optimist?

(because i believe people can find courage to change)

someone recently said to me:
"that's optimistic of you"
that if i've seen the best of anyone
i hold to it
despite their past,
their struggles to overcome themselves
beyond the ways
fear
shackles people to past pain
despite people's inevitable
imperfection
or their fear of change itself
even when it's for their own good
in spite of the ways that living
and loving this way
has burned me

like a phoenix from ashes
maybe I emerge from the rubble
an optimist
maybe i believe
someone
believes i can live to get 80
be loved as intensely as I love
forgive myself for the ways I fail
to change
be as perfect as I strive to be
find others
as optimistic as me.

re verb

i look
he look back
i look away
we see saw
eyes say what
mouths will not
he look again
we get caught
being absent
we stop caring
we be scurred
we re verb

then i call
he don't answer
nigga's busy
he black gypsy
need to be heard
he call back later
i stare at the number
being a hater
i pay back
don't pick up
he wonderin' now
if he messed up
we play these
silly games
we grow closer
we refrain
grown ass men
it's absurd
and these three words
we reverb

we together
we a part
things sabotaged
before things start
needing one another
need our hearts
so they beat
our love sparks
and they flutter
sometimes hurt
and they wonder
why love lurks
left to right
bend and curve
dance like words
we re verb

untitled

(for those who remind me that my smile is poetic)

sometimes
i need to pick up the phone
replay messages
remind myself of the way
the moon holds my shadow
remember the way friends smile
stuttering on my name
the ways i manage to be
missed
remembered
cherised
as beautiful
for just being me.

sometimes
my focus is so locus i'm loco
fail to remember what it feels like
to blush
lose track of those who love my scent
my musky cocoa butta frankincense
sometimes i see life
as so urgent
i trip on my own lazily tied shoestrings
longing for the affirmation
of a main stream
then I remember
at any point in a given day
some 14 year old
prefers being taught, my way
some man or woman
adores the way my eyes smile
someone seeking safety
reads my poem in mean while

so I am learning
to remember that I am the polish
for my shine
my confidence? my magnetism
for fingers that find
and push the tension
out of my back
through a tender embrace
sometimes more than that
when I sit still enough
to shake the worry from my frown
fall into arms that hold me up
when I let myself down

and my passion is a wellspring
of hopefulness
for a life so blessed
my smile is the sunshine
for someone upset
my tone is the lullaby
stumping someone's nightmare
my joyfulness is a lighthouse
for souls lost out there

and i am most blessed
when I forget i am
when the burden of my spiriling
about what I can not change
makes me lose sight of
what I can:

i can claim the happiness
the goodness
i so deserve
and make it so
i can remember i am cherished
when I'm feeling most low

Creature of Habit

1.

before him
i couldn't stand text messages
preferred the tonal quality
carried in a baritone
but these days letters appear
on cell phone screens
my fingers clumsily return
their reminders of grace
new typing lessons I give myself
because I'm willing to learn
can relish the simple joy of alphabets
arranged to say "home"
without spelling it

i am no teckie
but this device curls my mouth
into grinning
so graciously
that my heart speeds up
eyes sometimes tear with joy
consider how I can offer
a more clever, unexpected reply
make him gushy-mushy too
i'm competitive like that.

2.

before him
i hated to love
father, son, and holy ghost
built a shrine to avoid synagogues
named my own disciples
but these days I pray all times of day
imagine a god I love to love
a savior stronger than pulpit bullshit
an amazing grace
sweeter than the sound
of voices singing their redemption
and there's this substance
more present than things seen
something like spirit
pinching my gut,
ticklin' my heartstrings
tellin' me I'm already alright
guiding me to thanksgiving for family
moving me to bravery
and isn't it ironic
that something deemed a sin
could be the source of my feeling
born again?

3.

before him
i believed that I could control
even my delusions of control
trick my heart into thinking
that not feeling
meant not hurting
these days I open myself
more fully to myself
cry when I feel like it
laugh when it's funny
caress this hurt-so-good
with the same fingertips
that text messages
that clasp hands to pray over meals,
over meds, over these miracles
that are full proof that god is good

and even a creature of habit
can be made to believe again
can find courage to learn
to trust and believe
that things for this "him" I am loving
may have been a little different
before me.

Gumbo

(for those who held me in Jackson, MS)

his palate misses
the 72 hour stew
conjured by warriors
who lay hands on
speak in tongues over
kiss with full lips
share with unsuspecting hearts
gumbo

a displaced reddirter
longs to lick the spoon
savors being so close to home
that he knows not the difference
yes, these are his folks
so he laughs a full laugh
slaps his knees
runs out the room
this kind of happiness
resurrects a child
who disremembers heart-hurt

oft mistaken for Yankee
he comin' back
like a prodigal son
remembering his shine
in order to remember his tongue
thick and drawled out
country with little regard
that there's any other way to be
stirs his sugar tea with knifes
like it's kool-aid

he recalls spirits that speak
through read clay
in Mississippi or Memphis
studies the imprint
as if it were holy script
dark-palms and full noses
have special sensibility
for their own
prophets

he leaves
almost wishing he never came
returns to the concrete cityscape
from whence he came
questioning
why he ever left home
in the first place
if there was possibility
of feeling so full
in the very place he felt so empty
and alone

he remembers their gumbo
prepared by cornfed, cornbread deacons
singin hyms and prayers as grace
he relishes the memory
feeling so warm
stirred and watched with careful eyes
like gumbo
licked off colored boy fingertips
who'll miss his boondock bohemian flavor
as sorely as he misses home

Waking (a work in progress)

Waking up is a Lalah Hathaway ballad serenading a dream through a jammed alarm clock. It mocks her contralto even as it does not disturb its perfection. Waking is looking carefully for just the right moment to go beyond opened eyelids to fuller presence: shower-rain, toothbrush, the ouch of warm feet on cool-morning tile. Waking seemed crudely impossible but necessary, in the way that people sometimes find the courage to die or like taking medicine that makes you sick to keep you from getting sick.

He watched the intervals pass: six-fifty-one, six fifty-five—all the while knowing that his life was fifteen minutes faster than it was supposed to be. He was one of those cats who wanted to outrun the future so that he’d feel safer. He wanted to master the science of time and interaction, so they nothing would catch him off guard. He wanted the calculus of life simplified as a fraction—not half empty or half-full, just half. Just half wouldn’t feel happy or sad, so he would be spared the bite of extremities. Neither heaven nor hell seemed places he’d want to retire his spirit, so he waited a few minutes more before spinning his body around to meet to crisp air that awaiting his nakedness outside the down comforters.

His room was predictable, orderly in a way that masked the dust lingering about the space. It was a conceited IKEA showroom that wanted privacy. He diligently choreographed the space, as stubborn to change as his ears were to Incognito and Maysa’s “Deep Water” on their Positivity CD. There was a disturbing addition to the kind of blues that created more shadow than light in this room without a window. But there was sunlight: his poetry, the shine off his computer screen, pictures of people who loved him dancing about the walls.

Most of the rooms he’d slept in all his life had that same feel—except for the room he shared with his ex. There were lots of things he missed about that room; about having to suspend the certainty of how it'd be found, like the imprint of his lover's nap there upon coming home. Loving somehow helped him get over this delusion of predictability. But that was his old life—it had escaped his consciousness on purpose. He simply disremembered it. Those memories haunted him, reminded him of the ways his heart had tricked or failed him. The guise of cool and resolve has a habit of snapping him awake-- waking him up at three-thirty a.m., reminded that he hates sleeping alone—hates the hollow echo of clock ticking or the couple upstairs stirring into and out of boot-knocking.

He once met a therapist with a crazy theory that super-orderly people create order in spaces to offset the chaos they experience with things they can’t control: who they love, those loud glances at Metro stops, people with intentions to mask evil with blue suits. It simply wasn’t that deep for him. This room, this safe-sanctuary was one of the few things that had never failed him, left him lonely, grown overburdened with his affection.

Faithful (for charles everick)

in 1970 on this day
a blackboy was born
almost two years later I came
his first permanent gift
an introspective boy-toy
making beats on high chairs
and throwing rattles
at Mr. Rodgers

he'd always pick up
after me
bring whatever i threw
back to me
let me shake and release again
and there were few words
just a double-chin grin
and his joy
at spoiling me
maybe testing his hypothesis

these first experiments
me believing that all good things return
until it was time for him to teach
that few things are forever
so learning early
that many things we love
are unrequited
that just as you begin to trust them
like next breaths
these routines
like habits or heartstrings
almost always break

but some never do
some are special like that
faithful

30 some-odd years later
we exchange as few words
as we did back in the day
me measured by months
and him at two

at 33 and 35
we don't play anymore
I hardly see him
except for in dreams or prayers
yet with no less endearment
than the day I first called him
"brah"
or gave him dimes for nickles
because he said they were smaller
there are things I want
to shake and toss
have him bring them back to me:

memories
of our black boyhood
bicycle gangs and hookey
football and jheri curls
buzzer beaters
fights with niggas
or crushes on girls
adolescent innocence
wrestles with the holy ghost
and there are all those things
I never told him
that i always wanted to

so on this his 35th birthday
i find courage
to shake and toss
news of a new love
hopes of the home I hope to build
evidence of my litany for survival
and all the strength I've gained
from the weak moments

he has, too,
lived through bridges
breaking under pressure
and I am broke
so today I wish for him
a quarterback hail mary
he can catch
run back to me
redeem my faith
that there must be someone
out there
as faithful as he
the first boy
I probably ever loved.
______________________

Happy Birthday Brah!

Marvin K. White's "Dream Book on Water"

because sometimes I'm at a loss of words to describe how I feel about certain things... like the array of emotions, wrongs, bravery, hopes that surround our peoples down in Naw'leans right about now.... i can turn to other word magicians who say it perhaps mo' beautifully than I could have imagined. I'm proud to know Marvin and am one of his students. Enjoy... and remember that as much as they need our charity, they need our belief, our faith, our conviction.


Dream Book on Water
__________________________

Water - if flowing water, such as a river or stream, increased romance.
If water is murky, one is unsure of one's own feelings.

Let us shed tears that celebrate life. Let us do something brave. Let
us do something kind. Let somebody see it. Let our love and our
bravery and our kindness be an island for some soaked southern soul to rest
on. Let our acts impact the universe. Lets remind moon that it can
pull back waters. Ain't nobody powerless in this.

Even if all we got is words.

Even if all we got are bodies which are as much water as the flood.

Even if all we got are prayers.

I hope somebody, somewhere in the South, my recent past, the birth and
burial place of my people, the Whites, the Blows, the Fords, the
Draughns, the Browns, the Broussards, the Sherrills, can feel me comforting
them.


Marvin K. White
Poet, Artist and Arts Organizer
Last Rights(2004 Redbone Press)
Nothin' Ugly Fly(2004 Redbone Press)
www.marvinkwhite.com

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?