed to the same or not-- whatever deepened the joy and stability we seek. we prayed for courage to do the work when we returned back to the source of our coming. we would not leave the same as the way we came. how could we, when we ate hearty, sanctified meals prepared by goddesses who cook with love? the food made us happy and brave souls willing to exhale all discontentment and shame. we needed to be reminded that we could live better than we had... we needed to be reminded even, of our will to live.

i arrived there having let my light slip a bit. there was a time, not so long ago, when i wanted ceremonies, families joined in their struggle to reconcile the truth of two blakkboys' enduring love for one another: resilient and fearless. love for me represents more joyfullness, romance, and love making than I have experienced to date. so i wanted friends around who reminded me that i would not find fullness by becoming numb to love's promise-- defering it for another day or stopping short of whatever is best. i want to feel it's grasp now: holding me as tightly as my dearest would were it my last breath. but somehow... convinced that i might be expecting too much too soon, i got lost. an army of angels came to rescue me from the pit of self-doubt and disrememberance. i have known love so full it moved me to joy beyond measure. how did i let the memory of such fullness escape the tomorrow i had been molding with my will? how could i blame its loss on anyone but me? i can be the change i dream is possible, moving through blue to get to my rainbow. brave souls provided a noir reflection-- reminded me that i am love... am an inspiration... am worthy of someone so confidently blessed to be my complement that they beam, not shrink, at inquiry of my absence because I fill them with joy-- emit an aura that says "kept close" when thought about, tickle the gut to arouse the smile whose source is my own, my baritone resonating so deeply that the afterparts tingle with anticipation for the next time i sink myself into love...into him. why haven't i claimed this... its becoming or its revelation? why would i ever settle for less than this fullness? be somebody other than myself? have i been afraid to ask for what i so deserve?

at noir reflections 06, i was reminded: i am the shine and strength of leather. i am the bear's muse and hunger. i am greater than i have let myself be in recent months... and only i am to blame...only i can fix it. how could i let myself slip... doubt my agility to stretch into the fullness i'd been molding for years? I had to retreat to high hills and clean water-- remove myself from the muck of city smoke and delusions of "cool" to find a perfection so simple it is God.

tonight i am praying for rememberence... for what it feels like to shake worry and embrace peace of mind and joy-- feel good about rising with a rise and making my sweetheart blush... my sweetheart is one who blushes because he is proud that i love him. my sweetheart keeps me blushing. he is thankful for friends who'd hold my wait in his absence. i am learning to recognize that mine is a love that expects better love than the day before, not the contentment of "cool" or deferred dreams. how simple it can be to let love extend itself, without fear or trepidation of the hurt. how powerful would such a love be to those looking for clues on what it means to make it work, without feeling like you're always working. I am remembering the brothas around me who saw the shine i have forgotten. If need be i will rewind life to december 8-10 in '06 to glimpse a sense of what it feels like to show and be shown adoration. it is as sweet as my first honeysuckle kiss.

how could i ever doubt whatever has made me smile? why would i continue to let in anything that would bring me to tears so full of pain they do not fall for fear of blinding me? i am claiming release from anything that would wish me less that my most full smile. i am turning myself over to those who provide safety enough to draw out tears I have not let fall since Rickey's fall. i am remembering the strength of the savior who held me then and claiming it again. He would want that for me: ceremonies, rituals, and assurance... that the best days are yet to come. He wants me to feel the love he knows my heart beats for. Gotta get back to honoring how sweet that is.

and I have noir reflections 06 in deep creek maryland with Us Helping Us to thank for these and other revelations: eric nicholson, monte' j., yarde, marques, sleepy, ernest, patrick, nigel, donte shannon, ken, curtis, tavarious, chris, emile, jeff, and kimothy. i thank them for holding a mirror to myself through eyes so fierce in their loving that I see myself as nothing less than the beauty I am looking for.

I am claiming my fullness this moment, and...

exhibition seen

the unassuming exhibitionist
turns his body to light
gets held by gazes so intently
that he tries to stretch out of recognition
into darkness,
wherever he feels would safely
place him out of harm's ray

his tentative avoidance
becomes his song and dance
and people relish the glide of his feet
inhale the afterglow
of his unintentional smiles
his thoughtfullnees morphs into a mean-mugg
they say it is sexy
though he has never longed to be
just needed and cherished

a baritone, his curse given at birth
forshawdowing that he'd never experience
childhood
yet seductive
so people lick their lips
(and he pretends not to see them)
and people dream him into their bodies
with their eyes
(and sometimes, he dreams with them)

and while he often does not like it
he has come to recognize
what it means to be annointed
with the gift
of moonlight
of a body that in its robust imperfection
is perfect to watch...
shift, glow, rise, and disappear

and so he spins back into night light
realizing this has been his calling
and they wonder
if his touch would be as beautiful
as this exhibition thing he does
on stages or in grocery stores
while he wonders
if a body of art
can be loved
as passionately as it is so highly
appraised

Brave Souls Unplugged: a collage in truth

hey family.

Brave Soul Collective is doing a fundraiser in order to support our 501c 3 status as a non-profit. We're putting together an incredible showcase of Theatre, Music, and Poetry/Spoken Word that is sure to be powerful, provocative, and pleasurable. I don't ask for a lot from friends, but I hope that you will all support this event. As an artist and activist, Brave Soul Collective embodies so much of what I stand for, as a truth-teller whose song aspires to be contagious enough to change it all: education, HIV/AIDS, the various idiotic isms we still deal with in 2006, and so much beyond that.

Monday, November 20, 2006
Brave Soul Collective presents:
Brave Souls Unplugged: a collage in truth
Music, Theatre, and Poetry/Spoken Word
by: Tim'm T. West, Monte J. Wolfe, Restoration Stage Theater,
ButtaFlySoul, Vincenzo Cornetto, Jason Barrett AKA Jazz,
Warehouse Theater- Main Stage
1021 7th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20001
7:00 p.m.
for more details, go to:
www.bravesoulcollective.org

love-ritual defined:

(or ways I want to feel love(d))

1. little things
signifying
the encyclopedia of feelings
already felt and anticipated
and being very
(very... very)
proud to be
caught up in the rapture
so much that others feel it.
not so much public display
as private illumination
of joy so full it overcomes
especially your fear
is the exceess manifest as your aura

2. romantic bookends anchor
libraries echoing
those three words
said a million different ways
(even without words).
lips that do not tire
from kiss
eyes that notice
they are watched...
and that bask in the enjoyment
of being such a wonder
the other 7 grow green with envy

3. the magnetic lure of lips
ajoining smiles and after-tingles
the sheer mutuality of joy's resonance
waiting to return (again)
and looking for ways to (re)assure
beyond the ways already discovered.
seeing the smile
on the otherside
of your text message or "hi".
embracing intensity
and running from fear.
bravery to get beyond
what blocks your blessing.

4. patience enough
to allow second winds of change
to lift you both
over hurdles
and the ability to blush
when disagreeing or mad
hold one another anyway
let lullabies or prayer
resolve the discord
and pleased to stay,
hold,
kiss when only night notices
hold the wait
tightly.

5. empathy enough to know
the one you are loving
is hurting
(and restless with that shit)
courage to communicate
and the urgency to make things right
even if you cannot.
confidence in knowing
each day
why you choose to stay
a most special friend

6. and yes....
there is candle-light
slow dances
silliness and laughter
loving the love made
the cuddles or pillow talk
before and/or after
and even in the spaces between
where absence or moods
swing with the force of inevitability
touch and go
and you can still feel the touch
in pillows grabbed
in the pulse of your heart
and feel as full as ever
knowing
rituals will hold
because you hold them
as sweetly as you hold
each other.

Remember to Remember to Breathe: A Lesson Rickey taught me.

It's been a little more than a month to the day since I received the news that my dear friend Rickey Williams committed suicide by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge. There....I said it. No softening what happened with elusive synonyms like "he took his life" that beg the question. There is no poetry when the crude reality of this loss still bites at me. No "first flight" to beautify what was such a horribly traumatic event. Why did he do it? People still ask; as if I actually know... Rickey's pain with whatever he was dealing with became so acute that he forgot that I needed him. I suppose it's selfish to say that. I suppose it's selfish that he jumped. But I live with the remnants of whatever we shared that give our relationship meaning: love for the outdoors, being moved to poetry, our romance with black people (even when they'd failed us), and a certain idealism that a better world awaits. Rickey became impatient with this "world to be" that we romanced during meals or walks near water. I've been suicidal myself, though I struggle to float as a way of soaking up tomorrow's promise.

A month later I am still at a loss to understand the whys. I remember getting the call from Marvin White while in Chicago. The news of Rickey's death was one thing. That he committed suicide seemed to suspend the pain. Deep down I wanted to know how. Something about the method would make it more tangible. I'd walked across the Golden Gate with Rickey before. It's a very amazing structure-- much more magnificent than I expected. It's no wonder that people who have lost sight that there's any reason to continue living, take to the air beneath. They must all believe they are displaced angels. The bridge isn't gold though, it's red. I find that interesting given that it's also the #1 suicide spot in the nation. The city would erect a preventative barrier on the bridge but would lose too much money due to tourism of this Great Wonder. A wonder our Capitalism is.

Rickey came to Oakland straight outta New Mexico. I remember him wearing sandals in winter and thinking.... what a white boy hippie?!? It was probably a very fucked up thing to think and I never spoke it, though I'm sure he read my eyes well enough. It wasn't so much that I was one-upping his blackness... but blackness was so ever-present in my life that I often took it for granted. Excitement about blackness kinda rubbed me the wrong way, because I feel that I've seen the very best and worse of my people. I hold no romance of "we were once kings and queens". The kings and queens had slaves.

Rickey seemed to desire the seemingly effortless manner of my black maleness. Still, blackness was something I'd often felt trapped by. I had been betrayed too often by brothas and sistas (on the basis of my sexuality, alone) to hold any notion of a revolutionary unified front smashing global white supremacy. My blackness seemed unquestionable, my naptitude as radiant as my Negritude, I carried the trace of Mandingo in my baritone and swagger. But I, as often, felt burdened by it. Rickey's off-center blackness was a middle finger to the anxious afrocentrists trying to serve as blackness or masculinity police. I'm not sure if he truly realized the sheer power and beauty of it. He was shameless about his love for black men. He loved us perhaps better than he loved himself.

I remember laughing at how excited Rickey was to be living in Oakland with its black bohemian aesthetic. I hadn't considered that the New Mexico or Colorado offered nothing remotely "black-mecca" in the way that Oakland does. Rickey quickly got involved in several of the BayArea black arts- activist scenes-- from East Bay church, which we both attended regularly, to BGLAM (Black Gay Letters and Arts Movement). Rickey did what many of us activist minded people do-- save everyone but ourselves. It's easier to offer the solutions to others-- harder to face the reality that despite the knowledge and information you have at your disposal... that you still struggle with feelings of inadequacy, lack of self-worth, and utter dejection. There's blood memory that we carry with us that is the unresolved pain of silent and silenced generations. I suppose we should be proud that we are a strong (black) people. We suffer so much and are still here. But some of us grow impatient and irresponsive to that pep talk. We need a big black proverbial couch and to be reminded by that shrink God that we are loved unconditionally. Here on Earth, we are more often than not reminded of how conditional love is.

Some of us desire every reminder of love and goodness in the world with a sense of urgency. We want life to be easier. We get tired of struggling and carrying the weight of so many who seem apathetic to the way things are. Certain aspects of the world can make us physically sick. And we can love with the intensity of a Phoenix-- focusing on our heart's desire so intently that our living becomes inextricable to our living for someone or something. Some who read this will say they've never loved anyone or anything that much. For all of the pain loving this way can create-- the extremes of which can manifest as suicidal feelings-- I'm glad I was made this way. I think it makes me special. Rickey was special too.

Rickey and I were drawn to each other instantly. He was the rock climbing, mountain hiking, granola eating, backpacking and recycling lightskindid allure who I believed was a true free spirit. I suppose he saw me as the black gay revolutionary dredlocked banjeeboy jock rapper with fire in my eyes; leading some tribe to Elsewhere. I think he once said that he admired and wanted to be like me. I think I wanted to be a little like him. I resent that he gave up on life. We operated as pillars for each other. I had a few despondent moments myself and Rickey held my hand through it. We'd helped each other survive a few lows before. When you're an activist and speaking on behalf of people who haven't yet gained courage to speak for themselves, you take on a lot of pain. It's wise to check self sometimes and ensure that you can note the ways YOU are being take care of.

Rickey and I both recognized the frailty guised by our strong statures, when others failed to see anything but strong black men. And perhaps real strong black men would have done a little more to uncover that frailty. Sometimes our projections of strength don't match our reality. I cried like a baby when I got the news about Rickey, so much that I had to be held together by among the dearest people I have on the planet, my friend Christopher. I think that he will forever see me differently than many people do, having seen me at my weakest. I am freer to be free with him as a result. I need more people in my life around whom I'm not afraid to cry. I'm getting there.

I remember reaching out to Rickey once before. We went on play-dates with each other as a way of reminding one another how we really should be treated. Both hopeless romantics, all seemed right in the world when love was right. I'm not sure this way of being in the world is especially uncommon, though some would never admit it. I just hope to remember that "love in my life" has a far greater scope than any one person can fill. I hope to honor the reminders I so freely give others when I tell them to "remember to remember to breathe". It's not the breathing that we do naturally, but the deliberate breath-- the intentional honoring of the life force and it's continuation despite the thickness of bigotry and inequality in the world.

Is it any wonder that so many black gay boys have considered suicide, when our very existence is doubly negated by institutionalized racism and homophobia? Is there any wonder that those of us who survive it are among the most strong and resilient beings on the planet? We must find ways to honor this-- to encourage compliments to one another on our achievements and efforts-- even when we fall short. Rickey organized these retreats for brothas in the Bay where they'd go on hiking trips and talk about their lives and living with HIV (or not). These were affirming spaces where brothas left the hike feeling better about themselves than when they came. When the retreats were over, I wonder if Rickey felt better. Such selflessness can take an eventual toll on the strongest of us. While I never had the privilege of attending one of Rickey's outdoor retreats, I'm all the more rededicated to ensure these kinds of events go on, in memory of his legacy. But at the end of the day, when this warrior I've become has put down the shield and sword from the day's battle, I'm also rededicating myself to my own self-care, to learning how to relax, to saying no to "work" guised as "opportunity". I've gotta learn how to say I'm tired or need rest. I am best for us all, if I can learn to be better to me. This is perhaps the most difficult lesson I learned from Rickey. Every day since his passing, I've remembered him. Each day I plan to make good on the lesson I gave to him, but that was, as much, meant for me: "remember to remember to breathe!"

What Brave Souls are made of...

Back in May, two other HIV+ brothas and I (Erik Chambers, l, and Monte J. Wolfe, r) launched a new organization called Brave Soul Collective that seeks to provide an alternative to the stigma, secrecy, and shame that many brothas who love brothas associate with their lives. We understood early that this would not be done without the support and collaboration with our HIV- brothas and sistas, so we're now experiencing what happens when you open a big closet door at the proverbial/metonymic black community center and everyone, poz and neg, gay/bi/sgl or straight-identified, OUT and DL, men and women (who strive to love and better support us), begin to keep it real for real about things. It's pretty powerful!

If this is the kind of space you believe is worth nurturing, check us out. It costs nothing to be a part of this community except the request to be more brave, than you (perhaps) believe is possible. We've launched a very wonderful website:

www.bravesoulcollective.org

where brothas (and, on occassion, sistas) are encouraged to talk very openly about topics: body image, sex (yes, detailed stuff), depression and suicide prevention, HIV/AIDS testing, care and lifestyle, relationships and dating, music and the arts, etc... Check out the Message Board, but also Artist Feature (we've had Lalah Hathaway and Frenchie Davis in past months), Topic of the Month (this month, relationships), and other pages.

It's among the things I'm most proud of. Inspired by the late Essex Hemphill's poem "For My Own Protection," I once wrote that I wanted "to start an organization to help save my life". I believe that I have.... but it's about much more than my life, happiness, joy.... standing in my truth. It's about providing a space where others feel welcome to do so; and know there's a community of Brave Souls who will hold their truth.... and them too.

That's whassup!

FYI: We'll be hosting an introduction of BSC at In the Life Atlanta/Atlanta Black Pride on Saturday, September 2nd at the Host Hotel. For more details, continue checking this blog entry or the website. Our face to face meetings are just as powerful. We've had them in DC, Chicago, and now ATL. It's less about the organization in progress, than the community finally standing up to speak for itself, instead of being reduced to media "DL" soundbites.

Remembering Our Love, Remembering Rickey

First Flight
(for Rickey Williams)
written July 27, 2006

on monday he took first flight
leapt to his death
face cutting air
arms surrendering like the tears
i'd wiped goodbye
many times before

he fell as if meant to fly
no confidence in wings
and some of us knew he was an angel
but he didn't believe us
some devil echo of self-doubt
made him believe we were tricksters
salesmen of empty promises
some muthafucker in his head
promised peace in the valley of the Bay

(exhale)

so he jumped
into baptismal waters
to be born again
took flight into the only option
he felt would bring him peace
but everyone knows
no one survives that fall
into the feeling that pain ends
when life does

cuz life is so much bigger than any pain
i sometimes stretch my lens
beyond peripheral vision
to see all the hope around me
all the arms willing to hold me up
when I feel like falling
feel like disremembering
I'm a reason somebody loves living

(when in hell, ex-hell)

because depression is another
of our dirty secrets
doesn't happen to black boys
our suicides are not as often
sharp dramatic leaps
self-induced strange fruit noose
our suicidal tendencies be subtle
are unprotected sex, gangsta gattin,
drug escapisms, cuz "we don't give a fuck"
we do not as often leap
except when in that tight-fit
where death seems a most urgent
place of peace

the golden gate harbors a cemetary
for colored boys who've committed suicide
though some would prefer to believe
only white folks do shit like that
only white folks prop chairs below ceiling fans
have hearty last suppers
prepared with ingredients
from medicine cabinets
only white folks break when broken
and am tired of our bullshit
lying to ourselves

(exhale)

I only wish that i could have been
his savior
(again)
break bread with him
write another poem on his skin
to remind him not to forget
he is beautiful
when he disremembers
but on Monday he lost sight
took flight
and I was not there
to shake him out of it
did not get a call
was not given the chance to give my all
be the savior he has been for me

on tuesday i got the news
a friend held me through tears
my eyes are still recovering from the flood-rush
i recall my psych ward downspiral
when he appeared
held my hand, wiped tears from my face
reminded me of hope
beyond the overwhelming darkness
obscuring my shine
and the light it provided for black boys
like him

(in hell)

on wednesday i had to deliver the news to others
it is thursday
i still do not know why
i disappeared from his scope
so i will live
if only to continue being
reason enough for people to keep living
even when I struggle with that same darkness
that acute lapse of judgement
when hurting overshadows joy
I'll remember his first flight
as reason enough
to catch myself
ensure his poetry
takes shape through my next breath

inhale
exhale
remember to breathe
___________________________________

For a continuous effort to keep the memory of Rickey alive, as well as other photos of my beautiful friend, go to:

http://www.our-memories-of.com/Rickey_Williams/Home.aspx

hate resides between a rock and hard place

So herein lies a situation where a population of people vastly affected by AIDS/HIV addresses their state of emergency by doing what black churches around the U.S. have been trying to do for years: address HIV/AIDS without addressing, and in some cases promoting, blantant HOMOPHOBIA against people who have been vastly affected by the epidemic: homosexual men. The homocidal violence promoted by Beenie Man and TOK featured in LIFEbeat's forthcoming July 18th concert cannot be simply dismissed as a respect for free cultural expression when these lyrics have direct impress on cultures who manifest-- with growing and unchecked proliferation of such hate via music-- an increase in violence against gay and lesbian people.

At the same time, you have privileged Westren political institutions (yes, even black gay ones) who sometimes arrogantly impose their ethical mass to block concerts as a show of intolerance with homophobia. Unfortunately, they sometimes also block the opportunity for conversation. The result seems to a symbolic reaffirmation of cultural imperialism and political egocentrism forced fed to a population of often disenfranchised people who understandibly resist such "activist" efforts in favor of their own "resistance speak" (whether or not they actually and truly hate gay people or not). Hating homosexuals becomes conflated with hating the nation that seems to so quickly come to their defense-- a nation that often unfairly stigmatizes Caribbean homophobia as indicative of their cultural backwardness. Do I think that Beenie Man's and TOK's songs killed people? NO. Do I think they deepen and normalize the already existing hate and homophobia of a society that has too easily conflated gay protest as indicative of global white supremacy at work? YES!

A hip hop artist who can give an expansive list of homophobic quotes from Hip Hop artists, I'm not sure we respond as quickly to expose hypocrisy with our own artists. How many celebs have vowed to fight AIDS while showing evidence of homophobia. It's the American way. Let's be consistent.

Let's stop being lazy!

I just think that there has to be some other way to address this hate between rocks and hard spaces... and perhaps a blog posting and some conversation and visibility about it, whatever lack of resolve I have about the efforts to be advesarial with LIFEbeat, is one way to accomplish that.

We should protest, but the objective should be to engage in dialogue. Merely shutting a show down may do more to impede progress than advance it.

You are encouraged to vist Keith Boykins's website at:

http://www.keithboykin.com/arch/2006/07/11/black_gay_blogg

and share your opinion. Feel free also, of course, to share them here.


Yours in this (beautifully complicated) struggle!



Tim'm
(who thanks you all for the happy 34th Birthday wishes)

chipping off the old block (a father's day reflection)

chip 1.

my heart is senseless
it makes as much sense
as driving 5 hours
on father's day
for a 15 minute visit
to gaze into the eyes
of the man whose seed
became my becoming
only to recognize
how little we know about each other
how cliche' conversations have become:
"how's basketball?
you liftin?
which boy is it now?"
i want to get beneath the surface
of words
reveal the sincerity of our silence
for what we are perhaps both
afraid to admit:
I may be more like him
than i'd like to be.

just hours later
i do not remember
the soft of his hug
for all the ways he raised us tough
his kisses came closest
to resolving the neglect.
among the sweetest memories
of my boyhood
was having people see "rev." and "coach"
kiss the same lil boy
he said tackled either
"like a sissy" or "too mean"
I could never find the in-between
i still do not know when and where
his molding began
or when it will end.

chip 2.

i had hoped pops
would relish my trip
as brave
me sacrificing time sandwiched between
work and work
just so he can be reminded
I've still got the chisel of his mask.
I had hoped pops
would understand
my drive
as flowing from the same well of passion
that has made him fall to fast
scratch dirt in the knee-scrapes
trying to clean them off
and perhaps
my thick muscularity and baritone
are evidence enough
that I'm still a tough cookie
if often and ironically
an unhappy gay

I'd hoped he would think more
of the sentiment i wrote in the card
than the modest monetary token
he ripped the envelope to claim
but he left the card and broken envelope
in the back seat
money gone
the clash of hallmark cliche'
with poetry I wrote
as insecurely as
the wear and tear of our
guydance

chip 3.

i wanted to leave something behind
but he left it carelessly discarded
so I have taken it back with me
like the image of him
across from me at McDonalds
post 60 salt and pepper masculinity,
still cocky and fearless
like I'm sometimes not sure
I will get to live to be:
confident in spite of emo-clutter
left behind
and people trying to forgive
a lovingly foolish heart

like the nervous drive
i will blame on transmission issues
hands shaking in route
I still went to meet the man
insecure that i am enough,
some approximation
of whatever will make him proud
so I am not certain that i will ever
live down the ways
I'm second born
root rusted and cornfed like him
hands not as hardened
though thick with the wrestle
of heartquakes
and heavy breaths

chip 4.

i shared with him
evidence of the ways my heart has become
clumsy, like his has been known to be
and he smiled
teeth not as bright as his aura:
"YOU A WEST
a chip off the old block"
I'm not sure I found it funny
but I suppose
he is right

because i will continue
to drive hours
for the possibility of 15 minutes of love
will continue to fall as hard
as dominos are slapped
on cardboard tables
i'll continue to seek
the man i am becoming
till i can look in the mirror,
like I look at my father
and say with full resolve
"you did ahhite!"

Foolish Heart

For being the source of HIS, my tears will find no resolve in the sheets that catch them, only through him, who from the day I met him, has been my most beloved; my most perfect friend.

Shakespeare's Othello, before he took the blade to his heart did say:
"you must speak of one who loved not wisely, but too well"

if I have never understood this quote I have taught for years, I do now. There is a song for this feeling... My heart will archive a compilation for this fall. When my cherished one finds the heart to come to my aid, forgive the errors of my heart's ways, I may be given permission, only then, to forgive my foolish heart. Others will have to forgive the quiet, the blank stare, the prospect that I may beg pain's permission (again) to write poems. My pen fails me as my heart has. And perhaps there is reason for it all... Maybe someday it'll all make sense.
______________________

Foolish Heart First appeared on Street Talk
(Columbia Records 39334)
1984 Street Talk Tunes, April Music Inc & Random Notes)
(Steve Perry, Randy Goodrum)

I need a love that grows
I don't want it unless I know
With each passing hour
Someone somehow
Will be there
Ready to share

I need a love that's strong
I'm so tired of being alone
But will my lonely heart
Play the part
Of the fool again
Before I begin

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore

Feelin' that feelin' again
I'm playin' a game I can't win
Love's knockin' on the door
Of my heart once more
Think I'll let her in
Before I begin

Foolish Heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

(keyboard solo)

Foolish heart
Hear me callin'
Stop before
You start fallin'
Foolish heart
Heed my warnin'
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore
Foolish heart

Oh foolish, foolish heart
You've been wrong before

Foolish, foolish heart
Foolish heart

Brave Soul Collective

"Brothas Gonna Work it Out, Brothas gonna work it out". The time and circumstances call for courage when, as my Brave Soul compadre Erik Chambers says, "silence is more toxic than the virus itself".  

check out the Brave Soul Collective:

www.washblade.com/2006/5-26/locallife/feature/group.cfm

www.bravesoulcollective.org

coming to Brave Souls near you!

20001

this soil that always drawls me
back
i prepare to leave (again)
having found
its Southern charm
forgiven its ostentatious pretense
longed for more of its lure and magic
this second time around

i leave wondering
why I always wander back
down alphabet streets
across checkerboard blocks
where yuppies and niggaz
ignore the shortening distance
between what it was, is
and will be: D.C.

and it be
that pit stop on the way to
my next somewhere
shifting as i stir
most beautiful
when it's not trying to be
the ruse of bling
cradled in asphalt

this place where
artists are professionals
(on the side)
and vice versa
to make ends make sense
will always be home to me
though being so close
to the powers that run the world
can run one mad or away

still I will miss
these same streets where
i first affirmed
there were others here
drawn to the possibility of finding
(people like) themselves
and it seems I have always left
this blues alley
frustrated with the ways it failed
to be a place that would hold
more than
a few bitter-sweet memoires
but some of the most cherished ones
I have
are here:
The birthday present I got at 33,
Front Porches, Fireplaces
all the dances between them
captivating the prospect
of being cherished
like I will always cherish
this place where i tried...
and learned what it meant to be
cherished

will miss its
wireless coffee shop cubicles
where i've dredged inspiration
to write wrongs
overstand the lessons they provide
erect museums with the open journals
that are my pulse and cure

and i have waited the weight of human traffic
at this vast intersection of America
where states collide at red lights
and freaks come out at night
for a taste of freedom


a taste linked to
my palate's insistence
to mambo my chicken til it drips
to be the black-clack go-go
I'm unlikely to feel
(quite the same)
anywhere else

and like these poems
trapped in my fingers
that have become songs,
my blakkboy blues
are rooted here
so i remember there are places
i have never wanted to leave
for fear of being forgotten
and there is a place
i have always preferred to leave
to return to

I'm moving to Chicago in JULY and it's all HIS Fault!!!

I'm moving to Chicago in July and it's all HIS fault!!! Seriously... I am very happy. And for those who know me, you know that distance or space between has never broken the intensity of our connectedness. Congratulate! It's what I've waited for. Please read the poem below.  

Sum Total

(for Bryan Christopher Smith)

he is
sum total of everything
I have already written
on loving
ask me how I know
and sense
the assurance of a mother
who recognizes
the scent and twinkle
of her first born
when multitudes of tots
dart their brashness
past first day of school
exit bells
run out be claimed
by air and expectancy
and find their most beloved
who claims
with the extension of arms
and with reciprocal knowingness:
that one is mine

he is my sum total
the embodiment
of brilliant possibility
and claiming that everything
that could be
is here and ready to become
this present moment:
the exchange of rings
a commitment ceremony
mappings of deferred dreams
the topography of shared tomorrows
the fulfillment of landscape,
of this home we've been building
all our lives
perhaps unknowingly
through the ware and tear
of past heart-hurt

i am his sum total
something more firm
than visionary volitions
and realizing too late
that it was never meant
for anyone
to believe in love
alone
that faith must be shared
and so when really real?
we wake with the confidence
that every plus and minus
every approximation of perfection
each exponent of faith
seeming to subtract
hopes to increase love itself,
the probability of a lifetime
have been waiting
for now

so for the first time
we do not adore this way alone
do not claim and write
and dream
we've found it
alone
do not fall too fast alone
ask me how i know?
and I'll tell you to call him
look at him
speak with him
hear the passion-tremor
of a man as bold
as any challenge or caution
that this is not real
or will not work out
has not been given time enough
look at him
see in his eyes
anything that suggests
everything he has worked for
every pain he has endured
is not the calculus
of his most lucid dream
of a lifetime with his sum total

ask him how he knows
i am good for him so soon?
he'll ask
if you get anything different
from me
beyond the symmetry of knowing
true loves will always follow their hearts
so our families and friends
will have to get over themselves
overcome their precautions and anxiety
and understand
there are dreamers
who keep dreams hostage to fear
and those who damn the dream
and do the damn thing

in this case
we found each other
so celebrate that with us
ask him how he knows
ask him if this poem
is nothing less
than my vow of faith
to be, stay, abide
with nothing less
than the sum-total
of all past belief
that I am worthy of the best things
and am finally realizing
that at the end of the day
I am one who wants to know
I was brave enough to brave the risk
again
that I will never "do me" differently

and
those who know me
simply know
go’head, ask them how they know
and they'll say
"that damn boy is at it again"
with a smile as gracious
as the one I hold
in the presence of my sum-total

First Fresh Cut in Years!

was cool being felt on and pampered. something sensual about the barber chair!



What happened to that boy?!?! 

hymn'm: remembering my first voice

the voice. after some ten years of emceein' and spoken wordin, i'm getting comfortable again with my first chords-- thick with the baritone tones rolling across deacon pews on sunday, hearty wails that reflect something beyond the words...which is why the hymn was often most profound in the hummin. dig? lately I've been doing a lot more singing. I've heard from some that my singing voice is stronger than my voice as an emcee-- certainly more distinct. some don't feel the "grit" and expect the edges of this Arkansas root-croon to conform to perfectionist edits that deemphasize the spirit. It's like if Mary always had perfect pitch, she'd be like so many other mediocre R&B singas.... and not Mary....imperfectly soulful....which is life, right?

let's be honest, there are, at this juncture in our hip hop soundscape, few people who don't sound like anyone else... but on occassion, there's something distinct. As I approach doing work for the follow up to "Songs from Red Dirt", new city (DC, not the Bay), new landscape and new inspirations, I'm drawing more upon song than boom- bap ciphers deciphering meaning (or meaninglessness).... but i digress. i've been waking lately with songs, not raps on the mind... maybe it's age. maybe the rap is something i associate with DDC and there are too few rap faggots in DC to keep that guttaral ego-thurst dome'n. I do freestyle a lot more, but the idea of writing rhymes outside of compatriots who are doing the same.... it's just been harder here in DC. I'm excited about DDC's forthcoming "On Some Other"... but I've been holding back on my own "next shit" because I'm not sure what people expect: I rap, I sing, I'm a poet. My raps will probably never be jack-jill but a bit cryptic (with a penchant for word-play and innuendo), my spoken word is probably even more (multi)layered.... but this voice?... it's the most country biscuit part of me: bone bare, thick and corn-fed like I like my men or wimmins, spiritual like catching the holy ghost channelin GOD through your own chords.

So what's next? I'm not sure. I'm travelling, performing and singing a lot still. I'm drawing upon some new inspirations: fertile ground, amy winehouse, valencia robinson... and basking in the shine of some staples: carleen anderson, omar, lewis taylor, bilal, eric roberson, and of course some classic heads: Stevie Wonder, Donnie Hathaway, Marvin Gaye, Barry White, etc...

Interestingly, recently there have been a few voices I've heard that have stopped me dead in my tracks....sang hymn'ms for me (thanks ry).... woke me up to my inner church boy (thanks christian nelson and sol edler)... and I'm thankful these men were brave enough to sing for me, have me indulge the ways I reflect in it.... soulful, strong, and free. I've gigin with KUKU tonight and feel like singing. I may feel inspired to throw a rhyme in ...who knows how the flow gone go? but whatever comes of my forthcoming project "Boondock Boombap"...it'll most certainly be all of the above. feel me. definitively.

peep: www.reddirt.biz and the calendar for a croon near you.

hope is a man i was blessed to know

for stephen miller
January 22, 1954 - March 21, 2006

If there if softness
between the rocks and hard places
If there are unanswered questions
rolling into our tears
then we must know
God's grace is purposeful
then we know what it means
for someone to hold
your intentions, hopes,
aspirations, dreams
as if THEIR very livelihood
depended on YOUR blessing
so rare are such exemplars of
unselfishness
of the stuff we need to survive
so we gotta know
the substance of things not seen
is sometimes wrapped in flesh
we gotta know that the magnificence of spirit
is our softness in hard times

few men dare to dream
and believe as my friend did
stephen resurrected my hopes
for a future...
still beating the odds
so i remember that he did
remember
the gleam and pitch of his aura
recall the irony
of his tedious perfectionism
remember how delicate his palate was
for soul food smells from the kitchen
remember that his activism
was not acted, but lived

so when we find ourselves
losing sight of the soft between boulders
between mountains
we must remember
peace in the valley
the respite for our rejuvenation
Because hope is a man I was blessed to know

stephen's memory, like so many who've gone before
is that cushion
reminding
of the many things to be thankful for
the many reasons to smile
even when the hurt is so close and thick
even when we selfishly rebuke
the creator's design
we remember his smile
remember the beauty of what it meant
to believe in blessings.

honey, suckle, kiss

(because i forget sometimes, how sweet it is)

1.

some times
this heart beatz
for more time
to appreciate
night lullabies
roster crows
the puzzle of limbs
reminding
we are meant to wake this way
"sweet dreams are made of this"
pull gently
drip sweetness
remember its naturalness
do not deny your palate
this joy

sometimes i swagger sonnets
stroke bics across white sheets
be the 14 bar rhythmic stanza breaker
drunk on life
so hungry for love
the belly rumbles
when i sense its scent
thick like country kitchens
heavenly heavy
like the magnetic drawl
of what some southern tongues
whisper to their lovers
after a full kiss

and at the periphery
of a next daze:
there is my dreaming
and all the things
i make so
because i dare to dream
amazing supernatural things
like the loving i have yet to taste
back
and i surrender
to the faith
that it tastes sweet
tastes like a first honeysuckle kiss
my tongue has forgotten

2.

when i listen
deeply
when i feel for remembering
honey, suckle, kissin
spirit say:

"remember being product of
dream keepers
conjure womyn
moon shiners
lay hands on hands
make love as often and rarely
as love is made
and love makes you
tighten the grip on joy itself
until it submits"

"remember them parts
that need to be touched
treasure trails
neck backs
crevices of joints
that lure palms
tongues
seeking honeysuckle magic
and some body lookin
to share so sweet a secret
everybody knows"

"remember the hunger
remember you will starve if you
forget the recipe for smiles
eye-embraces and lip-licks
flirtations
ex-files and future rituals"


3.

so now
when joyful
when i humm deeply
spirit is sayin:

"overcome overcoming
wake more often
singing and bare
thick skin softened
by nightsweats
made while love making
remember to make love"

"see eye witness accounts
that treasure
what it means to be cherished:
870 area code-calls
blushing-back
the kind of simple sweetness
that defies category
the careless unprotectedness
of falling"

"do the kind of writing
done with eyes
the poetry of word-fails
when intentions step in
smile
wink
(even in a mirror)
and recognize
the most beautifulist thing
in this world
is all that joy
waiting to be believed in
prayed for
eyes tight
palm 2 palm
and believing
God answers prayers"

"remember that first
honey suckle kiss
back when you trusted it would be good
before you knew it was
remember to trust
especially when you forget to"

always already alright

"we can see the glass as half full or half empty....or we can break the glass altogether stressing about it. there's water enough to sustain us."

(yeah...i wrote it... pretty interesting ain't it? still trying to make sense of what precisely i meant when writing it. sometimes I'm guided to say things and the full comprehension is for some future understanding. Discuss...)

Going, going, gone…?

I’ve learned quite well how to be good to me
Alongside trying to be good to you
The hot and cold of you I strain to see
rhythms I tolerate when shine blacks blue
So should I seem to be desensitized
Not care about the way your passion wails
And you gaze in the depths of these brown eyes
And see a man who does not care we failed
Who does not long to live with confidence
The joy we share will stay beyond a day
Who dispossessed of language, my words bent
No longer wants a complement who’ll stay
Be sure if one day that’s the man you see
that I’m a poet, without poetry

"Wake Up, Mr. West...."

"Known to some as 25, others as Mr. West" 

poem for him

stump a poet with a poem
in order to make him write
love songs
when his lungs have become
too frail
for his wail
breathe ink into his pencils
make permanent
what has seemed so temporary:
the outline of anything
that would hold his body
better than pillows have held him
or his longing(s)

hold up these insecurities
in stanzas.
they, unlike mirrors,
reveal tears he cannot cry
break any delusions
that he is getting his best
with evidence
that he could be loved better
held closer
holding himself well enough
to accept
nothing less
than the fullness he dreams
should be in his arms
tonight

offer a he-art
as poetic as the crumple
between one fold
and the next poem
the next reading
the next possibility
of dreams coming true

pen the actuality
of his being loved
truly
so much that touch
happens between letters
impresses itself in the breaks
between breaths
when his own words
fail to resolve
his readiness to be loved
right now

held by more
than just your song for him
held like a pen
hungry for paper
or light
that never burns out
help him through moments
when dreams are written
in the thick of dark
in the density of lonely nights
when he cannot pretend
pillow fluffing
the shape of his cuddle
is sufficient

supplement his void
with comfort-words
so perfect
he will edit his next poems
more carefully
than he has offered his heart

and after you have echoed
his next breath
the only reply
he can muster
may be silence
but he is so grateful
for the offering
of poetry
for him

stump a poet with a poem
in order to make him write
love songs
and he will find the courage
to sing again

Happy Valentines Day (I guess)...

hmmmm. I've enjoyed the chocolate and reminding people that I love them. I suppose this day forces it, forces one to remember the necessity or hearing that you're loved, the value of saying it, the crude inadequacy of its devaluation most other days of the year... a few times I wanted to say "bah humbug"... but remembered that's another grossly commodified holiday. Maybe i got bit by the valentines bugg. Maybe this is one of the few times that I'm actually pretty optimistic about doing it right.

hey... i'm gushy all the time. when I'm not playful or silly, I'm not at my best. So I've been soaking up a lot these days: gaining some perspective on what it means to love patiently, some insight on some of my baggage, and more hopefullness that something magical is not just due me, but evidenced in ways I sometimes fail to see.

I've got great loving friends. I heard from ButtaFlySoul and Solas (two of my homies from DDC). They both offered bear huggs, though through voicemail songs and text messages. If I ever lose sight of how graciously them fools love me, I need to be slapped. "sometimes my focus is so locus I'm loco", I have said.

and yeah... I enjoyed a weekend getaway with my sweetie, and he even offered a hugg and kiss today. And a few other people (among them strangers) somehow found the need to tell me that I'm half-cute. One was a crack-head starbucks woman who I graciously referred to as the official starbucks hostess, to which she replied: "so why I gotta be the starbucks hoe,.... wit'sho phyne seff". "but I said hostess".... I then corrected.... after which she whispered: "i know... i just dropped the "stess" to see what you'd say". Gosh, I really needed that...

i suppose life is pretty good. (and that tomorrow, or the next day, when I forget that, I'll have this damn blog to read).

Front Porch at Mocha Hut on First Friday: Free!!!

(click on image in order to enlarge)


Come on Out to the Porch on Friday. Features are wordsmith and Spoken Word exemplar 13 of Nazareth and What-can't-a-sista-do?, emceeing/poet/bass-playin, singin J Scales. And sure.... I'll do a lil somethin, somethin too. Open mic from 8:15 - 9:15. Get there early in order to sign up.  

fragile

(for shawty)

ripped down bedroom-warning:
"fragile:
handle with care."
no one dreams in here
but me
hearing voices of ghosts past:
"fuck hard,
stay soft enough to fall into"

and everytime
I look at the leather left
that i've only worn as dress-up
I think:
what a fragile fucker
preferring cuddles
over slings
a wedding over a whip
and perhaps
I will someday
have them both
embody this oxymoron,
this rough pleasure
I offer to everyone
but myself

i think
maybe only I
can love me best
hurt me better
than anyone else
be my own best daddy
and prodigal son
be master to this slave
who longs so for love
i may choke
on my last breath
pleading for it

maybe i'll grow numb
from teasing
this dialectic
i've never found in a complement
turn to mirrors
and see a brown, stocky
cruxifix nigga
blow him a kiss
and with the most crude
thug baritone
I can quiet...
whisper to him
in this room
where no one dreams
but me:
"hardened:
handle with care."

eye feel/heart sight

my heart is a lens
snapshots when love come around
each beat a new pulse

a bridge between it
and memories i'm building
blood rush when i dream

picture silouettes
held just like a shadow-dance
photo lullabies

pinch me so i see
everything it's capturing
clearer than my sight

my eyes have heart beat
a beating intensity
sensing I am love(d)

About Brokeback Mountain

so i went to see Brokeback Mountain, directed by Ang Lee.... twice. Beautifully done! Not since "Hotel Rwanda" can I think of a movie has stuck with me in the way that this one has, lingering in my thoughts this new year. Brokeback dredged up some pretty profound thinking about love: unrequited, at first sight, to do or not to do, how to do.... and timing. As I am certified "sprung" these days, it made me think about how much we take for granted certain freedoms to express love the way we choose. Born in a different country or at a different time with the same emotional orientations, I may have died or been killed for being one who dared to dream of a life companionship, and found stubborn courage to make it so.

Clearly, this story about two "straight" cowboys who fall in love with each other during a summer sheep-keeping job is a testimony of a society that could not tolerate romantic love between men. Indeed one of the men could not even imagine such a possibility. But I was more interested in the dreamer-- the one who imagined the possibility in the the face of its relative impossibility. There was something extremely moving and divine about that. And in 2005, while light years ahead of the '60's and '70's in rural Wyoming, it's not uncommon for men to find it no less challenging (impossible even) to imagine the possibility of romantic love with another man. Considering the relative cultural shifts, one wonders if some are just endowed with courage to "go for" their happiness against all odds, versus those whose fates run parallel with whatever is deemed socially normative.

So yes... i'm a dreamer. I plotted my way out of rural Arkansas to open up the possibility for loving the way God made me to love. I still fight to maintain faith in that possibility. Certainly, things are easier today... but there are challenges still. While I know my family loves me, I'm not certain that they would honor my legacy in ways that truly respect my contributions to society. I would hope they would honor whomever I chose to love as if they were my wife, but I'm still learning to gain confidence in that. My relationship and openness with my father has helped tremendously.

That Ennis character allowed his fear to consume him. Many will say that he had no other option... but there are always options, even if it's a bad choice between the rock and the hard place. There is vast evidence that people in places similar to the context of the film took the risk to follow their dreams or heart's content. Indeed, some must have died for that love. And so I love in the way I do today as a way of honoring them, honoring myself, and yes...honoring God. Kudos to Jack (Nasty) Twist and his real-life parallels, for paving a way for my own brilliant possibilities.

Brokeback Mountain, beyond being among the most beautifully tragic love stories I've seen, made me generally more appreciative for having the courage to follow my convictions. I'm grateful for a soceity that while, not resolved in its affirmation of the ways some of us choose to love, at least struggles with the issue. I try to imagine if the circumstances were different, if I would find the courage to imagine, the resolve to be steadfast, the faith to believe that love conquers all. I hope to be a light whose courage shines hope on many who need only to see people striving for the life they feel they deserve. Our constitutional principles of "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" are things we have to fight to secure and maintain. They have never and will never simply be given to any of us.

New Beginnings!

How ya like me now?!