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.

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!

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.

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

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

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 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!

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

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.

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!

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

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.