Come visit, let's play
-Stephen Earley Jordan II
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
When I was a Cave Bear (or "Reflections of My Childhood and Writing")
My childhood sweethearts were Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.
We shared the same distinct fascination with the macabre. Teenage angst enveloped me--there was a sense of seclusion when I read their works billowing with sadness, sarcasm, and at times, despair. I didn't think anyone understood me during my lonely moments of mania. But Sylvia and Anne helped me survive. I knew, with them, my writing (at the time, mostly metaphoric and confessional) would ultimately rescue me from my psychological demons which plagued me since an early age. I battled myself in secret; remained in seclusion so that no one else would know of my torment; then returned to my everyday life pretending I was okay. By 8th grade, Sylvia, Anne, and I had made a secret suicidal pact, which would eventually be broken.
My writing and attempt to capture the twistedness of man--our hidden agendas--predates my discovery of Sylvia and Anne. I still have the first story I wrote--in first grade, handwritten on ruled paper, now tattered and yellow-brown with age. Despite a childhood of undiagnosed dyslexia, seeing particular numbers and letter patterns backward (and even writing from right to left), I found a sense of freedom in words. On those tattered pages, at the bottom of my storage bin is a twisted tale of Cinderella I wrote.
We all know the story of Cinderella--a fairy tale most people truly wish could be true. However, I knew in my heart, people truly never lived happily ever after. There was nothing really real about that. However, in my story, though similar in its Cinderella premise, takes the reader for a slight journey. In my version, when the Prince looks for Cinderella, in search of the right foot to fit the glass slipper, we learn that he is angry. His anger shows when Cinderella is savagely beaten WITH the glass slipper because the Prince felt she should have stayed for the entire party. Then, he leaves with her evil stepsisters and marries them (yes! each of them), while Cinderella is left poor and alone.
Why would I, a first-grader, write such a tale? I had never witnessed abuse--as far as I could remember, at least. Similarly, I try to think of my happiest childhood memory and I can't. Nor can I remember any great children's stories that was read to me or that I may have read on my own--I don't remember enjoying (or reading) any Dr. Seuss, for example. But I do remember the adult literature.
My mom was a librarian. My after school and summer time were spent in the library—though, then, I despised reading. Up until the mid-1980s, people could smoke cigarettes in almost any public area. And, even though mom worked at the library after the anti-smoking laws went into effect, the stale tobacco smell still clung to the books, their pages, and even the furniture in the library. With every page flip, the scent wafted into my nostrils and into my asthmatic lungs. So I had a hesitation of going the library for this very reason. Even today, I attribute the library to smoking in a confined area.
But there, in my mother’s library, Iaeger Public Library in West Virginia, I found a book--THE book! “The Clan of the Cave Bear”--an extensive novel depicting the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon humans coming in contact with each other. A wonderful novel which I truly didn't understand—but I wanted to. A quite disturbing novel that, as a 3rd grader, I had no clue what a lot of the words meant—but again, I wanted to. But, I did recognize forced bodily contact (which I would later know as "rape"), and how the end result would be a child being born; and I learned about dominance versus submission. Though, again, at this age, my ability to express these things verbally was limited. As children, we understand a lot of things that we just can't truly grasp how to express verbally. And, by the time we realize what we can express, it's nothing but a metaphor in a story. I vividly recall a passage in “Clan of the Cave Bear” where character Ayla, an outsider, due to her blond hair and ability to only speak in gestures (is brutally raped by a clan member and gives birth to a son. And, interestingly so, the clan didn’t believe it was semen that made a baby, but rather a Spirit entering the body via the mouth--which, I guess, is what made it a bit 'cleaner' for me at that age to comprehend. It was just as believable as a stork bringing a baby.
This is what sparked my writing and reading. Subconsciously, I was affected. I didn't want to read the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. I needed something real! Could have been real! Must have been real! With my newfound love of reading, I HAD to test out my own skills at writing--only to be shot down and humiliated.
Not only was I physically different--the only black kid in the entire school--but I was born different. My difference somehow was always expressed in my art, my writing. I'd like to think, like most people would about themselves, that there was something special about me--though I'll never be able to put my finger on what exactly made me special. The assignment in my third grade English class was to 1) use the paper finger puppets (after we cut them out and color them) shaped like a dragon, a prince, and a princess; 2) to build props; and 3) to write a skit to be performed in front of the class.
By myself, I built two castles out of small shipping boxes and decorated them with my Crayolas and wrote the script; the other students in my group colored in the finger puppets. There we were in front of the class. I read the script while the other students acted it out with the puppets. And, at this point, no one read the script--but me. In the tale, the Prince was at war with the Dragon; The prince slayed the dragon; the Prince and the Princess lived happily ever after (so the students initially thought). However, the skit ended with the Dragon's twin brother kidnapping the princess and dragging her back into his cave; and, finally, the Prince searched for her for weeks. When he does find her, as the story ended, "she gave birth to a dragon baby who spit fire".
At that moment, when I read those words, the entire class gasped and went silent.
I didn't know why they grew quiet. Nor would I understand this until years later. This story was MY version of "Clan of the Cave Bear"--but no one else appreciated or understood it. It would be years before I shared my writing with anyone again.
Adult literature was real to me. There was nothing made-up about it--no elves, no sorcerers, no abracadabra tricks. I didn't understand how my peers could dive into books to escape from reality when I wanted to reflect it in all of its beauty and disturbances.
I wouldn’t meet Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton--and have secret literary affairs with them, until much later—my teen years. But they would soon teach me that I was wrong—there was nothing special about me. We were all cave bear in our own way.
We shared the same distinct fascination with the macabre. Teenage angst enveloped me--there was a sense of seclusion when I read their works billowing with sadness, sarcasm, and at times, despair. I didn't think anyone understood me during my lonely moments of mania. But Sylvia and Anne helped me survive. I knew, with them, my writing (at the time, mostly metaphoric and confessional) would ultimately rescue me from my psychological demons which plagued me since an early age. I battled myself in secret; remained in seclusion so that no one else would know of my torment; then returned to my everyday life pretending I was okay. By 8th grade, Sylvia, Anne, and I had made a secret suicidal pact, which would eventually be broken.
My writing and attempt to capture the twistedness of man--our hidden agendas--predates my discovery of Sylvia and Anne. I still have the first story I wrote--in first grade, handwritten on ruled paper, now tattered and yellow-brown with age. Despite a childhood of undiagnosed dyslexia, seeing particular numbers and letter patterns backward (and even writing from right to left), I found a sense of freedom in words. On those tattered pages, at the bottom of my storage bin is a twisted tale of Cinderella I wrote.
We all know the story of Cinderella--a fairy tale most people truly wish could be true. However, I knew in my heart, people truly never lived happily ever after. There was nothing really real about that. However, in my story, though similar in its Cinderella premise, takes the reader for a slight journey. In my version, when the Prince looks for Cinderella, in search of the right foot to fit the glass slipper, we learn that he is angry. His anger shows when Cinderella is savagely beaten WITH the glass slipper because the Prince felt she should have stayed for the entire party. Then, he leaves with her evil stepsisters and marries them (yes! each of them), while Cinderella is left poor and alone.
Why would I, a first-grader, write such a tale? I had never witnessed abuse--as far as I could remember, at least. Similarly, I try to think of my happiest childhood memory and I can't. Nor can I remember any great children's stories that was read to me or that I may have read on my own--I don't remember enjoying (or reading) any Dr. Seuss, for example. But I do remember the adult literature.
My mom was a librarian. My after school and summer time were spent in the library—though, then, I despised reading. Up until the mid-1980s, people could smoke cigarettes in almost any public area. And, even though mom worked at the library after the anti-smoking laws went into effect, the stale tobacco smell still clung to the books, their pages, and even the furniture in the library. With every page flip, the scent wafted into my nostrils and into my asthmatic lungs. So I had a hesitation of going the library for this very reason. Even today, I attribute the library to smoking in a confined area.
But there, in my mother’s library, Iaeger Public Library in West Virginia, I found a book--THE book! “The Clan of the Cave Bear”--an extensive novel depicting the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon humans coming in contact with each other. A wonderful novel which I truly didn't understand—but I wanted to. A quite disturbing novel that, as a 3rd grader, I had no clue what a lot of the words meant—but again, I wanted to. But, I did recognize forced bodily contact (which I would later know as "rape"), and how the end result would be a child being born; and I learned about dominance versus submission. Though, again, at this age, my ability to express these things verbally was limited. As children, we understand a lot of things that we just can't truly grasp how to express verbally. And, by the time we realize what we can express, it's nothing but a metaphor in a story. I vividly recall a passage in “Clan of the Cave Bear” where character Ayla, an outsider, due to her blond hair and ability to only speak in gestures (is brutally raped by a clan member and gives birth to a son. And, interestingly so, the clan didn’t believe it was semen that made a baby, but rather a Spirit entering the body via the mouth--which, I guess, is what made it a bit 'cleaner' for me at that age to comprehend. It was just as believable as a stork bringing a baby.
This is what sparked my writing and reading. Subconsciously, I was affected. I didn't want to read the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. I needed something real! Could have been real! Must have been real! With my newfound love of reading, I HAD to test out my own skills at writing--only to be shot down and humiliated.
Not only was I physically different--the only black kid in the entire school--but I was born different. My difference somehow was always expressed in my art, my writing. I'd like to think, like most people would about themselves, that there was something special about me--though I'll never be able to put my finger on what exactly made me special. The assignment in my third grade English class was to 1) use the paper finger puppets (after we cut them out and color them) shaped like a dragon, a prince, and a princess; 2) to build props; and 3) to write a skit to be performed in front of the class.
By myself, I built two castles out of small shipping boxes and decorated them with my Crayolas and wrote the script; the other students in my group colored in the finger puppets. There we were in front of the class. I read the script while the other students acted it out with the puppets. And, at this point, no one read the script--but me. In the tale, the Prince was at war with the Dragon; The prince slayed the dragon; the Prince and the Princess lived happily ever after (so the students initially thought). However, the skit ended with the Dragon's twin brother kidnapping the princess and dragging her back into his cave; and, finally, the Prince searched for her for weeks. When he does find her, as the story ended, "she gave birth to a dragon baby who spit fire".
At that moment, when I read those words, the entire class gasped and went silent.
I didn't know why they grew quiet. Nor would I understand this until years later. This story was MY version of "Clan of the Cave Bear"--but no one else appreciated or understood it. It would be years before I shared my writing with anyone again.
Adult literature was real to me. There was nothing made-up about it--no elves, no sorcerers, no abracadabra tricks. I didn't understand how my peers could dive into books to escape from reality when I wanted to reflect it in all of its beauty and disturbances.
I wouldn’t meet Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton--and have secret literary affairs with them, until much later—my teen years. But they would soon teach me that I was wrong—there was nothing special about me. We were all cave bear in our own way.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Eat
Her vagina is uncooked
Bacon strips I fiddle
With my salmon tongue
Like an untuned cello.
It smells of thyme
and bergamot hair food
From Sally's Beauty Supply
On 125th street.
She says she likes when
Brothas eat her out
But most don't like to eat
So Latin brothas take care of her,
Devour her like mofongo con camarones.
"Do you like to eat?" She asks.
Words are
Muffled by
Mind and mouth
On her and Devouring
All her tender parts,
Keeping mind on matter
And matter elsewhere—
Sucking dick
At 17,
And stalked Him like syphilis
For more than a decade
Trying to get my Daddy
Back, back, back to me
After he left me,
Left us like a July 4th
Firecracker over the Hudson.
"Do you like to eat?" She asks.
Coming up for air
From the thick, vertical dampness;
the scents of Victoria's Secret
Garden Vanilla Lace Hydrating lotion
and menthol cigarettes,
I respond
"No."
“Then stop," she says, "It didn’t feel good anyway.”
Bacon strips I fiddle
With my salmon tongue
Like an untuned cello.
It smells of thyme
and bergamot hair food
From Sally's Beauty Supply
On 125th street.
She says she likes when
Brothas eat her out
But most don't like to eat
So Latin brothas take care of her,
Devour her like mofongo con camarones.
"Do you like to eat?" She asks.
Words are
Muffled by
Mind and mouth
On her and Devouring
All her tender parts,
Keeping mind on matter
And matter elsewhere—
Sucking dick
At 17,
And stalked Him like syphilis
For more than a decade
Trying to get my Daddy
Back, back, back to me
After he left me,
Left us like a July 4th
Firecracker over the Hudson.
"Do you like to eat?" She asks.
Coming up for air
From the thick, vertical dampness;
the scents of Victoria's Secret
Garden Vanilla Lace Hydrating lotion
and menthol cigarettes,
I respond
"No."
“Then stop," she says, "It didn’t feel good anyway.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
La Petit Mort
I.
Masturbation is best
when using both hands
wrapped tightly like pursed lips
with a hot-ass tongue flicking
to seal an envelope
containing the winning Lottery ticket—
taking breath away from those who envy.
II.
That's how Death must feel like
when she comes-a-knockin',
taking one by surprise,
too early or too late in life.
Like Grandma whose eyes welled,
mirroring Angels who soon took her breath
as she clapped, celebrating life.
III.
Alone
He hanged himself daily
While jerking off
To borrowed VHS tapes
Until ejaculation,
Until the little death, inside him,
Deprived him of life.
Masturbation is best
when using both hands
wrapped tightly like pursed lips
with a hot-ass tongue flicking
to seal an envelope
containing the winning Lottery ticket—
taking breath away from those who envy.
II.
That's how Death must feel like
when she comes-a-knockin',
taking one by surprise,
too early or too late in life.
Like Grandma whose eyes welled,
mirroring Angels who soon took her breath
as she clapped, celebrating life.
III.
Alone
He hanged himself daily
While jerking off
To borrowed VHS tapes
Until ejaculation,
Until the little death, inside him,
Deprived him of life.
Friday, February 05, 2010
Poem #25 of 365: Next
Her hair grows
fast like weeds
in momma's flowerbed.
Daddy shaved
her bald
for rolling her eyes,
back-talkin',
and being sassy.
He got mad
she h ad
a friend
who was a boy.
I heard daddy and sister
fighting one night,
"I'll make sure no boy
every looks at you again!"
Daddy says
she ran away
in the middle of the night
with some boy.
Daddy says
never mention her name
in our Christian home,
or God would punish me
Next.
fast like weeds
in momma's flowerbed.
Daddy shaved
her bald
for rolling her eyes,
back-talkin',
and being sassy.
He got mad
she h ad
a friend
who was a boy.
I heard daddy and sister
fighting one night,
"I'll make sure no boy
every looks at you again!"
Daddy says
she ran away
in the middle of the night
with some boy.
Daddy says
never mention her name
in our Christian home,
or God would punish me
Next.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Poem #24 of 365: The Little Death
Cold coffee spills
on my lap,
waking up
my unborn children
from their nap,
who'll never see
the light of day
or Life beyond
a hungry throat,
clinging onto
the back
of a pierced tongue
waiting for
a second swallow,
a third
and fourth
swallow
where gastric acids
will disintegrate them
and life will continue
for everyone
but me.
on my lap,
waking up
my unborn children
from their nap,
who'll never see
the light of day
or Life beyond
a hungry throat,
clinging onto
the back
of a pierced tongue
waiting for
a second swallow,
a third
and fourth
swallow
where gastric acids
will disintegrate them
and life will continue
for everyone
but me.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Poem #23 of 365: A Poem for JD Salinger
My heart closed
like a venus fly trap
enveloping you
into the velvet night,
keeping you warm
in nitrogen-rich sod.
You tried to feel
some kind of a good bye,
comforting me
while inside of me with your words--
making me laugh and cringe
with your words--
not knowing how to let go
of your words--
or even how a good bye truly felt;
you've left schools, and lovers,
and family, and fans--
you left me behind
being inspired, finally feeling unalone
during those dark nights
I wanted to give up.
But you kept me alive
and hopeful--
You were my nourishment,
feeding me water and rye and words.
A part of me has left.
like a venus fly trap
enveloping you
into the velvet night,
keeping you warm
in nitrogen-rich sod.
You tried to feel
some kind of a good bye,
comforting me
while inside of me with your words--
making me laugh and cringe
with your words--
not knowing how to let go
of your words--
or even how a good bye truly felt;
you've left schools, and lovers,
and family, and fans--
you left me behind
being inspired, finally feeling unalone
during those dark nights
I wanted to give up.
But you kept me alive
and hopeful--
You were my nourishment,
feeding me water and rye and words.
A part of me has left.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Poem #22 of 365: The Percussionists
Drum beats
Beat my eardrum
Beats like my heartbeat beats
Beats like Jay Z beats
Or Kanye beats
Or Farrell beats
Mad beats
Like Ike beats
Tina or
Chris brown beats
Rihanna,
Like beats that drop
For a dollar a pop
Drop it like its hot
Beats tap my feet
Won't stop
Beats bop my head
Won't stop
Black beats
New beats
Remixed beats
Lyrically,
Hypnotically,
Vocally
Beats made to rock
Beats made to flip flop
To hip hop
Beats made to silence
The sound of
Every other beat
known to man.
Understand beats
create life
Give breath
Beat upside the head
Take its breath!
"I brought you into this
God damned world,
and I can take you
out of this motherfucka."
Beat
Beats up yo mom
Beats don't peep
Thru yo window
But it beats down
The pane
But it seeps thru your keyhole
Again.
Beats too much to handle
so black men fuck
To their own beat
Thinking that
The beat of the dick upside
And inside the vaginal walls
Feel the blood flow beat,
Aint that life's beat?
Aint that what creates life
Giving us our own beat definition
And beat generation
of what we truly stand for
And if we don't stand for nothing then
Why we complaining about something
Beat up in jail
Cup against prison bars beat
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Doin what we got to do
To survive
A brotha don't know
A beat
A brotha tries to walk
This mean street
A brotha tries to create
And defeat
The beat.
Within.
Beat my eardrum
Beats like my heartbeat beats
Beats like Jay Z beats
Or Kanye beats
Or Farrell beats
Mad beats
Like Ike beats
Tina or
Chris brown beats
Rihanna,
Like beats that drop
For a dollar a pop
Drop it like its hot
Beats tap my feet
Won't stop
Beats bop my head
Won't stop
Black beats
New beats
Remixed beats
Lyrically,
Hypnotically,
Vocally
Beats made to rock
Beats made to flip flop
To hip hop
Beats made to silence
The sound of
Every other beat
known to man.
Understand beats
create life
Give breath
Beat upside the head
Take its breath!
"I brought you into this
God damned world,
and I can take you
out of this motherfucka."
Beat
Beats up yo mom
Beats don't peep
Thru yo window
But it beats down
The pane
But it seeps thru your keyhole
Again.
Beats too much to handle
so black men fuck
To their own beat
Thinking that
The beat of the dick upside
And inside the vaginal walls
Feel the blood flow beat,
Aint that life's beat?
Aint that what creates life
Giving us our own beat definition
And beat generation
of what we truly stand for
And if we don't stand for nothing then
Why we complaining about something
Beat up in jail
Cup against prison bars beat
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Like a chain gang beat
Get back now
Doin what we got to do
To survive
A brotha don't know
A beat
A brotha tries to walk
This mean street
A brotha tries to create
And defeat
The beat.
Within.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Poem #21 of 365: Black Wants
I'm reminded of your skin
the color of everything
that blocks out light,
and the way you would hold me,
afraid to let me go.
Once upon my time,
I wanted you,
and I wanted you
to make me happy;
to make me love;
to make me trust.
Waking up was
so damn hard.
the color of everything
that blocks out light,
and the way you would hold me,
afraid to let me go.
Once upon my time,
I wanted you,
and I wanted you
to make me happy;
to make me love;
to make me trust.
Waking up was
so damn hard.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Poem #20 of 365: Acoustic Attraction
The guitar is sad
No one plays her.
She sits in the corner
like a naughty girl,
collecting scents
of men who've
played her heart,
leaving her breathless
and loveless.
Nina dances
to techno music now,
wondering if you understand
her because she's
been misunderstood
for a lifetime
and played by every foolish man
who bought her a drink.
No one plays her.
She sits in the corner
like a naughty girl,
collecting scents
of men who've
played her heart,
leaving her breathless
and loveless.
Nina dances
to techno music now,
wondering if you understand
her because she's
been misunderstood
for a lifetime
and played by every foolish man
who bought her a drink.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Poem #19 of 365: Babylon is on Fire
Babylon is on fire.
The gypsies will no longer roam,
Crystal balls will be thrown
Against the Great Wall of China
And tarot cards will be ripped
and thrown in faces of idolaters.
The earth has been salted
And the minds have been lobotomized,
children sodomized
and reprogrammed with USB drives
Containing an MS DOS program
Bringing mankind back to the basics--
We are the primates speaking code--
The chimpanzees, the apes, the monkeys
swinging from trees
foraging the forest
For signs of evolution,
Predicting the Apocalypse
with the position of star alignment
for 2012.
We live in chaos
because the Tower of Babel
was built way too high
and Tarzan can't climb that high,
Superman can't fly
or leap that high
in a single bound.
No one will be saved this time.
The gypsies will no longer roam,
Crystal balls will be thrown
Against the Great Wall of China
And tarot cards will be ripped
and thrown in faces of idolaters.
The earth has been salted
And the minds have been lobotomized,
children sodomized
and reprogrammed with USB drives
Containing an MS DOS program
Bringing mankind back to the basics--
We are the primates speaking code--
The chimpanzees, the apes, the monkeys
swinging from trees
foraging the forest
For signs of evolution,
Predicting the Apocalypse
with the position of star alignment
for 2012.
We live in chaos
because the Tower of Babel
was built way too high
and Tarzan can't climb that high,
Superman can't fly
or leap that high
in a single bound.
No one will be saved this time.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Poem #18 of 365: The Spiritual
Cracked voice
like fresh cement
dries too soon--
A falsetto for a false Jesus.
The negro spiritual
says God's gonna trouble the water,
but I'm not sure who is God
and if there is one,
then whose God?
Place Moses in a wicker basket
and on the Styx River,
let him float
to Saint Nobody,
find him a mother who cares
like Medusa,
the misunderstood
sistah with dredlocks,
who takes no shit
from white folk,
but will protect that white baby
like he's her own.
like fresh cement
dries too soon--
A falsetto for a false Jesus.
The negro spiritual
says God's gonna trouble the water,
but I'm not sure who is God
and if there is one,
then whose God?
Place Moses in a wicker basket
and on the Styx River,
let him float
to Saint Nobody,
find him a mother who cares
like Medusa,
the misunderstood
sistah with dredlocks,
who takes no shit
from white folk,
but will protect that white baby
like he's her own.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Poem #17 of 365: Rich White Folks. . .
Rich White folks
never wear hats
during winter
or condoms during sex--
their blankets of money
keep them warm and safe.
Only poor black kids
get viruses--
like Sharmieka and her kid.
They say she gave birth
to a kid and infected
him with her breastmilk.
She thought it was okay
for her man to come inside
of her while she was pregnant.
She thought he wasn't cheating on her either.
never wear hats
during winter
or condoms during sex--
their blankets of money
keep them warm and safe.
Only poor black kids
get viruses--
like Sharmieka and her kid.
They say she gave birth
to a kid and infected
him with her breastmilk.
She thought it was okay
for her man to come inside
of her while she was pregnant.
She thought he wasn't cheating on her either.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Poem # 16 of 365: Untitled
Walking the halls--
like Bertha Mason
haunting a home--
Spirits terrify,
destroys The House--
she speaks in code.
like Bertha Mason
haunting a home--
Spirits terrify,
destroys The House--
she speaks in code.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Poem #15 of 365: Hurdles
I smell smoke!
I stop,
I drop,
I roll,
I train.
I smell smoke!
. . . from the gun
I run,
I flee,
I jump,
I escape.
I smell smoke!
. . .from the gun--
bullet in the air!
Trying to alert me.
I think too much
about children dying,
mothers crying,
fathers denying
their newborns.
I think too much
about you
and I die from waiting.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Poem #14 of 365: Public Transportation
She is the Amistad,
Transporting Them
To a foreign land.
Their wrists and tongues
Will be tied for decades
With the same hemp
Nooses that will hang them
Children will breed children
For decades thinking That fucking
Is the only way to Salvation
(When all they needed was a
black Barbie doll or a father
who cared), And the harder they fuck raw,
The closer (they think)
They'll be to Mother Africa,
With her deplorable conditions
And escalating HIV rates
A tragic homeland so forgotten
We think that naming our kids
Sharmeika, Tameika, or Tyrique
Is what it means to be Afrocentric;
A homeland so indistiguishible
We forget our luxuries and assume
We can live on a bowl of rice
And drink pure goat milk
As flies sting our eyes
And babies don't know
If they'll live or die
To see the red clay again.
The train roars past the Upper East Side
Like a an unfed rhino attacking
The undone rail system Indians
used to enslave Us in Africa.
The conductor says "Next stop is. . ."
And you can not
Hear the rest for his voice fades.
These are sad times where
A beggar is not really poor,
But the man with the
$135 Timberland boots,
$45 fitted ball cap,
And no job is.
We live in a pathetic society
Where we care
Too damn much
About things that will never matter.
Materialism is the source of salvation
but we will never find our way home.
The train goes several routes,
But the hood will only get us but so far.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Poem #13 of 365: Tears of a Clown
An 8-track plays number 1 on the stereo
while I laugh because I'd never seen tears of a clown--I walk around, smiling,
pretending to cry, entertaining the adults until they get annoyed. The house
fills with Smokey's smooth voice knocking
down the walls, finding its way into the
ears and souls of those long gone. The
adults play cards and drink drinks
while I sit in my room on the burgundy
comforter lightly coated with coal dust
atop white sheets with black feet stains.
Mama always said to bathe before
I go to bed--but my feet always
get dirty. She dances, telling me to spin her.
I'm half her height and she ends up turning me so the room spins and I'm drunk
on her giddyness. Her kisses smell like stale jim beam and menthol cigarettes.
I turn away and she kisses me again, laughing.
She puts me to bed, turns out the light,
and closes the door.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Poem #12: Animal Instinct (Liberia 2008)
black hot sandspits up,licking our backs
like hot Lick Branch coalsfrom under our ATV tires.we ride fast, faster, fastest
from the jungle--where its much cooler,damper, and dangerous!He knows not to comeafter dusk!screaming for Man to leavewe flee likeporch monkeys!leave. we got to leave!jumping and swinging from trees,defecating on pale faces.hissing, beating our chests likeTarzan, warning Themone last time.,
Monday, January 11, 2010
Poem #11: Jezebel
A true whore prevails--
Red rose tattoo--
on neck
he kisses her gently--
The next man awaits.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Poem #10: Fasting
The eradication of mankind--
my life is stale.
A pleco
A catfish
A bottomfeeder--
eats from the table
with Him.
Decisions will be made.
my life is stale.
A pleco
A catfish
A bottomfeeder--
eats from the table
with Him.
Decisions will be made.
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