hope is a man i was blessed to know

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

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

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

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

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

honey, suckle, kiss

(because i forget sometimes, how sweet it is)

1.

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

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

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

2.

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

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

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

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


3.

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

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

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

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

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

always already alright

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

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

Going, going, gone…?

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

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

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

poem for him

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentines Day (I guess)...

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

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

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

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

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

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

(click on image in order to enlarge)


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

fragile

(for shawty)

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

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

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

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

eye feel/heart sight

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

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

picture silouettes
held just like a shadow-dance
photo lullabies

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

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

About Brokeback Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

New Beginnings!

How ya like me now?! 

O' Happy New Year!

Musical guides:
Lizz Wright's "Salt"
Outside's "the rough and the smooth"
Ephraim Lewis' "Skin"
Cassandra Wilson's "Glamoured"
& Swing Out Sister's "The Living Return"

mood magic:
sage
candlelight only
pen and journal
a place that feels like home
______________________________________

spirit moved me to write this:

last minutes of 2005
overwhelmed by the gift of life
so much that
this may be the least
i have written
about a year so full

life, like jazz
is improvisational
best when we have faith
that our rhythm is guided
by God's grace
by the well-wishes of ancestors
by stubborn belief
in things not seen

i am experiencing
love so fully
i question my comprehension of it
in the years before

i am healthy
and have reason to believe
i will always be

i love that my family
struggles to love me
as unconditionally
as i've only known
to love them

the seeds of prosperity are planted
for the home I will build
for me and mine

i know i can be more courageous
less insecure
live more joyously
shimmy to life's dance
eyes closed and assured
tomorrow will hold me better
than today

i can challenge spaces of fear
so fiercely
that any weapon formed against me
cowers against the fullness
of my shine

this time
there are no explanations
no predictions or claims
just the certainty
that i am loved
that i am love
that i love
that i am
regenerating more of whatever
is the essence of God
in me

i am already allright
will offer more praise
for blessings believed
and even those
not yet received

years removed from any clamour
that i am unworthy
of even the simple joy
of a next breath
i exhale a smile,
my next lullaby,
faith in my loving
the man i have chosen to love
and who patiently loves me
(and well)

i am thankful
for friendships that do not crumble
under the pressure of time
or the wait of distance

so i sing
O Happy Day
and write of
O Dreams no longer deferred
and feel
O what a blessing it is
2 B
2 Believe
2 B Believing in Living
these first minutes of 2006
and then some

Affection: Too little, Too much?

I grew up in a huge family where, each night, my mother insisted that we give kisses, huggs, and tell each other "I love you". 8 siblings, 17 years, each night.... you do the math. It was more than easy most of the time; effortless when the huggs and warm words come like next breaths. I suppose my mother knew we'd need all this "gushiness" given the economic, social, and psychological barriers to growing up healthy, functional black children in the rural South.

My parents were very affectionate.... when they were (together). Juxtaposed to the bouts of domestic violence we witnessed as often as the slow-dancing or holding, i suppose the warmth witnessed was all the more cherished. I suppose seeing this planted some expectation in lil Tim'm's mind about how things should or shouldn't be.

I remember leaving home for college. the seeming absence of baby bruh or sis "needing" me, feeling comforted and more safe because of me, was emotionally devastating. I sought out ways to fill the void. The best instances of which were endearing friendships with people who became adopted family, given the physical (and sometimes emotional) distance from my own. But there was another side to that affection that, once explored, would lead to even greater complications. The first kiss, the first time that I held someone's hand, the first time I cuddled, it seemed to surpass even the safety i felt from my family in that house off the dirt road in Arkansas. It was the sweetest symbolic gesture and then some.

I suppose it didn't so much matter that the person really loved me or not. I brought a whole range of feelings TO that (e)motion of spooning, cuddling, caressing, and yes, sex. And this is where things get murky: sorting out the distinction between the sign and the signified, the act of affection and the love it represents, is a task that I think i'm still grappling with.

At best, sometimes I provide myself that warmth (I love pillows), or am able meet needs for affection through platonic friends or a special someone. Admittedly, there's something about being a teacher-- about knowing that more than a few students each day will extend arms for a hugg or tell you that they love and appreciate you-- that I like having access to (trust me... I'm probably EXTRA-cautious about THAT boundary). But there's something terribly disturbing to me lately about the "need" for it. When I don't feel I'm getting enough affection in my life, my self-esteem and self-image suffer. So in truth, the affection I experienced as a child has haunted me as both a blessing and a curse.

So at worst, I've invited people to hold me who didn't have the best intentions, or who didn't have intentions at all beyond filling some unidentified void of their own. At worst I've been sexual with people when all I really wanted was to hold someone or be held-- the sense of emotional safety. I figured that sometimes sex was the means to the end. Maybe I saw the cuddle as my reward for being a sexual stud. But I'm older and a bit more self-critical now. I have few issues with saying that it's (only) affection that i desire. But something's got me all stuck on stuck about it-- feeling like a punk or that i'll come across as too needy if I want a hugg that lasts for more than a few seconds.

There's this woman at my job who gives the best huggs; so much that they make me a little uncomfortable. She huggs me and stays and humms... and I really feel the sincerity of it. She makes me miss my mother, and I suppose that's why it bothers me. I'd like to have huggs like that in my life on the daily. Is that being too needy? Should I request them? Is that asking too much?

My dad, interestingly, is more gushy than my mom. He was the pinacle of masculinity for me, and yet so warm and affectionate. I think I'm a lot like him. A punk who gets punked by his own desire for affection. I'd like to learn to be okay with my inheritance, understanding that it requires different things from me depending on the people I'm with. However, I don't like that I've become fearful of asking for it, offering it, even needing it.

A few more considerations:

Should all affection be purposeful? Should it mean something? And what is too much or too little? Is it okay to ask for it? And if you really have to ask for it, then is it "pure"?

I wonder about this as I encounter people in my life, with perhaps different family histories around affection. What is the relationship between what we grow up seeing/experiencing and what we come to expect as adults, especially in our friendships and intimate relationships. When do our own expectations to duplicate what we are accustomed to become selfish and inconsiderate? Or is it about finding people with the same affection-orientation? Personally, I have friends on both sides of the spectrum. I can't say I value the gushy friends more than the anti-cupids.

When my homie Cenzo lived with me, we cared for his two cats. Inky was gushy and cuddled with me while watching basketball or crawled in the bed at night. Ms. Gorgeous was feline queen of the anti-cupids. Yet, when I couldn't find Ms. G around the house, I was as worried as if it were Inky. Gushy wasn't her style. Over time, I came to appreciate how she showed affection: feed her, spank her, a slight touch there, leave her alone (repeat cycle every few hours). LOL. But I think some people are like that. I try not to pity them. LOL

I've been more affectionate than most of the male partners I've had, as affectionate as most of the female partners. I've never felt the need for affection when with women, whereas I always feel I (can) never get enough with guys. Is it a gender thing? Does affection make men feel too vulnerable? Maybe I just haven't dated the non-affectionate women.

The beauty of affection for me is that you CAN feel vulnerable and there's the TRUST and SECURITY that the one who holds, huggs, kisses you.... is really holding it down... they've got your back. And there are times when I shouldn't need that to feel emotionally safe. There are other times when I feel I am lacking far too much of that-- that I've become a wimp to my fear of needing what may, perhaps, be a healthy, daily dose of affection-substance. I am fearful of admitting that I sleep better with it, I wake up better with it, and go about my day stronger with it. And it's not just through the touching, but the sentiment that words can carry: the tone, the inflection, the gestures that complement... can be sunshine where there's little light otherwise.

so what now? I suppose I'm trying to find balance. I'm learning to find affection in ways that I don't traditionally recognize. Sometimes the eyes or the frequency of calls is someone else's equivalent to my huggs and kisses. My current "special-someone" makes me laugh alot, whereas my sense of humor is kinda....well.... of the dry, sarcastic, witty sort. Humor is the glue, I feel, that keeps us most happy, healthy, and optimistic about what we're exploring. I hope to experience a lot more of that. When we're not finding ways to laugh, things are usually tense, dull, unhealthy.

I'm learning to accept that some of the people who've loved me most may not have been the most affectionate... and that maybe I have to open up to seeing things differently, even as I articulate my desire for more physicality and warmth. Yes.... I'm King Tim'm from the land of GUSH. But I'd like to think that there's some space between the "touchy-feelies" and the "anti-cupids" that's a nice happy medium. Finding that balance is what requires communication: finding the courage to explore our affection histories, where we feel they are connected to how we feel about affecton in the present. I'd like to become more comfortable saying what is too little affection for me, and accepting what may be too much for someone else. (And I'm admittedly biased: "too-much affection" sounds like an oxymoron).

and all this "soapboxing" because I hugged a student and her mother today, and wondered if, over these holidays and away from blood-family, I'd have to wait until January to get as gracious an embrace again... the kind offered to me... hands extended... knowing I'll stay, fall into it, enjoy it for more than a few seconds. You know the kind?! Gushy.... like we gushy people like it.

Out the Box in New Jersey!!!

Had an amazingly intense show at the New Jersey Pride Center! Thanks for all who came out to support and show love; and for a special friend who accompanied me on the journey ;-)

There should be an audio recording of the show available of the set really soon. Among the great things that came out of the experience was a few new writings. It's always great to be inspired.

Out the Box
(for Pandora Scooter and my Jersey crew)

i like jewish jokes
(even when I don't quite get them)
i like spaces where white girls
pay homage to Ntozake
where talkers spit on open mics
to get open
where sirens equipped with sound systems
prepare me for the lullaby
the next full moon will echo

i like O.Gs who tell jokes
with the effortlessness
of grandpas greying eyes
i like places that help me feel alive
that make me write love poems
inspired by the breath between
one solstice
and another.

i like the shift of guitar riffs
the humm of acoustic strums
and i like thinking
i have produced, witnessed
the unduplicatable moment
the perfect day
made it permanent
because i dare to dream
ink on page
cuddle my pen
write a poem out the box
to feel the space.

A Year on DC's FRONT PORCH!

Thanks for supporting the 1st Anniversary of the Front Porch on December 1st (World AIDS Day) held at Busboys and Poets in DC. Stay tuned for news about our new home!!! 


December 2004 - June 2005: Mocha Lounge, WDC
July 2005 - November 2005: Cafe Mawonaj, WDC
December 2005 (Anniversary Show): Busboys and Poets, WDC

Next? (We are looking for a place to call home).

wasted words?

(something for blog zealots to ponder)

i don't blog everyday.
people say update. update. update.
(they reiterate reiteration)
i say:

words are like minutes,
like last seconds
if you've ever lived like you were dying
you'd want every word
like the minutes or seconds
to matter
to be substantive
weighty
stick to people's ribs
sneak in their blood-memory
hold meaning
like lovers that find their reflection
in a spoon

so I could chat about coaching basketball
or how tired I am after teaching 14 year olds all day
or how much I love waking up to do it again
or the bills I have to postpone
or how I feel I will not have these money woes for long
or why i don't have scrilla to publish my next book
or the updates on the (amazing) love I'm pursuing
or the lessons I'm learning for the first time because I'm learning patience
or how I sometimes think about finishing my Ph.D. (but remember why I'm not)
or what pisses me off about conservatives (or liberals)
or why I miss my family, but feel a need to have distance with them at present
or the next or

but I choose to share
me
when spirit calls me to
share me
when i feel the words
come forth unforced
like minutes or seconds
that remind
I gots time
not to waste time
or words.

feel me?

Today is World AIDS Day!

as is every other day that i wake up with its reality...

i am just very thankful to be (still) here. each dose a toast to all i give and share, everyone I love and those who generously love me, each prayer an extension of my faith in the bright future that lies ahead for me.

in light of this, I've been thinking alot about and recontextualizing the lyrics to a song by one of my favorite artists, Omar

www.omarmusic.net
____________________________________

Winner

show me how
I want to make things grow
and I'll live my life
and you can let me know
feel the strength in me
to take the full control
of the trials of my life
until my body's old

I'm a winner (X 4)

i feel it deep inside
i been handed the man's blessing
i had it told to me in truth
gave my life better meaning
many lessons of life
so many well worth teaching
i'm gonna share all i can
or my life ain't worth living

come with me
through life's long corridors
and I'm sure we'll find
one of those secret doors
making sense of time
so that there'll be some more
of that passion in our lives
let everybody know

i'm a winner!

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