it's just not friendly, just not friendly...
why be 'friendly' over a year now?
but lie? or to be clear, why omit?
why never speak her name?
why not mention your wife or marital status?
you coulda drawn that line
long long long ago
when we were first becoming 'friends'
a little clarity in fact would have been
much more 'friendly'
cause i believe in karma
and now mine feels sullied
still i did not know i trespassed
until well after the fact, found out by (the universe disguised as) chance...
should i have asked?
i should have asked.
shoulda done 'due diligence'
says my friend with a cock who i call up to talk when i find out to process the shock to help me figure out how on earth could this type fuckerie come about? he explains i'm to blame cause i never asked point blank and all men care 'bout is that they don't get found out, cause the exposure is the only part that causes pain. in fact, i played right into his game by never insisting to know when, who, what he did at night. i reply we never talked on those levels, bout them type things - that's not what we were about, we were friends over writing and music and artivism. "then why'd you fuck?" i hesitate to reply that's not what this is about -
'to deceive'
synonyms: betray, mislead, beguile, delude, dupe, hoodwink, bamboozle, double-cross...
the sad truth is
i valued you as my friend, friend.
but bredren don't do so to bredren.
sadder fact is i got to shake off the sad feeling
and do my best not to hold onto that bitter unease
but be real with myself
that i did suspect & felt in my gut
that you were lying or withholding
something.
now, if i had known what
i woulda backed the fuck off.
mercy. i love life. i love the people in my life and all of the infinite blessings bestowed upon me. i am awed in each moment; reminded of the opportunities and possibilities, constant, flowing, surreal.
full circle... to come full circle is to re-realize, to remember, to re-discover what always was and what will be. what came before and everything you don't see - yet. it's always, everywhere, just see. i give to others so easily and must be disciplined to do the same for me. must be conscious of each experience, although fleeting. flying past me. to capture in wordsound is my blessing.
she said, fly free. in these broad mountains this feels easy. we hum, each and every. i walk out and see earth in the sky and he said, that immense towering mass was once rockbed. rockbed? i am staring up into what was once the sea? can this be? really? surreal in its reality.
i will write.
at least a dozen poems are rattlin around in my mind and i cannot write. aggravated by the fact that usually all i can do is write. however i never memorize a word. then step up on stage with my sheet safety blanket and read. lawd have mercy on me. que pasa?! i'm writing silly love poems and posting videos and not really writing. not really really writing those words that will put me way out on a limb with my heart on my sleeve and exposing it all full frontal. 'go bare' he said. i shudder. my head hurts and i cannot write. perhaps i misplaced my voice somewhere... i will retrace my steps. maybe i left it on the subway or in the streetcar with one glove or a scarf. i disperse my words among notbooks and laptop files and slips of paper and more notebooks and then feel 'a ways' wishing i could scoop them all together into one heap and sift through the whole collection as though that would give me a sense of cohesion, or completion or contentment. self-sabotage maybe? likely.
for i am at a loss. my frontal lobe throbs and i cannot write. i have a list of potential poems and i put my pen to paper and ... and ... and ...
how bloody anti-climactic. i just want to get them out. ejaculate. maybe then my brain will stop buzzing. i mean, what is sanity, really? and how sane should a writer be exactly? and if i plan to step on a stage, do i really need to just memorize one, two or three? or all? or what? i'm suffering from severe inadequacy. even though the response is almost always 'you are lovely' -
that is not the problem. the problem is with me. i just can't seem to articulate the damn thing. for a writer - that could be the end of me.
could it? really? will this pass? what will become of me (without words?)
my dilemma -
intimacy in 2009 obliges a level of dialogue
however the conversation to many connotes a level of commitment
before those lines/shapes/squiggles have necessarily been drawn
though i have left some such marks in your back...
so, how to broach or approach this conversation
without the misinterpretation/accusation
that this wom/hu/man wants to lock you down?
because i truly don't give a fuck what we are doing or where this is going
i do not need a label or a drawer or a sweater with a letter or a ring
all i really want is to pin you down
with my body, my mouth on your mouth, our limbs entangled
(at times, not all the time, but sometimes)
(in this case, in addition to our friendship)
in this present moment. today.
remembering tomorrow is a new day.
knowing neither can commit to feeling the same way
tomorrow as we do today.
truth is 2009 obliges
a mutual understanding for
reciprocal esteem of both mind and body
some sense from both parties of
truth and trust in the 'thing'
particularly that neither is
the unsuspecting third party
to danger or deceit,
can you feel me?
'cos baby, i can easily risk my heart
but my self-respect and physical health
are much too dear to me,
and much more so than the idea of 'we'.
i only want to give you my very best poem
i don't want to share any old poem
only my very best poem
i've skimmed several pages, all disparate,
review different files, flipped through every weathered notebooks
searching for that one very best poem
for you
and no one poem
feels just right
is quite right
for this occasion
for you
so i skirt the stage
remain in my seat
purse my lips
and hold this feeling in
this fretting, this distressing
that none of my poetry
is good enough to me
for you
sorry.
the sun is shining
i look upon these broad white mountains and
i miss you
moments we've shared
too few
distance our physical bodies
i wonder
do i even really know you
could i?
will i ever?
will you?
if we spend a lifetime together
and in your presence
what will i feel
will distance still
push me away from you
intangible distance
the words i cannot articulate
instead i'll just say
i love you
i love you
i love you
always have
even before
i knew you
even before
i knew what it was
to miss you
in brooklyn last week i encountered many artists and noted a theory buzzin about the community of visual artists, musicians, dancers, producers, designers, etc. and the current economic crisis (all americans can chat bout these days)
the recession will engender more quality art and community arts by diminishing the pressure of market art imperatives and allowing the artist to focus more intensely on the process and the intention. no longer a money game, art can become about expression for other people.
question is, when are curators and gallery owners gettin on board?
i must confess
i shot down our love
i am the python
that swallowed our love whole
and went to sleep
i stifled our love
i smothered our love
i stabbed at
the slight possibility
of love
between us
then watched our love
bleed out
in silence
wrapped in my
cold flexed fingers
i squeezed the
life from our love
a seed planted
and germinated
fledgling
i smashed it
drowned it
obliterated it
-
a giant unaware of
her own strength
swatted in self preservation
and tore down
the sky
then sat up
suddenly
sadly
surprised
hardly knew how or why
-
and still
i don't know
if i hurt
your pride
or some real
deeper
feeling
deeper
inside
beyond the reaches of ego
beyond the reaches of your
mind
and now we sit
six feet above
our love
'friends'
we talk across
the dirt mound
neither mention
'love'
while secretly
i bring flowers
and wonder
how to resurrect
the love
i know I murdered.
i am so turned around, mixed up, headspun right now.
my mother calls my lifestyle 'bohemian' - i reel. don't know what to feel. how to explain this intense place called growing. coming to some knowing. some sense of direction. through exploration and reflection.
over the past year my close friend has found me 'heavy' then 'lighter' now 'restless'
over the past year i am bless to have been immersed in community arts as a result of an opportunity to manage a space (no quickbooks, no incorporation, no personal income) that has truly enriched my everyday experience, connected me to artists i respect, exposed the hustle of grants and independent artistry in a busy gritty money mongering tdot city and allowed me to develop myself as an artists first a writer writing to publish now a writer writing to perform, to paint, to make muzak and installations and yes, publish. but also to heal, to share and to learn.
i have learned i can facilitate a workshop, collaborate to curate an art show, mediate dialogue on arts and issues, plan programming and much more. but still...
in my pockets are precious plans i hide while i try to manage the biz bit of this amazing project including w.i. sea - an international magazine, a cerebreal jourey from head to heart - a guided journaling activity, heartbeart - a chapbook and more... wrapped up in these plans or around them rather, cradling them in place, is a fear - a very real frightful concern:
the desire to share and publish is fused with the fear of the 'how' - the connect between the articulation and the action - do i pursue more academic credentials? when i do not want to perpetuate the idea grad studies and academia are necessary (as the are elitist and exclusive and a publishing pissing contest?) why don't i follow those examples i have encountered this past year of renegade guerrilla artists on a serious grind, walking that tightrope for funding and pushing their projects hardhardhard.
what greater fear lurks beneath fretting over the 'how'?
why do i fight focusing on my own projects in my pocket? why is it so easy for me to commit to another person's project one hundred percent? why can i wake up early for class but not for myself?
i am so afraid. i am in serious debt. my head hurts.
everything is nebulous and in the air and this may be over in july and that may not go down in september and this opportunity in june might pass me by but what will happen regardless?
what is the foundational purpose?
new plan - stop planning. forget the hows, whens, wheres and just focus on the why. put the why into action and forget the rest. for now.
thanks.
i am perplexed and saddened by the seeming inability to draw connections (and thereby nurture compassion) across complexions - this feels to me like a dilemma of grave consequence as my female friends who are not of color are having beautiful mixed babies by men of culture, of cultures of the african diaspora. i fear that if i cannot clearly connect across color with these women, then what day of angry disconnect awaits them, in relation to their children?
"you don't understand me ma! you can never understand my experience! i am black. you are white." period.
to feel/fear one cannot communicate conditions across color inhibits dialogue and the possibility (not for unity but) for real change through cooperation. audre lorde wrote of the richness that differences make, the richness, not the hate, nor the distance. the richness in difference will bring us to new solutions (that humanity needs desperately but often does not seek.)
nehal notes the differences between performing black and owning black. black as in black consciousness not that amorphous BET-NBA black blob. to perform is to portray pride to people in the everyday, an ability grown out of a genuine place of inward reflection and self-knowing e.g. the owning. performing is the outside action and owning the inside understanding. i could list other ethnic identities that appear outwardly differently in different people as genuine pride of or striations away from 'stereotypes' across communities all owning their origins that invariably vary but note that 'white' is the norm, is the over-riding desirable state, is the other to a person of color - more often the amorphous blob often trying to lend itself to culture failing either by destroying or disingenuously uplifting or outright theft. is there no room for the heartfelt appreciation of traditions of people different than you, is that wish to learn more about, dress like the people of, play music of a place, an origin, that you cannot locate in your composition?
is there no room for francesca to play kalimba? i cannot countenance this. i must build a bridge.
another level of reality cloud the issue for me: 'looking' of 'x' identity, the perception peice. when a person self identifies as 'of color' but outwardly face, skin and features 'pass' as 'white' or other - how authentic can your identity be when you are perceived as better than that blacker-than-you-being therefore denying that complex set of oppressions that string together the days in dark communities? how can those fair skinned offspring of interracial families maintain his or her ethnic identity in a world that does not respect them as a part of neither side of the family tree? how much to we need to 'see' to believe?
i seek the opportunity to connect across culture with integrity, wanting that for my friends' mixed pickney and equally wishing to affirm friendships i keep. i feel that conditions exist across colors and in the details of the experience are opportunities for dialogue, for caring comparison and connectivity across differences without calling 'sameness' similarity ... quite. mirroring instead of othering says sandra amarie of moja tea gallery.
i say we should all poke out our eyes. moses responds 'then we would judge by voice and odor.' i wish to shed a tear for that othering instinct inside, wish to draw it out of me in that same sigh, wish to expel the impetus to tell you how 'you' are different from 'i'.
i say white mothers of mixed babies, don't antagonize your child with the idea that 'we're the same'.
i say white women don't call 'gender' and say you understand racism and systematic discrimination against (in)visible min(maj)orities.
i say white heteronormative men walk with a level of assurance and affirmation (a result of pervasive patriarchy, capitalism and racism) that women and people of culture simply cannot for the world in this world has not taught us this - we look for grey, seek compromise, learn to accommodate. our labour (from mothering to slaving for pennies a day) has no value inside the market but the world could not continue without us. but sometimes i feel that pedestal built of privilege is a prison all its own and there are no steel bars between he and i, no, there is a steel wall and you cannot really see me and i do not really know you because you in fact have never been compelled to show the real real you.
cry me a river.
black babies eat mud pies because of your privilege and black grandmothers bury their daughters to care for their children because of your injust aid - see how i connect the two?
what to do. what to do. what to do.
how to articulate
an authentic bridge
across color
if i cannot
i fear
all is lost
intergenerationally
between
child and mother
i know
meaningful
connections
permit
cooperation
between privilege
class can transcend color
for money can buy your way
out of oppression
out of identifying with
'your people'
i sense like class
there exist
connections between conditions
across color
and these
can create that bridge
tell me how this can be done?
d'bi says to see the places where you are an oppressor, a witness of oppression and a victim of oppression.
let's start here - shall we give it a try?
i will and will let you know how it goes...
thick
ness
con
sumes
so still
still
throbbing
pulsating
vibrating
immersed
in
choices
how
to
breathe
?
a premise:
we have gone so far idolizing progress irrationally that we are now looking to explain this state
a fear:
we look to attribute our technological folly and excessive injustice to religious truths
a recommendation:
we take responsibility for our present state and look to resolve, undo and change without hoping that our mess was predetermined by some being bigger than us
i adore thick heavy prose, packed with descriptive language and intangible imagery and alot of alliteration so that the words don't come easy. rather they oblige the reader to slow their reading and expend energy to enunciate each syllable, allowing a moment to meditate on wordsound. wordsoundpower.
my mother, a soft, round west indian south asian woman, loved tosh. from the cassette player weaving in and out of bhajans, steelpan, and symphony orchestras were his reggae riddims and sweet voice, dark and deep and textured with pain yet smooth - like some tossed wave beaten black rock. above the statistics textbooks and caribbean lit in her ofice was his face, eyes peeping behind locks, smoke escaping from his lips. i thought him god-like.
my auntie joy had the spot in montreal in the seventies, where activists and artists crashed and buzzed and laughed and cried and never paid rent. one day, joy returned to find the house reeking of ganja. knowing she was on rcmp radar for traffickings us illegals into canada, she demanded to know who was in her house smoking reefer so - a friend pointed downstairs silently and brought her index to her lips - who could cause such reverence and quiet in this lively household? at the bottom of the stairs sat one peter tosh, whose quiet presence was so powerful, my auntie joy (no stranger to confrontation) held her tongue and continued to bring him fresh coffee (he refused food) until he departed. he strummed his guitar and sang, spoke very little.
to this day, i love a ras. not certain if its its a smell or memory or timbre of voice or rejection of norms and babylon shitstem or a combination or all these. but i know tosh, tosh, tosh, peter tosh is the root.
since sunday
i have focused
consciously
on love
take in
send out
love
with breathe
sending messages
across frequencies
to say i love you
to those entering my mind
in this meditation
funny
i was reminded
next next saturday
couples celebrate love
in a formal way
and i laughed
cos alone
i'm in love
with everyone
these days
