i doubt it...

you thought the shine would stop glowing
the world would stop turning
and you could slip into the sunset like
a cowboy

self reflection

every now and
again you should say
it out loud.
like this:





hands on hips
shoulders high
and eyes ablaze
mouth aligned with the
circular vowel, spit
gathering on your tongue
and resting in your cheeks
right foot slightly askew,
placed in front
and the world watches

I AM DOPE

now tell them, they should've known
better. swing those hips in all their
fullness and sway away proudly.

missing my sista's

tee and tam and cbell and live mik and april and dash and jaha and fa

thas all...

snow

your mother never loved you enough
always told you how pretty your
older sister was
in
comparison to you, her sunshine
was always warmer

and we wonder why you are maladjusted

unable to have friends, besides the
sludge and slippery dirt beneath our
feet
they'll be the only ones to miss you
after your sister returns
as we gaze in amazement -- how beautiful
she is

we knew this would burn you cold
leave u to catch our spines in your grip
with frosted teeth
still an ugly child
lashing out for attention

counterclock-un-wise

1.
it was like someone picked up
the phone
and played dial my heart with
your strings
as i watched
baffled,
wondering, how she learned
a melody so secret as your
own


2.
i should have ignored you
again
let you think i died
rolled over
until your incessant sniffing
grow bored of my stench
but no
i took this opportunity
to stretch my limbs and gather
my fur around me
strutting like you werent ready
to feast on my carcass
just like a
woman writer
always in need
of more drama
a year long game of possum
lost in the wind

3.
there were never books
or a manual to tell us
girls how to behave
and the women who reared
us -- need it just as
badly

the many things of my days

i am tired
and bones are weary.
i have a lot to do.
i have more to do than i
anticipated this morning
i didnt want to wake
couldnt feel my feet
their numbness brought me
to a higher plane -- i thought
i was still dreaming, until
i heard the door knocks
and then i remembered there
is little time for sleeping.
who knew that even our dreams
were expensive...

classy pants

i booked Tao Ling for a feature @ the Nuyorican, because i dig his work. he makes me laugh (see his SEX story on Nerve) and his response was "that'd be great! i get paid?!" even better.

then, he mailed me this, when i was searching for savings on half.com and amazon marketplace. he mailed me this because he's way more cooler than some of you SLACKERS out there!

classy act to follow.

Honestly,

Im really in love with www.BOOKMOOCH.com

fa real

mixed nuts

all of it is a gun shot
roulette
spin the bottle chance
of unhappiness/nappiness
who knew
life could be
so unreliable and unfair

nothing really...

today i had to come home early cause amari was sick. she has a big day on saturday with the entrance exams into a performance/gifted school. pray for us. this is the school that will be our second option, but its all about having options, right?

i have a row of things to tackle, but i cant wrap my head around it.

our new party starts this friday and my nerves (pms'n) are thru the roof. im moody, unsure, dissatisfied and ready to flip at all moments. that doesn't change the fact that i'll be hosting an event featuring saul williams this saturday! that makes me happy -- but then, i hope i have enough motrin to hold me down.

my sister has appointed me as the host of her bridal shower. and you're probably thinking, huh? well yea. she has not 1 and not 4 matron's of honors - but 3. and in all seriousness, those are the persons that were suppossed to be in charge of these things. but two of them moved to this side of the world and i guess my matching dna makes me the next best candidate. i still have to lose 15 more pounds. the holiday season didnt help my efforts, though i am fitting an entire jean size smaller.

huff. this is me when i dont know what the hell to do with myself. i still have a column to finish, some editing to dive into and im trying to ignore the sweet potato pie's whispers. oh yea, im ignoring the yellow cake with chocolate frosting too.

yea. ignoring it all - like a champ...

This Friday, Afterhours SPOT!

DVDs just $5

DVDs For SALE - everything: $5
im doing inventory on my life and my dvd collection. i dont have friends to buy - but i do have dvds :)

just $5 a piece:



The Punisher

Crank

Melinda & Melinda

The Rules of Attraction

Me and You and Everyone We Know

The Gift

Wisegirls

Walk The Line

Failure to Launch

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Hit Me

13 Conversations About One Thing

Harry Potter & The Prisoner of Azkaban

Number 23

The Chronicles of Narnia

D.E.B.S

Domino

Carlitos Angels

Nine Lives

11:14

Kids In America

Pan's Labyrinth

Lucky Slevin

Clerks II

Wassup Rockers

No Vacancy

brooklyn burn out

when we wakes to find our stomach lining
churning with all the indecisions of an
american,

burning our throats with pumpkin stained
acid,

how important will your swagger really be,

after you perch your lightbulb busted dreams
against the backdrop of brooklyn

climb from behind all their expectations
and leave babylon with your empty words?

fracture (WIP)

the night i stopped loving you
was quiet
like most nights are
i was alone wrestling with these
feelings again -- and you were
where the night always finds you
with another nameless her

i have never been able to catch up with ghosts
the shadow of a woman's shape

the night i stopped dreaming of you, was
still
full of empty imprints of where you once slept
or sat
or sang me a tune
resounded carelessly before crashing against the
bare walls

where was your mother to read me your instructions
how to fix your smile
which screw to tighten
how to fine tune your thoughts with this love

no one would give me a hint
left no clues to find the empty treasure of a heart
still filled with shadows and all rotting carnage that
came before me,

simple liar.

you looked to the heavens and asked God for another
chance

and there i stood
grin and bloody pen in hand
waiting to write us the happy ending
instead, i could only find the words for the
poem i wrote, the night i stopped loving you

(reading a lot of books @ once. writing from the perspective of the she's, as usual. its so easy to write what you know, i guess. still figuring out how to end this without it being wacky or trite).

freezer burn

there are moments in your life when you forget about being adult enough. when you would rather the recourse of lashing out in attempt to salvage your name and your respect. insulating yourself is something you learned in grade school, but as an adult, have only practiced when walking alone at night from the red trains in brooklyn. this is when you remember those that held you like a crystal, smoothing over your edges and gasping "you are still beautiful" no matter the jagged edges you've tossed to those that wish you harm. and if the dried blood every put them at unease -- they never let on. so i guess this is where i should show my gratitude for those someones that have looked in my eyes and said "I know" and "How can I help", even where there was nothing to do but sit there, and shield me for a minute.

this act of pure maternal wisdom is always hard to find. it will indelibly separate the meaningful people in your life. because most of the time, the things that cause them to say those same words, are rarely worth the breath they are made of. the instances that quicken your breath and fight your lungs for space will rarely become a blip on the map that will later become your life. this -- won't even make the autobiography. not even a chapter explaining the reason you will have since stopped hugging in public. nor will a paragraph outline the difficult time during your career, the moment you knew you were going to be big because "who really has time for this high school shyt anyway?" not a sentence. a meaningful utterance. nothing. but this. a warning.

a warning to yourself that your mother taught you better. there had to be a day, so many years ago you forgot it, like the name of the boy you danced with at the homecoming dance. maybe brief and meaningful - in its moment, but forgetable and hardly worth the image you would unsuccesfully masturbate to. the words your mother must have told you when complaining about the girls that pretended to be your friends until they decided they'd rather fight the well liked and popular girl for a chance to gain a newfound and fearful type of popularity. and how you cried, for being misled, before of course you pick up a garbage can and tossed it at the biggest one. even then. your mother will ask you - "who was there to help you?"

because no one gets jumped and walks away friends with those that watched.

this is when you defend your friends "she was so big," and "they were probably scared" fall, flutter than collide on the doorstep of her ears. deaf. i would like to presume this is the moment where my mother was so eloquent in relaying the message that would later resonante so loudly in my bones, that i reverberated its honesty when teaching my own children. and it would become the family joke when making cups of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, this timeless antecodote, that i would later share with my daughter, so that she too could learn to protect herself from moments like this.
my mother said: "Anyone that will watch someone do you wrong, is not your friend."

and later. in my 3rd decade, in a kitchen in brooklyn. those same words will bounce off the walls as i try to scour some honesty out of it all. but there is no way to pretty up the ugly. and there are no room in this chapter for fence stragglers. without remorse i can recognize the beauty of a horizon from afar, through pictures, and memories of how i once captured that moment. but i will always know this is how the view looked before i turned my back, because the silent shadows will always fade into the landscape. and the insulation that i've been blessed with will settle into its beautiful permanance. and my circle will become a little bit smaller -- to keep out the cold.

Soulja Kiddies: Because everyone needs to smile sometimes, thx court!

wishful thinking

he will never know how it felt;

you waiting

wingless wonder of a wishful night



or the tips of your eyelids

wet, from knowing.



he cares more about the gloom

the curve of a dissenting incubus



than the lips that you will always

offer

without regret



he will never loves you beyond the burden

the cold shoulders

the double guessing



the things that throw your axis

into the abyss.



if it is silence he seeks,

he will find you,
star struck
and windpipe torn,

by your own bloody self-less hands



while you search the distant and absent eyes

for a man that works well with his hands

takes pleasure in holding the small of a woman's back

in his embrace

before cradling her face

and smothering her breath

with his own.

Delusional Feminism

New acornym I found while surfing... And it gets worse people, I promise. My vagina is going on protest from being a vagina. She wants to be called something else. Maybe: gevilta or pusanique? Hell I don't know... but when women boasts about being a bitch. I laugh. And when they start using acronyms (I think Eve set it off with the Being In Total Control of Herself) I wonder... When did you bump your head?

So yea, the newest acronym promoting an idiotic style of feminism:



Beautiful

Individual

That

Causes

Hard-ons...



Now, would you please -please - please help me out. I need to believe we have a better day ahead of us. Cause moments, and the broadcasting of I LOVE NY2, Deelish on the cover of any magazine (as up) Pepa (of Salt n Pepa's) new nose and Lil Kim's newfound face like this look like the beginning of the end for women.

FREE SAUL WILLIAMS MUSIC - NEW ALBUM

Day 4: Sheffield (Memories)

Sheffield...

While this college town had incredible hosts, and a light audience, I was prepared to eat anything but prawn mayo sandwiches. After running across tracks to catch a tram going in the right direction, I wasn't too concerned with anything else than the neon sign welcoming people into the restaurant. That's I knew I was passing a chinese buffet spot that I would deal with later, but I kept feeling like the night was going to be wierd. I asked some students upon exiting the train where the student center is, and I swear its a set-up. The alleys are dark and narrow and the lights seem to reach over the shadows into the next street, not really paying the alley in mind, as if it were an uncool kid in high school. I make it to where I need to be and soon the show begins. It is the last show, but not the best. The screen work is off, but we make the best of it and depart immediately after the show, because I can't stop thinking of that buffet spot. We make it to the restuarant 20 minutes before they close and eat like it's a contest. It is a great closing to a great trip with the fellas. I still have 4 days and two shows in London before I go home. But I can't help but think that I'll miss my Bristol homies. Older, White, English clumps of Artist-Men. They make me laugh as if I were watching a Benny Hill episode. Unsure, tickled and in awe. Tomorrow I board a train to London. Sammy, my homegirl has promised hang time: shopping, eating and movies, of course. This is what excites me. This is what makes the bag seem lighter than the 40 pounds filled with clothes, new shoes *from penzance* dvds and books from logan, and smiles tucked deep into my belly.

missing flights: oakland apology

american airlines is the epitomy of our country. it is too busy, too maniacal, overwhelming and it is here, at jfk terminal, that i missed my flight. i ran for over an hour and a half. just to be told id be on a standby flight, which wouldn't get me into Cali until 2 hours AFTER my workshop! good effort though ...

this is the part of the life that i dont miss.

i was extremely excited about my misogyny and women in the arts workshop. the resources, the discussion, the research prepared -- was the most excitement i've had, since college. i am sorrowful and feel as if im at the wake of my own family.
im watching jaws right now. i presume the fish is the metaphorical airline company chomping away at my livelihood, feasting on the flesh of my missed opportunity...

Coffee & Brooklyn: London

The hardest part about trying to become a famous writer is the trying part. Honestly, if I hid an addiction to cocaine or heroin, I'm sure my work would be more profound and visceral, but I only have the experiences lined in the streets of California's Bay Area and have an allergic reaction to needles and anything (outside of my finger) that needs to go up my nostrils. I'm a horrible candidate for an addict. Outside of my need for caffeine and shoes (both easily cured by a trip to DSW that allows me to walk in with my Starbucks Skim Grande White Mocha), I may be one of the most boring persons walking this side of the Brooklyn bridge.

This my reason for touring life. As an artist, one must find life to write about, that is - if it doesn't find you. And this is how I landed in Heathrow Airport back in 2002. And the food poisoning followed me for the two weeks that followed but I was certain that I would find a nook or cranny worth living and then writing about. It would take me a couple of years, minus a run in with promoters and fans before I realized, I don't need the experiences as much as I thought. I just need the coffee. And more importantly, the shoes. It is at Cafe Nero that I am reminded of Heights Coffee shop in Brooklyn. A sleek representation of life, and the reason I've allowed myself a rest from the 11 Starbucks in the central London area - this is my attempt to find some morsel or unique idea through osmosis of coffee beans as I walk down the cobble stone street a mile below the Angel tube station. Like Brooklyn, London has such quaint tree lined streets, one would never guess it existed in the memory of Jack The Ripper, or more recently Love Actually and Spice Girls.

Brooklyn has always been a hidden jewel.

Hidden in its bosom: the Brooklyn Museum, Botanical Garden and Main Library. You can lose yourself for hours in the borough of Babylon listening to music, sitting in the park or drinking at one of the many cafes without ever receiving physical assault or losing your wallet to the wiles of its sexy older sibling, Manhattan. This is where the resemblance between London and Brooklyn end. London is expensive, fast and dirty. The bus rides are cramped and cost 2 pounds each ride, no matter the fact that it’s a two part bus ride to one location. That’s right – Big Ben’s home does not offer transfers people. And don't think of asking for any special accommodations on your sandwich, there are no cheese substitutions. Very un-American, I will have you know.

Still, it is in the café Nero or Itazza lining the streets of London like the heavenly arches that anything and everything is at your command. Double shot with hazelnut syrup and light foam cappuccino!? Enjoy, not too hot, plus whipped, with demerara on the side…Done! It is an amazing moment in the coffee lover’s life. And once your piping hot cup of fortune rests on your tray, next to your muffin of choice, and you search the café for a spot to write and dream and produce, you whimper in defeat.

The space is filled with people on cell phones, a TV blaring and a baby feeding on organic apple juice. This is when you remember your laptop carriers holds the key to silence: headphones. And so the dream can be fulfilled. Heights Coffee, resting outside of the 7th Avenue subway station, swarms with people and laptops and coffee tinted air. The leather chairs steal and hold tight your body heat and the establishment offers free wi-fi as well as, electrical plug ins for the battery drained laptop holders, like myself. I will write about London, I decide, sipping the mocha like a secret, still hot to my tongue. I will write about the Cafe that took my coffee order and perfected it for the sake of my smile. I will write about the difference between Flatbush Avenue and London cobblestone. I will be cunning and liken the cream to the wrap over my shoulders and the smell of Guatamelan beans. I won't fear the workers weren't paid fair wages, that is another writing altogether. And honestly, I need another cup of coffee before I take on that project.

London day 3 (memories)

penzance, huh?never heard of it. so i strap my freshly showered body into the bed and try to catch 2 hours of sleep before we leave, when i realize -- damn, its up already. so i wrap my red peacoat around me and wait for the snoring to really start. don't know if i did or didnt disturb my car mates with the nasal symphony, but my back feels like someone threw brooklyn brown stones at me while i was sleep. my neck is stiff and my knee, the right one - the one that still swells after that good fall down the stairs of union square subway station, needs stretching so the cartilage can ease up and that shimmer, that feels like a really bad orgasm can go away. thankfully, the brits i roll wit have a schedule. every two to two 1/2 hours we pull over for stretching and cappuccinos. with a shot of hazelnut and a prawn mayo sandwhich, im cool. quick bathroom break, where i compromise my body parts for a touch-free toilet experience. and back in the car. my mates: peter, david and sound man jason are funny dudes. david and i are the smoke-free pair while peter and jason need to light up every free of the car moment. its hilarious. seriously. its almost like me with shoes, but less sexy heels and more lighters.in penzance: i am astounded. its a beautifully lined town directly on the sea and i am in love. luckily we are staying two nights, so i promise myself a long walk with lots of pictures. checking into the B&B (bed and breakfast) we meet Pam. she's a cute older british (obviously) woman, with peppered hair and kind eyes. she leads me to my bedroom with personal bathroom and i almost forget that we're to meet downstairs for theatre check in and dinner. the bed is so soft, i'd give up a kidney to bring it back to the states. i laid down and an imprint of my backside sunk into the mattress. minutes later im downstairs and we're walking to the theatre which is just up the hill. the hill is unforgiven. my thighs are burning and my lungs are hurting and jason and peter puff their ciggies along as if this shyt is easy. i know i need to get in shape with the smokers are walking up the hill with such ease. the theatre's festival is in the process of poetry dating servicing... umm, yea. so im taking pictures - cause no way in hell could this go down in the states, when in my peripheral i notice a young man with a mohawk. it is indeed: logan, from mexico city. (american poet that just left nyc after featuring at the bowery poetry club and hanging at the nuyo) we are both excited to see a familiar face and catch up downstairs before his gig begins. i promise to listen a bit before dinner, as we havent eaten a meal all day. i find my roadbuddies and they are snacking happily on cranberry and brie sandwiches and some other thangs that look fancy including potato cake (mile high pieces of potato smashed together and sliced to look like a piece of cake). wow i offer. because if you know me, you know i dont stray too far from the food i know. so the cranberry and briepep sandwhich will be a NO. but thank you for thinking of us artists. and thats real. however, all the fellas fill up on the morsels and i rub my growling abdomen and make my way upstairs, daydreaming about the thai restaurant down the street. logan performs a couple of pieces. this is when my growling begans to effect my hearing. i can no longer hear the poems he's reading, but recipes for french toast, turkey burgers with cheese topped with turkey bacon and gumbo. after the 5th poem, i run to the exit and let jason and peter know thai food for me. immediately. its less than a 2 minute walk. and when we walk in, i dont even shudder at the loud ass kids with their pussywillow parents. im trynna talk myself into not getting 3 sides and an entree and settle on sweet n sour type dish of chicken and vegetables with egg fried rice. its a beautiful thing. the fellas get a bbq dish and crispy duck. i try the duck. its ok. kind of dry, but they say that's what its like. i also taste the bbq, thinking its also duck, and smile "its just like beef!" uh no. "sorry mahogany. that's the pork!" oooh. the glazed meat and bone lay on my plate stalking me for the rest of the night. laughing at my foolishness and taunting me with a possible date with pepto.next morning, i check out logan's workshop on performance than head to the theatre for one of the best performances in england! ever. its energy matches the 300 plus theatre @ deptford back in 2004 and i sell out of everything before remembering 5 books i left in the room and running to get those at the break, just to sell outta those too. nice. this makes me feel good, especially since i bought some shoes after the workshop. later that nite. logan and i will become repeat offenders at the thai restaurant, talk about poetry slam and the ups anddowns before making our way to the mixer. this is where i will hold my first cuban cigar, take pics and celebrate the event with the champagne and crumpets crew before retiring around 10pm to my room for my first dose of dubplate drama (love it!!!) and a bowl of instant oatmeal (yes i brings my food from the states!!). tomorrow, we have a drive ahead of us back to bristol. but it is free of performance and i only have one meeting with a manchurian poet re: publishing. free days rock!

london 2 (memories)

this is when i run to the coach station, courtesy of david, just in time to make it to the london gig @ holloway, the women's prison. nii set this joint up and sprahla and el crisis are the fellow performers. i wait in the train terminal at kings cross. i missed this place. this served as the meetup location for jive and i, who at that moment, i was missing something terrible. 20 minutes later, i am asked to give up my seat to a woman that tumbled down the stairs and i'm still mad about that shyt. but her skinned knee and dishelved hair is a dead giveaway so i stand with as much grace as the knee high suede boots will allow me. i walk out the door 15 minutes later, thinking maybe, just maybe -- im at the wrong kings cross! as im headed past the mcdonalds, i see nii waiting outside and my heart calms a bit. the show is insane. the women inmates range from young teenage looking youth with pull back, braids and lip gloss to grandmother's a woman in a wheelchair and high heels. im thinking what the hell did i get myself into! the show was phenomenal. the inmates were receptive, though a bit restless towards the end, but flyy nonetheless. we leave there, with my prawn and mayo sandwhich firmly digested and i realize i wont be able to record with KEMO, as i have to get to farrago poetry in less than 3 hours.

fast foward:

farrago poetry. i have been sitting in the rada bar, which i walked to from kings cross - thank you very much - reading my book, i think it was babyville by jane green (strictly chick lit) when i am surprised by rachel blyte, yes, new york's rachel. she was on the team with jive in 06 and on urban words team 05, so that was a suprise. then lux arrived as promised and i got to meet her sister. also a young man from nebraska revealed himself before admitting: "i didn't know if it was you or not cause when i saw you at nationals you dressed so smart." ahem. damn. i guess my newsboy hat and puma sweatshirt wasnt killing it! lol the evening was fun, as i shared the bill again with sparhla and sold a great number of books and cds. i closed my set with my new favorite "pied piper" and found my way to sammy's for the evening as i had a coach to catch back to bristol @ 9am, which means i had to leave the crib @ 730am just so i can catch the caravan departing for penzance, a quaint town by the sea for the poetry festival.

london day 7

i have missed a lot of days, but not due to inactivity,
more like i'm trying to catch up with myself, nahmean?

i will come back to the rada experience, the penzance
and sheffield experience and then of course - the bus
ride of lost-dum...

for now. my fingers are cold as are my toes and i am excited
for friday to come. i want to sleep in my new bed. and walk
my kidd to school, then stop for some coffee at tom's... friendly
faces have been such a treat - but homesick is a mutha

london part i

its been awhile since i've blogged my beginnings of london trekking. but i have 38 minutes @ the internet cafe, so why not?

first, don't fuk with delta airlines. they have nasty food (how does one mess up cheese ravioli?) and the brick wind flying thru the window shade, as if i was just swimming on the clouds towards the Great Britian, has a portion of my left breast and the entire left nipple on frostbite. and the continous intercom calls for a physician on board, during my long overdue nap, was just rude. i'm saying. i know there are a gang of old folks in this joint, but a sis need her beauty sleep! however, the orange juice was hella good.

second, being nice never pays off. once off the train and thru customs, i have a question about a ticket i bought online. not only am i early, but my ticket's departure isnt scheduled for another 3 hours. yikes! so i get in line to ask for an exchange and this older biddy (you know what im saying) with horribly gunked fake eyelashes, tiger print ballerina shoes and two different tones of black on two separate shirts cuts me. when i say nicely "im sorry, i was already in line," she dismissed me. said that she was in line too and moved her bitch ass cart quite close to my good foot. mind you, still sleep. i let her go. and offer her a farewell " i hope you miss your flight skank." damn, where would i have learned this beautiful human interaction if not in brooklyn.

third, people that sit next to you on trains, subways and buses should be mindful of how they smell and how much room their asses really require.

fourth, i have realized that i could be considered insane. now dont get it twisted, i dont mean insane insane. just slightly off.

lastly, im headed to the euston train station as i need to get there by1pm and its only 11am, however, i gotta find a restroom that will allow me a regular seat cover, rather than my left leg extended against the door, my left hand on my luggage, and my butt cheeks quivering in fear of the suspect toiletbowl!

rocking today in birmingham. sleeping tonite, hopefully. back on friday. thursday is extremely busy.

battlescars

i looked at my reflection this morning. and it looked back at me. this is the moment when i remind myself that i am doing it right. this life. these choices. all a part of a bigger picture, a bigger plan. i remind myself to love myself irregardless to the pain that comes with the crucification of being too honest, to truthful, unwielding. if it is worth it, there will always be pain. i recognize the alcohol-sting and burn of my actions. hold them like scars of war. the keloid that will tell the story of how i went to battle and walked away with my integrity, pride and soul, intact. it will be a beautiful bedtime story for my daughter's children. and she will give the greatest pauses for effect as she remembers the nights her mother braved the storm and returned home to brooklyn. limping with a face still dry - eyes threatnening a pour of all the day's letdowns. before she laid in bed next to her only child, and smiled at the beautiful complexity of a 10 year-old's unwavering love. and hugged her tight, as if her ribcage didn't hurt and her heart wasn't broken

bklyn yuppies

brooklyn yuppies swim thru the streets of park slope
sweating beer and tequila as liquid as their parent's finances.

screaming loudly of their views on race, over the hip hop soul mixtape;
no blush rushing to his cheeks as he speaks as if slang bore him into an opinion.

his eyes catch mine.
and squints, adjusting to my black woman stare.

a glance that searches for a reason why black women like me
wait, with purses clenched, for this mood
to pass like an express train.

i shouldn't want to cut into his flesh with a purse
hidden knife, instead, i'll settle on my eyes as weaponry.

he shivers; this is no accident, and lowers his voice to
inaudbile level, where only his drink can hear.

What I've Been Doing the Past 10 Days

1 inch and a 1/2

my sister's wedding is in 10 months. and i just learned
i need to lose 1 inch and 1/2 until then.
it is my great idea that i should lose double that.
great thing is -- my porptions (how ever big) allows me
little to no alterations...
thats just great.

here's to the diet that starts monday, sept 17th, 2008.
you heard it here first

cracked teeth

she smiled like you this morning
beautiful brown-eyed wonder child
of a one-sided love


and the creasing of her cheeks,
bright eyes turned whatever color yours were,
re-opened the knife wound


like masking tape
like Velcro
like its never really healed
in the first place

and, so
this scab seeps memories of a decade before
i thought i buried the soot with your old valentine's day card
next to the rotting chocolates and flesh punctured latex
never to return and pick over their remains

but here they are

raggedy toy of emotions sprawled every shade of pink
and black
reminding me there was joy and then death

so I left
them like soldiers lost at war

With all the stories and bruises and nightmares to hide

in the sand of the desert
in the swamp of the forest
in the valley of the mountain

it is days like this
that haunt me with that scary flick
...inevitability
she smiles like you,

and the pain of a broken vessel
is renewed
the steel walls are more steel gray than the tumtulous
...eye
look at her
and
wish
you nightmares

it is your absentee handiwork that forms tears upon silent phone rings
and messages never received
it is the emails unanswered and birthday wishes
of daddy's angel, blown out like
candles

I left a dollar under her pillow, the other day
Almost forgetting the fairy tale ritual, for my arms
Were tired of fighting a mere memory
This is when I pretend not to pick up the armor around
This stone heart,

when she throws her voice to your picture; waiting
for your approval to catch her
you lie, still
faded & torn, with open palms
Polaroid shell of a ghost father
Smiling an uneven grin
Shooting her dreams like a hunter
with perfect aim and
cracked teeth

this is when her last baby tooth falls;
unhinged,
mimicing the depth of your hollow,
I will pray it is the last time she
reminds me
of you

my favorite!! seriously

and of course the original!!

last nite 9.4.7

it was when the ceiling shattered

splintered by this flesh and noise; vibrations,

i cried

because your fingers

stitched together a prayer in the folds of this heaven

lurched spine, heavy hands, numb filanges

wet silent streams fall every which way

possibly

you, will be the death of me

and i will wait in the wake of you

index and thumb pressed between a velvet curtain,

musk of grown woman want,

lust swims amongst the wind, fleeing the window

of a first floor apartment

shaking the earth; a jealous twitch,

around your name, this thick tongue

touring the city of angels

monday - la green. this venue has one of the coolest host ever, rat pack slim. it was lackluster in attendance and though i gave it a great heave ho (insert: greetings to the home base) i couldn't help but feel like i was in the way! no matter. cbonejones, judy holiday, tam bam and sonya renee came to hang out with the kidd! we laughed, laughed harder and took pics to prove it! afterwards dj jedi hooked me up with the ill cd, rat pack was a great host hooking me up with some edibles and cop'n the his rib on the strength! and we headed to sonya's for a nightcap of poetry, chicken dumplings and some greasy drive thru mexican food named lucy's... don't worry - i just watched the great holiday eat it.

tues - da poetry lounge: you gotta love the west coast version of the nuyorican. unforutnately, shihan wasnt in the building to host with his sarcastic ass remarks and cut throat punchlines, my favorite, actually. but poetri did his thing. until of course he decided to give away tickets to the macy gray concert - and ME, yes I messed it up for the brother. i gave away an answer and his chance to win the tix were GONE! the whole crowd looked like they were gonna throw daggers at my ass. thank goodness i was able to rock the show right. i had to apologize and give homeboy a cd for the mishap. honestly, I DIDNT HEAR THE INSTRUCTIONS! some short dude with a mohawk was in the way! ooops, no diss javon. im just saying! lol good to get up with old friends: thea, crystal irby and jaha surprised me by showing up with her new book (published by ME! HA) whilst sekou, in-q and tshaka cracked me up all the while.




tues afterhours!: cbonejones spot. im dead tired by the time i get here. but cbones is the patna (very old school oakland for ya) so i make it a point to head to his spot. this is about when i find out the event is an erotica showcase. aww damn! not only did i NOT get that info (mr plan b) but i certainly wasn't feelin sexy! thankfully, mr jones allowed me to rock whatever i liked and let me do my thang for 20 minutes. it was mad fun, with jaha, tam bam and judy in the building. but this is where i realize i still have yet to hear the lady holilday spit a poem... not cool!



wed - i drive my neice's 4 runner back to san diego as i have a flight to oakland to tend to! i am way late leaving tamara's house in pasadena and find myself still an hour outside of san diego almost an hour and a half before my flight is to leave. thank goodness southwest has no change fee. and i make it to oakland before noon. chilling with family before my set at chaz elik's spot is always a plus. but this time it is sombering with the death of my uncle. though, my pride and babysitting spell makes it beautifully different. fast forward: the set in berkeley is located next to la pena. this is the bay area's nuyorican. i remember it well, as i heard sonya sanchez read on that stage during my first poetry reading EVER. the berzerkely slam was cool. good to see issac rock again. my aunt went with me. and afterwards we scattered before the pumkin turned into my life.

thursday - flight back to lax, and i find myself strapped with a beautiful 6 month old for a two week impromptu excursion. i am babysitting kevin amir. he is a heartbreaker and all he has managed to do is throw up, shyt and smile. more than enough. he escorts me to my feature in pomona. but not before we eat freshly made salmon salads with judah 1 and judy holiday. they are roomates, and very 90210 - ish. mic and dim lights is the closing set for my LA trip. unfortunately. it is wasted on a man with a harmonica and racist viewpoints. i rock my set. the energy is low - but hell, it could be me. kevin is sitting in the lap of tamara and i am thinking if i made enough bottles for him to feed before the night is up. i drop the line of singlemothersong. WHAT?! whatever. pick it back up after a pause, an un-apology and a farewell. i am certain my set will be welcomed regardless of the last mishap. unfortunately. my co-feature does not like white people (editor's note: 80% of the crowd is white) and decides to say it in his segway before starting poems about love, unity and such. the people walk out in droves (yes, like cattle) and the 100+ room is left with less than 30 by closing. this fuks with the pass the hat rule for features (fuk) and people actually walk out in such disgust that i thought i was the offender (a systa came back: im sorry. you were really good! i wanted to put money in the hat, but that dude was so offensive! i had to get out of there!) damn. what a way to end the tour. no matter. we laugh about home skillet all the way back to pasadena and kevin and i prepare for the flight to brooklyn



minneapolis and vegas highlights to come!

cutting teeth

if there was ever a moment you wanted to block your blessings, you wanted to spit at the heavens and forsake his holy name, you decided that there was nothing better than down - cause up was only heartache on pause -- it was this. packaged in the body of a 6 month old boy. sickle cell anemia stricken, teething baby boy. he lets me twists his curly afro. he sweats so hard in his sleep you'd think his diaper wasn't working. he's a quiet spirit but has learned to yell for reasons of the unknown. i dont know how i will say goodbye to him in 3 days and counting. it started as a babysitting situation for my young cousin. she is almost 17. this young man is her second son. i don't know how hard it will be to say goodbye for now to the baby i brought back on a plane in brooklyn, just to return him to oakland in time for our elder's wake and funeral. i don't know how i will stop smelling his feet and the crook of his neck for genuine laughter. he giggles like it costs him nothing. gums and all shining with anticipation of something sweet, rough, more. baby teeth are like that. tearing at the protective gums for their chance to cut and chew and much later, fall aside for the new and improved teeth. i feel as replacable as those baby teeth. wishing orajel came in life size quantity and allowed me more than the memories of his grin...

slippin'

i have these brown eyes that stare into me. they are beautiful. and still innocent. they are pained. and relative. i know that pain. the uncertainty of caring too much or not enough. the stalker stroll. we all do it: myspace glance. than glance over again. then picture scroll. then sadness. the friends, the phone calls, the emails, the surprise connections. how could you change somebody's life when you're still trying to save your own...? artist depression has been a suprising bath of ice. i've never understood what it meant to be affected. how it felt to be moved to tears upon mention of your father. the man that knows a prison cell better than he'll ever know you. maybe that is why myspace is so easily addictive? there are people i've met thru myspace comments and pics that make me feel just as displaced as a hug to someone, that told someone they hate you. like high school wasn't enough. and its probably just as dysfunctional as you playing the game - because fighting the tides only makes it easier for the real sharks to feed off you. the jellyfish are just a distraction. so you hold it in. call it playing dirty, fair or just playing. three decades of a game that no one ever wins has always tired your breathing. left you unable to recognize yourself, unless you have myspace. this is where you will have remnants of when you were once cute and popular and seemingly without that pain. that sits on your face like a smile.

because asses have ego's attached and smell just as bad!

yea. so im over it.

had a couple of weeks to reconfigure my artist world. visit family. fall in love again. and when i get back to bklyn, 6 month old beauty smiling a new world into me... i am greeted with the same slam shyt. if i could be over you right now, i swear -- i'd give a kidney.

so lets set the record straight. better yet. let's keep it gutter. if you see me - holla. i promise, i have nothing to hide. nothing in the shadows. my honesty is flawed by the fact that its too honest. but that's it.

ive got life to get to sucka.

speaking of which: SOUNDBiTES Poetry Festival!! www.soundbitesnyc.com the first performance poetry festival in NYC! what? we give money, we give workshops from taalam acey, taylor mali, rives and sooo many more! you wanted it and we brought it to ya! only a couple of slots left for that $500 Slam and $100 Haiku Slam! Confirmed so far... Let's just say they're coming from Columbus, Ohio; Charlotte, North Carolina;

friends: you know who you are. if i haven't reached out or touched back. blame the hatchet in my heart, i was bleeding for you all this time. we will talk this week. i've nothing better to do than drink coffee and find out about your life.

amari. is. home. in. 6 days. and i am still watching making the band. the marathon was necessary. as was the microwave cookie mix. it was splendid. that is all...

when packing goes bad...

i am headed to cali for the week. i am excited and then not.

just found out my uncle passed, and im preparing for a weekend

with my sister for her bridal shower. she is bridezilla. and still the loss of breath, hopeful wedding vows and growing daughter doesnt stop the car brakes from going out. 600 clams that say do it now or rest in heaven too... if i could be more unfunny, i couldnt.

nationals is finally over and most of the city is calm. there are egos waiting

to be stroked - and if i have to be the stroker, they will continue to wait. cause

i aint playing that game again. its too tiring. i am good at what i do. give me

a chance to show u -- or not.

either way, i will find a way to do something else. with just as much impact and even more accolades.

and who waits for the world to clap for them anywayz?

i dont have the patience. cali girl on a eastern time is a bad mix for impatience. and i wear it well. like WHAT?

my team continues to make me proud. i guess i cant call them my kids anymore, huh? they all grown n ish. but they were grown when they got there - in their own way. poetry slam just has a way of mutilating our young - so i try to be the keeper of all things innocent, beautiful and wholly...

i love u gang. ya make me proud upon uttering your name. and no one wanted it like u did.

i miss amari. she calls me everyday and acts as if my randomness is cute. she comforts me when telling me she misses me more than i could ever miss her. and for an instant, i am happy. that i could impact that little girl's life even from afar. she is brilliant. and omniprescent and better than any poem i could ever write.

Soundbites NYC Sept 21 - 23, 2007! NYC

This is what New York City is made of: Dirty Beauty, Sleepless Bodegas & Damn Good Poetry!

Come join Jive Poetic and Mahogany L. Browne for the first annual SOUNDBiTES Poetry Festival, a 3 day event filled with writing workshops, solo artists shows and $500 Poetry Slam! The featured artists confirmed, so far: Taylor Mali, Taalam Acey, Roger Bonair Agard, Rives, Jaha Zainabu, Christa Bell, Jamaal St. John, Big Mike, Buttafly Soul, Michael Cirelli and so much more!

SOUNDBiTES is for everyone! This festival is for the students of life, ready to learn new writing techniques, tips on self-publishing and
those who may just want to witness the hottest performance poets in the country!

This is just the beginning and NYC is the only place that could light up the streets bright enough, for the talents of a Poet!

You can register today by paypal www.soundbitesnyc.com


Brief Itinerary:
Friday, Sept 21, 2007 - Registration
Saturday, Sept 22, 2007 - Workshops, $500 Slam
Sunday, Sept 23, 2007 - Workshops, Community/Poetry Forum, $100 Haiku Deathmatch & SOUNDBiTES Broadway Theatre Production (@ New World Stages 340 WEst 50th & Broadway)

sponsored by: Poets & Writers, PoetCD.com & Urban Word NYC

www.soundbitesnyc.com

the power of silence

when all else fails. listen.
i have tried this and i can not
tell you how incredibly hard it is to do.
not just listen to people talk. but listen
to what they don't say. listen to what they
might want to say. listen to your heart.
this is the hardest.

if ever

there was a time i went back to high school. it was friday.

i constantly complain about egos, morals, work ethic and such... that i forgot i am too -- fallable. and need to be reprimanded for my ugliness in the occassion that it rises and spills from my lips. i am acid too. when i want to be. burning holes of ill will into the foreheads, bangs, shoulders, backs and faces of those that have angered me. i am my own god. no one owes me more than me. so i will wait for nothing. not even the apology, 1 year late. or the handshake. or the fake pound. or the forced hug. i am my own god. need to pray-worshop-and adore myself for a change, as no one will do it better than i can. and no one's critique will mean more than mine. so yea. i am sorry. for becoming the one thing i hate most. and wearing it like a fur, as if it were really fashionable.

my babies...

these are the people that have inspired me, driven me crazy and occupied my last 90 days! send us your prayers for a safe and productive trip to Nationals 2007 in Austin, TX. And if you are around, come check me out!

www.poetryslam.com

the shape of his manhood

now that i've gotten your attention...

moving: not even remotely over. i think we've cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom and half of the bedroom. that leaves the other bedroom and the living room in ruins.

my writing project: not so much. i swore july would be my month of creative output. but i just cant fly outta this moving funk.

slam: alot of slam ish taking my head out of the above two projects. talktome slam over by friday, that's a start.

his rib: selling outta books. this is the second shipment. you cant be mad at something so beautiful - even if it took forever to come together.

manhood: i had my 2nd car speed chase, ever. see scene below:

driving down a resendtial street. no more than 25, obviously. the driver behind me becomes impatient. rushes up to the left (where parallel parking resides) and he jumps out of his car yelling:

HIM: Ugly Ass Bitch!

Mo (slowing 25 mph to a crawl): me and ya mama can't both be ugly bitches!

HIM: WHAT? (jumps in car and proceeds to follow Mo)

Mo (two cars ahead): FUCK YOU!!

after driving up two blocks and over the hill, i watch his car pass in the mirror. this is when i remember i am not built to fight 260 pound men. no matter how many poems i write about fighting 260 pound men. i find parking, walk into my new house. filled with moving boxes and humidity. and buckle from the weight of what could have happened.

out with the old

maybe it was your coat,
hanging in the hallway
signaling goodbye like
some cheesy john cusak film
that made my breath catch and
burn, fall, funnel clouds to
the corners hiding beneath the
floorboards
i want them back
before i forget how to inhale with
out your knowing glance assuring
each intake will be as sweet
as when we first met.

if i had
more time, i would've baked cakes
with white icing. lemon sugar drizzled
over edges - sweet and promising
perfect sponge, lulling tastebuds
awakened tongue,
leave me wanting baked cacohphony of spices
i think of our love, packed tightly
with the cake mix.
shifting helplessly under a
mover's direction.

because the beauy is in the booty

my ass is flattening as we speak.

this is the life of a writer. you work to sit more and produce more. which flattens your buttocks if you aren't careful.

recently, i released a women's anthology. it was so beautiful to look at. until i saw the typos. which made it an instant classic & advance reading copy! wait until i become the Alice Walker of this ish... it will be worth millions. lol

but life is like that. with my summer in full bloom, i have so much writing to look forward to. forward - i think i might hate that word now (inside joke). writing and the production of some beautiful things. our off broadway show comes back from hiatus with a big bang, the men's anthology BARBERSHOP CHRONICLES is in the works and HIS RIB Book tour (www.penmanshipbooks.com) is coming together quite nicely. the Nuyo team is preparing for NPS 2007 and we had our first road trip. it reminded me of the pretty things in high school. the spirit rally, skipping lunch and afterschool gatherings at the local fast food joint. they are such a blessing to such a cursed competitive sport.

tonite i will host POETCD.COM's first Artist Showcase. I look to making this a bi-monthly event held in different parts of the country to service our incredible roster of artists, but hey - who knows... one can only hope. this evenings event will feature Taalam, Lemon & Jaha... whose fukn with that? exactly no one!

come thru if you can, if not send your prayers. always in need of them thangs. back to mailing out the HIS RIB copies. we officially sold out of the first run! and we'll have the ill booth with beautiful women, words and books @ the Harlem Book Fair on July 21st! wine and cheese following on July 22nd in Brooklyn. you betta ask somebody.

love like ya mama.

unconditional

m

HIS RIB! BUY IT PLEASE!

A collection of poems, stories and essays about the fallible woman, the sensitive girl-child and the fearless warrior, His Rib, offers an inside look at her story. The written works featured in this project includes women from both the literary field and the performance poetry circuit, creating a symbiotic kinship between the two art forms. After combing several continents, the women within these pages were found scribing folk tales in California, sonnets in New York, producing prose in London and breaking stereotypes with each stanza in Colorado, Texas and Canada. The result, a quilt weaved perfectly of compassion, self-respect, discipline, lust and hunger. Enjoy the crack and thunder of His Rib.


Ebele Ajogbe
E. Amato
Cristin Okeefe Aptowicz
Radhiyah Ayobami
Courtenay Aja Barton
Felice Belle
Tara Betts
Tamara Blue
Crystal Senter Brown
Mahogany L. Browne
Akua Doku
Eboni
Ebonyjanice
Jessica Elizabeth
Falu
Andrea Gibson
Nicole Homer
Bassey Ikpi
Crystal Irby
April Jones
Amanda Johnston
Erica Kamara
Rachel Kann
Abena Koomson
Marie Elizabeth Mali
Marty Mcconnell
Derrica Mccullers
Gabriela Garcia Medina
Caitlin Meissner
Aja-Monet
Thea Monyee
Lilian Oben
Lynne Procope
LV
Nicole Sealey
Queen Sheba
Nikki Skies
Suzi Q. Smith
Sydnee Stewart
Heather Taylor
Kimberly Taylor
Imani Tolliver
Kim Trusty
Genevieve Van Cleve
Jeanann Verlee
Megan A. Volpert
Jaha Zainabu
Kelly Zen-Yie Tsai

!!!PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY NOW!!!

About Dating Yourself

My friend Tamara posted a statement about this. And i answered:


Id like to think i could...

seriously. I am fly as I wanna be on a Tuesday during a Thunderstorm. But I also know, that can't always be good on the other side. I try my damndest to be supportive and independent - but not too enabling and an island. the balance, i believe - is where the men are separated from the ahem, boys.

and my jealousy - well. that's just it. i got it. and a lot of it. insecure, maybe on a day or two. but i dont believe that's the black and white of things. it takes more, for me to react in a jealous manner. or maybe that's me justifying a bad habit. whatever.

i think, with all my bads, there is a plethora of goods that i can't even name at this point. because check it, im watching the secret and it says dont do that! so yes. i could date myself. even on those days where i just want to be told im pretty for no reason... or when i want to wake up looking in my eyes, for no other reason than i wondered what i was dreaming. i want to dress nicely for myself and compliment myself at the same time... i want to hold my own hand in public and nod with pleasure when people look at me, and wonder "wow - how'd you get her?"

dreaming...

with summer in my rearview, catching up with me quicker than i expected - i suspect, these are the reasons why i can't catch my breath.

took on a couple of more assignments just to assure my summer with nothing

but slam team and 4 hour writing sessions (that's right, i said it 4 consecutive hours), i would like to have an egg stashed for cute shoes, coffee and matinee movie tickets. i wanted to do something nice for the 4th of july, but if all goes well - i will be busy. so i pray that i'll be busy.

i am still working on me, however. miss that i can't answer my myspace or blogspot, hell, i barely answer my email these days. but i feel good. i feel like i can fix the world and all my beautiful friends in it.

but i know that is merely a dream. however, that book: HIS RIB, is not a dream. it'll be out with all my favorite women writers (and some new ones) gracing the pages. and it is not a dream to present a show with some of my favorite performance artists (LEMON. TAALAM. JAHA -- WHAT?!) and it is not a dream that my daughter will leave for her trip to Cali and my cats, newly spayed, will stop trying to mark the entire house of their territory, and my neighbors will stop asking me for 50 cents, 2 dollars or a ride to the far corner of bushwick. well, that last part was a hardcore hail mary, but whatever.

i havent written much, as i can't breath. but i reckon these keys will sing to me again. i can smell the days. June 15th. yea. last day of school. birth of a new book (his rib is out June 8th, but i'll leave it to after our slam field trip to push the hell outta it.)... its on and popping. can you smell it? or is that bbq.

Conversations w/a 9 year old

this morning:

Amari: Mommy, do I have elf ears?

Mommy: Of course not. Elf ears are pointy and big. Yours are just right.

silence

Mommy: Why are you asking about elf ears? Who said that to you?

silence

Amari: Terrell.

Mommy: Who is that?

Amari: You know the boy in the school picture standing behind me?

Mommy: NO. WHO IS THAT??

Amari: In the school picture, Ma... Behind me...

silence

Mommy: NO. Who is Terrell?

silence

Amari: He's someone that doesn't like himself so he talks about other people so they wont notice he's wack.

Mommy (smiling): You're really good. You know that?

Amari (Shrugging): Yea. I know.

...like...

so what

my list of nothingness...

Inspired by the bass…

1. I watch a lot of movies.
2. They rarely have much to do with my life. Maybe that’s why I watch them?
3. I hope this diet is working. Cause me going to the gym on a regular basis, isn’t.
4. why does myspace have me so hooked?
5. I can tell when you haven’t responded to my message. And that bothers me.
6. Is that too high school or am I having a complete breakdown?
7. I love my hair. I didn’t like it when I had the vigiro touch up and the bossy cut –
8. But now. I think it looks quite fetching (I can say it in a sentence FA, ca you?)
9. I remember the feeling of falling in love, it felt like summertime @ age 13.
10. Amari is getting too tall. I don’t know what I think about her hips either.
11. Amari has been commissioned to sing back up for a Buddy Wakefield concert. Courtesy of RAC being a lovebug of a chick-a-dee…
12. Is chick-a-dee even appropriate anymore?
13. Is chick-a-dee like Chick-fil-a
14. I miss Cali, they have Chick-fil-a
15. This is so much more fun than just writing a blog. Lists make it seem like you are thinking a lot!
16. It hides that fact that I’m so random, I guess…
17. I mean does it?
18. Sandbloom. That’s all.
19. Tamara letting me stay with her while I’m in Cali is so bomb. I mean. I have family. But if I’m working, then I really shouldn’t stay with family, cause they are crazy and will have me missing shows again – and then what will I have to say for myself.
20. Sorry Shihan. I remember missing that show, that was pretty wack of me. So wack that if someone misses a show, like I did to you, then I try to listen to them.
21. I don’t know if that’s working, though.
22. Bassey should be back in Brooklyn.
23. No seriously.
24. The movie junebug, some indie flick, is incredibly slow.
25. It reminds me that I am not ever going to be Julia Roberts or any of those cute white girls that gets courted in movies.
26. I mean, I don’t want to be white. I just want to be the lead role in the freek’n movie.
27. Halle was a getting busy with Billy Bob in the movie and she got with the lead role.
28. But they had to kill her son and call her all type of n-words.
29. I don’t think I want the lead role anymore.
30. Maybe just a supporting role, like Regina King in Jerry Maguire.
31. GOD! I love Jerry Maguire.
32. Just counted my books. I have over 600.
33. Well I didn’t really count. I just looked at the massive bookcase for a long time.
34. I may go to hell for lying to my mother, but seriously. She’s tripping.
35. Then what mother doesn’t trip? Right?
36. I just want my mother to have that grandmother scent about her.
37. Ya know. Cookies and collard grens. Warm house and hugs. Is that too much to ask for?
38. I’m going to go wash clothes with my favorite laundry woman, Ms. Della.
39. She reduces my homesickness. But I think I’ve run out of clothes to wash.
40. Maybe I can wash some extra towels or something…
41. I promised myself that I would only type a list of 50…
42. Even that at the moment seems too little.
43. I’m still searching for a place to move to. I’m going to send a mass email out to friends and listserves, then check craigslist again.
44. I love craigslist.
45. I’m thinking maybe Queens.
46. Besides, I found the Yugoslavian that sold me my love, the minvan, for only a G.
47. A house can’t be that hard.
48. But then I’ve been looking for over 3 years for a house and no luck.
49. Maybe since I’ve been watching the secret and thinking happy thoughts and shyt, it’ll work this time?
50. Might it not work cause I said “Shyt”?
51. Shyt!
52. I did it again.
53. And I’m willing to settle for a 2 bedroom as long as there ain’t no drug dealers on the actual corner.
54. I have to check with Christa and see if saying curse words reverses the positive reinforcement.
55. People can curse when they’re happy, right?
56. Look at sailors!
57. I’m currently reading this ChickLit that Bassey prescribed. It’s not as good as my girl Sophie Kinsella, and her Shopaholic series.
58. People are falling in love and hating each other from the first scene @ the stupid airport!
59. Don’t they know that goes against the SECRET!
60. So why are they allowed to “hate” and still get the happy ending?
61. Oh yea. It’s a fictional story. Don’t remind me.
62. Why are sailors known for cursing anyway?
63. Ok. I did mess up on my diet once. I had a donut for the first time in WEEKS yesterday.
64. And I seldom have coffee anymore.
65. Which is extremely hard, considering for my birthday, I received STARBUCKS GIFT CARDS.
66. In the movie Junebug, the pregnant chick is masturbating. This is disturbing.
67. Not that pregnant woman don’t deserve to get off. I’m just saying.
68. Oh god!
69. I love pregnant woman. They are more beautiful than the leading lady in all the movies: Pretty Woman, Jerry Maguire, Poetic Justice…
70. Seriously, Poetic Justice was great filmmaking!
71. I like the Shopgirl with Claire Danes and Steve Martin.
72. When she asked him “Why can’t you love me?”
73. Story of my freek’n life!
74. Oh god! I did it again, didn’t I?
75. I seriously need to check out the Secret again. The rules are totally confining to my personality of maladjusted normalcy.
76. Still watching Junebug. Just a note: Quiet SEX is AWESOME!
77. I’ve had my share, if you know what I’m saying…
78. Obviously, you know what I’m saying I just said it!
79. I hate when people say that. “Nahmean, Know what I’m saying”
80. I swear, people are going to unsubscribe to my blog because of this.
81. Dammit there goes that negative reinforcement again!
82. Holy crap, I’m way over my 50, aren’t I?
83. And cats that haven’t been spayed suck in the spring!
84. Is that cat spew, I smell?
85. I tried to read million little pieces, but it’s too depressing.
86. Just like that damn book FAT GIRL that Christa boasted about.
87. That was a bunch of crap.
88. Maybe if I wasn’t feeling fat when I read it – I would be enlightened.
89. Maybe.
90. I got new rugs I want to put out, but my stupid cats and that spewing ain’t gonna cut it!
91. I think I want a dog when we move. Like a bulldog.
92. Something ugly and short.
93. Ugly dogs are totally cute.
94. He says only when they’re puppies.
95. Like kids, I guess.
96. Except, kids aren’t ever puppies. Are they?
97. I have to find some incense. Mopping incessantly is killing my back.
98. Then that could be my ankle issue and all the limping I’ve been doing.
99. I really like words like “incessantly” or dilapidated.
100. But that’s an entirely different list to start, now isn’t it…
101. Wow. I guess. This is just proof that I need to write another list.
102. Maybe tomorrow?

about falling...

the trick is not in how un-awkward you can topple your body to the ground without looking like an ass. the problem is you already look kinda silly falling - arms out grabbing for support that isn't there - eyes bulging and that big "O" with your mouth, probably accompanied by a yelp of some sort... eveeryone does this when falling. (unless of course you went out drinking with me and watched my drunk ass fall down a flight of stairs sliently... true story)... the art, is picking yourself up as gracefully as possible. fixing your face to a purposeful "it happens to everyone" pose and being flyy as fuk when walking away with a saunter that says "yea, i tripped, so what? you too caught up in the act of my falling when i'm so fresh i'm already over it...and moving up the block".

preferences: a quiz

smurf or pacman (the dance): smurf is the shyt. chicken noodle soup ain't got NUFFIN on the smurf!

breasts or thighs: breasts. breasts are always on top!

dry humping or finger exploration: do i look like an 8th grader to you?

MOP mosh pit or Drum n Bass boogie-a-thon: why can't there be both?

holding hands in public or kissing in public: holding hands. and kissing behind doorways, of course!

myspace top 8 or cellphone top 8: myspace, obviously!

boondocks or aquateenhunger force: ATF muthaF'ERS!... i know, i know: i should love the cartoon by blacks attempting to correct the state of our current blackness by calling out to everyone as N****A... however. we arent the only ones watching it. and most of those people didnt get the memo: "this is a satire. insert laugh here." they are just chuckling because black people cartoons calling the rest of the world the n word is like, freek'n awesome!

katt williams or mike epps: katt williams. minus the N word usage to the fullest degree, he is one funny muthasucka!

napoleon dynamite or...: WhATevER! there is no or when it comes to mr dynamite!

oprah or ellen: i mean really. oprah - i love u porgy. but ellen dances! and she's funny. i'll just keep buying that stupid oprah book that you are on the covere of, every month. i love u oprah. i swear i do - but if you ain't throwing hip hop under the bus, you are boring as hell!

man's hands or feet: both. i like nice feet. and i love clean (not manicured) hands.

first date kiss or fourth date sex: definitely 1st date kiss. sex has no time limit. but its real doubtful. especially in the land of new york city!

will smith & jada pinkett smith or courtney vance & angela bassett: why not both? i like flyy black love. it makes me believe in shyt.

religion or spirtuality: spirtituality. my god and me get a long great. its your judgements that be fuk'n up the translation!

mind f*ck or titty f*ck: well i'm a writer. so i guess i'm full of mind f*ckin' now aren't i?



tag: all of u'z! dammit.

pied piper

If you are reading this

It is late
You are tired
Your bones hurt with the irony of knowing
He is not coming to bed
Not coming home
Not sleeping in your embrace,
Again.

Face the music when the sun rises
Falter your footsteps to the kitchen, the bathroom – the front door
But look back and compromise – once more
Say this is the last time

The last time you’ll love someone so much you forget that you ever wanted something tangible:
a note, a hug, a kiss, a tug at your braids, a pull for your hips
something that says you aren’t crazy for feeling this
dementia,
that shreds your nervous system into confetti

Dye your insides fuchsia and forget the blues ever existed
You never liked them anyway
Not even when you showered together
Or when you read the paper – line by line as if his words and your tongue were born like this

And you know now, the silence
Was just the beginning
It was the prelude to all that jazz
And blackened burned molasses turned harsh syrupy sinister
slight the warm-blooded and
Reflect the lives of dead men walking/writers

You fell in love with a poet and blame your mother for not telling you

There will always be another stage brighter than the one in your bedroom
Than the one that connected your eyes to each other
Across the room…that night

You will always believe in him
More than the words he’s stitched to papers himself
SOS’d his soul in between the lines

But, this is not your cue
You will never save him

The phone calls from across the country
Are lifelines sucking away your lifeforce
He loves you enough to not kill you - physically

But, mentally…
He’s already sharpened the sword.
Samurai swung at your skull
And watched your eyes spiral in the wind

I wish this were a metaphor
It’s nothing but plain old English truth;

He was never your God,
Who promised to save your soul, after the altering of your alter
I wish this were a metaphor
But it is nothing but plain paper bag and shoeless truth;

He is of no cloth that will bring pride to African warriors or Kings

He is too beautiful and brilliant and cunning for you to notice
The malicious tongue
That darts between his lips while singing you the same song
He sang for her in Japan, London, Los Angeles, Texas and New York

The words may change,
But the melody is as clear as the flutist stealing
Children from their home:
Empty beds taunting the graves with bare coffins

Lucky you…
To earn the movement of free will and still shuffle your feet from an awakening
So pure

Tell me how much it hurts to hear these words

Find a mirror and trail the reflection of a woman
Once upon a time -- she looked just like you.
Except, she was special

daddy...daddy. daddy. hi daddy!!

you gotta love kids.

im sitting here, ohio waiting for my host to be done on the computer.

there is a baby yelling "hi daddy. hi daddy, daddy!? daddy!? daddY!"

saw scott woods, psi president, when i came to the library. as usual, he's too cool for school.

dropped my daughter off @ early this morning. but not before she ran back upstairs because she forgot her homework. then back down cause she remembered she did INDEED have her homework. but after she left her homework book the car seat - YES! this is my life on any given day. when i have to make it to Laguardia Airport in less than 30 minutes to assure my delayed plane, won't leave me. and YES. this all happens after my cd duplicator, JAMAL, tells me to come pick up my cd's - and when i get there, he confesses he didnt have the master copy and can i bring it back. that's a NO jamal... fa realz. but i get here. and i slept on the lil' jet, like i wasn't scrunching up all these thighs into a seat that probably fit my smaller than myself (in 8th grade).

i wrote my thank you letter last nite. my gratitude list. and feel happy. i ate steak and cheddar cheese eggs in Ohio, 'cause i could. how many people can do that? i am blessed. just like the baby screaming for her father in the middle of the deadliest of silent libraries. tucked in her carseat. prideful over the joy of knowing her daddy's face.

questionable consumption

I once met a woman

So proud of her own flesh, she fed it to her lover

Never mind the slices of skin missing, bloody fingers

He deserves all of me – she offered

As if the red could forgive a thirst like his


I wonder if I will ever feed a hunger so raw,

I'm willing to bare my bones.

Will I ever find a lover so in love with my soul, he devours

It whole and consumes me?

and it goes...

on and on and on...

in the middle of writing 3 poems. all of which i detest.

it is 5 in the morning and the sun is rising and i can't help but think about mikes diner.

i want french toast.

and a coffee. and a kiss.

but not in that order. i am booking shows like mad for the summer, because the worst thing about being a full-time artist is: when the summer comes, the school funding is DRY! besides, i don't particularly want to be in NYC all summer. it gets too hot. i like to go and come. so i can visit fort greene park for sunday jams. and sit with friends with jamba juice and jokes. my daughter always goes to california so she can experience life outside the city. this is important. i've had it all my life and wouldnt dare deny her that. i mean -- i already moved her 2000 miles away from our cali roots. the least i can give her is a summer of bike riding in the street, swimming pools in the back of yards that line the cul de sac and cousins galore.

but until then. here i am. searching myspace pages for inspiration. watching HBO on demand for inspiration. listening to the keys click away my inspiration. this must be a joke. give me a topic to write about... i'm afraid i'm dry at the moment. unless of course i write about what i see in brooklyn. and who really wants to do that, again?

i have projects waiting to happen - and a bum that hurts from sitting too long. i am still thinking of french toast. maybe i can go to the bodega and get some pancake stuff so i can make it now.

even though, mike's diner opens in 20 minutes. and i'm only a 10 minute drive away...

i have to get ready for Ohio. I've officially run outta books!

a new order must be made. until then -- sheroshima for sale.

yea. that's a plan.

.5

when i think of you,
it is always some kind of beautiful
black velvet painting of a man
forgive my worries and unreadiness to bend my heart
into rings for you

there are times we must spend alone thinking of ourselves
and be welcome with the selfish nature
that spins our dreams into coal and diamond dust -- but never quite as shiny
as it seemed in our visions

you looked at me with wonderment, that day
as if my bones were filled with candies, my insides melting caramel
syrup - where u licked me like your fingers, like it was yours
to do just that

this is where it gets tricky.
the understanding of ones pleasure, with pain in tow
blame it on the rain, and a need for a real orgasm.

no one knew you were afraid of falling,
not even my karma was ready for the bounce
and roll and burn of your eyelids
closing on a love that had no idea, i broke you so bad
there was no glue for cleaning your untidy fractures.

blame me,
the brown girl with a hate for man so cold
i'd swallow you from your insides first and smile upon
your echoes descent.
who knew i'd grow back my compassionate wings
my gavel still mid-air waiting for another you to come by.
like the buses, all women have been promised

as if mass transit was an equivilant to the crack of a human spirit
so undistinguishable it grunts oil and smoke.
mythical creatures, we never knew had a reflection so
similar to this smile
forgive me, torn soldier
i can only teach my daughter how to look closely before
crossing
next time.

.4

.4
in parts...my past...and so it goes



there are more ways to skin a cat:



flip the beast on its belly and scrap

like that of my insides.



the night before,

you revealed girlfriends were never on your agenda

call me your soulmate.

i began to taste hot ice when the word "boyfriend" rolled of my tongue.



who has a taste for commitment when one could swim

around opportunity and never suffer pruned skin...?



i'd like to call myself your lover,

but that is merely a word that one uses to sound civilized.

honesty says, we just fucked.

fed you a plate, before your cab ride arrived

my pussy always left my mate famished - so call this a farewell gift

and leave us just like this:

pleasant.



so when we meet in a brooklyn bar years from now,

no one will notice our smile.



the way you hold my hand, like a secret



a canary,



a skinless cat;



it is then i will think of you.

after men scramble for my pieces

how you left them unopened,



plastic intact, still stacked in corners

misplaced by my own hands.



you gracious admirer,

how you refused to tear at something so



see through.

on my day....

i got a really really big ass cake from Cake Man Raven! yes...

its gorgeous. he knew exactly what i wanted. and yes. i am going to try and eat it ALL

what looks like crazy

with incredible people. reflections shoot back the truth. and the love. and the ugly. and its crazy. milwaukee was a moment that i may never forget. not so much the slammaster's meeting. but the connection that re-ignited with a woman i truly admire. she makes me want to write poems about being better. even in the most fragile of times. she shows me beauty in vulnerability. and life in art. life in art. life because of art. she is me. the reason that i make it make sense when i want to give up because, it doesnt make sense. not to normal people, anyway. but to us. poets and dancers, painters, scultpers, singers: artists - we find solace and chaos in the word, the movement, the hands. and when something outside of that creative force, threatens our productivity, if we're lucky, we produce more. more beauty than we've ever known, cause only the heartbroken have the gumption to get out the truth. they've already lost what glue held them together. they have nothing to lose.

and when you try to have the nuclear family. the fairytale that the world spoonfed us, you find the crossroad, ready to penetrate your facade with some real life shyt. some only in the movies shyt: unbelievable, i cant believe it happened to me shyt. and it makes you wonder. second guess and begin to hate the art inside of you. until you can no longer deny the pull. the need to push out your voice. and others gravitate to your light, so its even harder to deny its some dream you had, while you slept next to your soulmate, your lover, your enabler. you want to be happy with a person that makes you happy. but you want to be happy with your art. and its an unfair battle. so the question is: why is it so hard for artists to find and stay loved...?

as a touring poet, i can remember how lonely it was, offering yourself on stage for 20 minutes at a time, then again off stage, then again at the all night eating spot and then you are left alone with your adrenaline rush. left to talk to the shadows and the corners and the tv, and if you're lucky - your sleepy better half over hundreds of miles away via telephone. that life is a hard one. only those surviving thru it can explain the despair. some of them find solace in other facets of that world. but those are just easier ways to the destruction of your soul. in my opinion. and i have many. if you know me personally. this isnt even a poem. its the honesty exercise i commissioned of myself this morning. i don't know what it means. just that i know that i am beginning to see the hardest part of love and life is meaning it -- to find it in sea of worthlessness, is a blessing. to hold it close - is a test. to hold yourself closer, rather than trigger buttons of self-destruction, can become a distraction. and most of us artists - could care less anyway. happy, in love, and emotionally and creatively fufilled doesn't sell well in the art stores. ive checked.

so where does that leave us. the ones attempting to balance the weight of the world and the weight of our heart? what statue will be made in the honor of the woman that loved her family enough, she cut the core of her creative soul for it to flourish? who will make the bumper stickers for the man that rather get on stage and say a poem before going home to his wife, rather than be admonished for not sleeping with the same fans he loves entirely with his words. how will a week off for the slain artists look in a calendar setting? and which state will take a vacation because of it? when will it be worth it? this life that dares us to dream big before sledge hammering our soul down to a manageable size...

slammasters point 2

9 oclock in the morning.
i hate meetings
i always have -- but this confirms it
loudly...

atleast dasha is sitting next to me -
which makes my typing look less appalling,
as she is texting on her phone.
i love dasha

she makes me look good...
word. i'm sure i will be typing
again -- as i don't get the reasoning behind the motion, motion to dismiss, motion to amend, youre out of order! im seriously lost. i'm saying - i know this means something real important here -- or even in the world. but damn. i don't think i'm built for it.

it is now 10:09.
only
7
hours
2 go

slammaster's point 1

watching myla and sydney (dasha's daughter) perfect the salsa with spinning and matching bows...

falling over after hershey, the chocolate lab known as kelly family, jumped on me. not once, not twice -- but thrice!

finding some real good smell good in dasha's bathroom. then being rewarded with two handmade soaps (something with oats that fell in my noise and another really good one) for my aromatherapy addiction

eating chicken wing dinner with mac n cheez, yams and green beans, at a soulfood joint that gave me lemonade in a MASON JAR!

driving from milwaukee to madison with dasha's stories and ed mabrey's fill-ins
was priceless...

do something worthwhile dammit!

I AM SO DOING THIS! - big ups to Verse for putting me onto the site
www.forgenow.com

shoesize

i've loved you like brown babies love sun
longer than you've known what to do with it
my throat itches with instructions:
open your arms and hug me back
but
you have a way of staring my kind into silence
shut mouthed, i hum songs that only i know,
would rather you guess what i'm singing than tell
all the to my secrets soul, again

at midnight,
i press flesh to face and whisper my chromosomes into imitation
learn the rapture of silence
practice the gutted shell of brooklyn brownstones, still
solemn in their windowless doors and bare hinges

this is when the eyelids lie rusty in your wake

learn my temples to tense, in spite of myself
conjure a myriad of bloody tragedies
death tolls in Gaza, Iraq, my heart
spins a web of heavy promises to forgive a manhood
like yours, for leaving me bare

maybe, i have a problem with men...

how many more tiring tyrants should i allow into my skin
before washing dirty my spirit; lay flat for shrinking
self-esteem is imminent,

this is the siren for the misguided
find a home in me for i've always had a thing for the unloved

who else will practice french kissing broken mirrors
for a taste of manly reserve, i want to learn your shape
let it grow on me like leather,
the way a lover's fingers trace the hair on skin and suckle
the shadows for an idea,

allow this moment as your safe space. know i could never
hurt your dreams or hinder your strides
we are of angel breath and gods wings
zulu strength and slave's resistance

in our pain is the shape of the most beautiful things
shifting images of life, bless me with your resilence,
teach me to scare away the tears
forgive the world for striking us with fear
of our awesomeness,
watch the stars watch us back and blink in disbelief.

milwaukee n tings...

i got here
slept the entire 2 hour flight
it was cool
dasha was late getting me
it was cool - cause i got to stick
some starbucks down my throat...which was good

i think im going crazy

days like this

i dont think my mama said there'd be days like this. but here they are. nonetheless. i tried to remain optimistic throughout it all. but energy is what it is. it moves and settles and ignites chaos.

internally. i am nuts. externally. i am humming songs and sitting thru the fire. waiting for god to bless me with something more than silence. i am not a mean or evil person. things tend to happen when i least expect it. and i forget stuff. not intentionally. but i do. sheesh.

i feel so, tacked to a cross, right now.

............................ this is me trying to be optimistic...

tutor time

i hate trying to tutor my child thru
division
i am such an angry mathmatician... its not like
i got this shyt on lock. i tell ya,

i hate math. for real.
and now, i have to help my daughter, who loves it
but act like she doesnt get it (for whatever reason)
until i start screaming like a banshee at the heavens

ugh

learning

i never suspected i was one of those women that lost herself
in her mate. forgetting her friendships and sisterships and
independence. but now. after watching friends fall out of the
sky when their single and hibernate with their dating... i think
i can learn a thing or two about space. so i turn off the phone
at a certain time. i try not to pick up in the middle of our
conversations. i restrain myself from playing security officer,
psychiatrist and personal cheerleader. this is new for me. but
so needed. because at the end of the day. he has my back. he holds
me down. and while i love my girls. they're willingness to share
their lives with me has blessed me so... however. i've learned from
them the art of priority shaping.

poem without words

this was an exercise i assigned... and then did myself...


sex without the word


stretch your fingers across me
roam my blades and quarter my soul into fours
slip your index down my middle;
tease my sternum with greedy tongue
crease my flesh lik wet napkins,
rumpled flesh of a woman you make me
whisper into my peaks, make it your microphone
or just pull them with your teeth
wait
now, hurry my panting with your brush against
open thighs
leave me dizzy; keep me scorched;twist my insides
please...
lather this pink softness with fevered mounting
wholly man -- you keep me wanting of all things
purple and black and rhythms dance around our mouths
lift our tongues with sparks of sentiment and tears
escape my lids