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?

Yup. Perhaps I knew at 19 I'd be "called" to do the work I'm doing, huh?

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"!

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

The Bruhs

The Bruhs 

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

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).

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.

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

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.

PlayBoys.... PlayGirls... In the Night!!!!

tim'm with michael christopher, damien, and chad at February "Front Porch"